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always does. But
how?
That’s the question.
    She was in a bad temper, maybe withdrawal symptoms because she’d not been able to see her fancy man. At one point, she even cracked a joke about Viagra. I won’t repeat it, it’s not the sort of thing I’d like to see put down in black and white. I must admit, I thought that she’d gone too far. But he didn’t seem to react. Just took himself off to the other bedroom and locked the door. Her ladyship wasn’t bothered. She’s looking forward to tomorrow, I’ll be bound.
    And to tell the truth, so am I.
    15 July
    I called in sick today. I know it was wrong, but I did have a bit of a headache and besides, I wanted to follow the latest instalment of the goings-on next door. Honestly, it’s riveting. Last night I even missed a programme about the people who work in a department store, I was so wrapped up with what had been going on next door.
    Her husband was out early. She was still in bed when he left, the lazy cow. I don’t think they even uttered one single word to each other. She was up and doing by the time the van arrived, though. Oh yes. She flung the door open even as he had his finger on the bell. I was in the front room at the time and I managed to catch a glimpse of her. She was wearing a housecoat. From what I heard after they went inside, she hadn’t bothered to put on anything underneath it. A slut, you see. She deserves what’s coming to her.
    After they’d been in bed five minutes, I’d heard enough. More than enough. I looked up the phone number of the leisure centre. Before I knew what was happening, he was on the other end of the line.
    â€œYou’d better get home and get home fast,” I said.
    â€œWhat is this?” He sounded angry, bewildered. Who wouldn’t be, in his shoes?
    â€œNever you mind.”
    â€œIs that you, Mrs Irlam?”
    My knees almost buckled when he spoke my name. I thought I’d been rather clever in disguising my voice. I’d tried a faint Irish accent. But he’d seen through my little ruse. Of course, I panicked. Anyone would.
    â€œYou need to see what your wife gets up to when you’re out of the way,” I gabbled.
    I put the phone down before he could ask any more questions and sank back into my chair. I was panting. My nerves were at full stretch. But I was excited, too.
    Later
    I wrote up my diary while I was waiting for him to come home. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. But I never guessed what was going to happen.
    I still had my pen and this diary in my hand when I heard the old banger pull up outside, followed by his footsteps as he crossed the patch of grass which divides the flats from the road and headed round the side of the building and into the garden. I ran to the bedroom and caught sight of him peering into the window of his own bedroom. His face was a picture, but he didn’t utter a sound.
    Instead, he trembled a little, as if making up his mind. Then he hurried off to the garden shed and hid himself inside.
    I was puzzled. What on earth was he doing in there? When the shed door opened again, I had my answer.
    He’d dressed himself from head to toe in combat gear. A gun of some kind was slung over his shoulder. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like something on the telly.
    I ducked my head down so that he couldn’t see me. I was thrilled – who wouldn’t be, with a drama on their own doorstep? – but I was frightened too.
    And then it occurred to me.
It was exactly like the telly. It was as if I’d written the script of an episode for my favourite soap
.
    I fumbled for the diary and my pen. I’d brought them with me into the bedroom. I started to write.
    Later
    Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is a nightmare.
    I heard a scream next door. Like a wild animal, caught in a trap. Her ladyship.
    Then there were two muffled bangs. After that, nothing.
    I have a phone on my bedside