I couldn’t be sure that if I hadn’t delayed, toying with the characters on the wall, and not arrived outside Rebecca’s flat ten minutes later than usual, things might have turned out differently. When the jogger reached the small bridge near the café, she stumbled. I watched from behind a tree, dragging on a cigarette. Cigarettes had become recent accessories to my wardrobe of disguises. A walker in the park, a jobless hooded yobbo would be expected to waste his lungs. While I relaxed behind the veil of cancerous smoke, I kidded myself it was part of the role. I had begun to relish the nicotine hit.

The rain had dulled the light. As I lit up, I shielded a match with my hand and saw Rebecca bend down and rub her ankle. Of course I was torn. No wife of mine would ever go out jogging on her own but in a few weeks’ time I would more forcibly lay down the law. I’d even filled a small booklet with a list of wifely expectations that would follow on from our nuptials.

As I took a deep inhalation of smoke, having finally managed to light the cigarette, it twigged that something wasn’t quite right. The jogger’s hood had fallen loose, dragging the sodden baseball hat with it. I wasn’t following Rebecca. Someone else had come out of the flat and pulled me into their vortex.

The first time I saw red and felt the burning sensation linked to murderous fury had been when Mr Flynn had bashed my mother black and blue. Back then, measured patience had afforded me the only option as I waited for the right moment to return the red tie. There had been a smug satisfaction at the cunning nature of my actions but that hadn’t wiped out the rage that flooded my body and which simmered for years.

This time my fury was uncontained. I chucked the cigarette into the lake and squelched back up the embankment towards my car. The wet mud cast me backwards a couple of times, and I slithered around trying to gain a foothold. My hands were soon covered in filthy slime where I’d tried to steady myself. It took a further few seconds of fumbling in my pockets to find the car key. When I managed to get inside, I bashed the dashboard furiously with both fists.

‘Bitch, bitch, fucking bitch!’ I screamed. I picked up my mobile and rang Rebecca’s number. There was no reply. She had deliberately led me to the park.

I drove back up the hill, weaving recklessly in and out the bus lanes, and narrowly missing cyclists who careered up the inside. Once back at my flat, I ripped off my coat and gloves and tried to work out what was going on.