She’s eating Jaffa cakes and Doritos simultaneously as she flicks through the job section of the local newspaper, ringing potentials with a pink sharpie she found in the drawer along with other miscellaneous stationery. Her feet are tucked underneath her on the battered old sofa that in the right setting, maybe some gastropub in Shoreditch, could pass for being vintage shabby-chic cool. Only this sofa is in the living room of a tiny one-bed apartment above a fried-chicken shop in Penge and therefore just looks like what it is: a filthy, knackered old couch.

The apartment is a world apart from her own: it’s dark and featureless, there’s paint peeling on the windowsills, next to black spots of mould on the frames. There’s lino on the floor, cheap laminate stuff, really nasty. The walls are an off-white colour, decorated with random damp patches and stains. It smells of cooking fat and fried food. There’s a kitchen: small, surprisingly cleaner than the rest of the place, and functional. It’s equipped with a kettle, a toaster, a small cheap-branded microwave, a cooker that looks on its last knockings and a fridge with fingermarks on the door. It doesn’t quite shut properly on first attempt, but with a good slam on the third it sticks. The bedroom is the worst: it’s tiny, just big enough for her essentials, with a shabby bedside table and an MDF wardrobe with a mirror that’s cracked on the front. The carpet is old, though it feels okay underfoot, soft even. A light cord hangs in the middle of the room, there is no shade and the tiny window lets in limited natural light.

She imagines it’s the kind of place where people might commit suicide, an irony that doesn’t fully escape her. But no one knows her here and it’s cheap. Plus, its only temporary, she’s not planning on staying, and with a little luck, she might have got herself a job by the time the rent’s due and then she can do a moonlight flit without paying for it. This idea gives her a little thrill. She’s renting out her own place for a small fortune through a posh estate agent. It’s on a short-lease loan to some rich Japanese student. The estate agent informed her that his references were immaculate and that her apartment was in very good hands. She wonders if Mummy Bear has started to smell yet…

As she expected, she’d been on the CCTV, and together with Simon, the security manager, she’d watched as she’d entered Kizzy’s apartment on the day she’d killed Esmerelda. I was feeding her cat she’d said to him nonchalantly as she’d chewed on a slice of pizza, admiring her own image on the screen. She looked good on camera. He’d nodded, adding that she was a good neighbour for doing so. Drink up, she’d told him, handing him a can of Budweiser which he’d sipped enthusiastically, alongside eating a slice of the hot pepperoni. She’d slid up next to him as they’d watched the screen together in silence apart from their chewing, she’d made sure her thigh was resting against his cheap polyester uniform trousers and she swang her legs back and forth for friction. At one point he’d shot her a sideways glance and she’d flashed him her best slutty smile, one she had perfected over the years, and he’d shaken his head in a mix of delighted disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite believe any of what was happening was real. He’d started to ask her questions: how old she was, what she did for a living, did she have a boyfriend? She’d answered him enthusiastically, chatting amiably about herself as she waited for the drugs to kick into his system. Once she had begun to notice his coordination slowing down and his speech starting to slur, she got down off the desk and onto her hands and knees in front of him.

‘What are you doing?’ he’d laughed, looking a little disorientated, his eyelids heavy.

‘Shhh,’ she’d said, looking up at him as she unzipped his cheap shiny trousers and pulled his cock out.

‘Jesus…’ his head had fallen back on his shoulders, ‘you’re… you’re fucking insane.’

She’d giggled a little as she’d begun to pull on him, making him hard almost instantly. She continued with this for a few moments, smiling up at him as he relaxed back into the swivel chair. After a few moments she felt his hard-on soften. He was asleep. Getting off her knees with a small sigh she left his limp dick exposed and swivelled round to the screens in front of her, rewinding the footage back to the beginning and wiping the whole lot from the computer system.

Chucking the empty can into a black plastic bag, she grabbed another slice of pizza and began to chew on it as she set about tidying up. She opened a can of Bud and swallowed half the contents, wincing. She hated beer. Her father drank it day and night, and she loathed the smell, the scent of it – bitter and acidic on his breath. Taking the DVD from her handbag she placed it into the drive of his computer and uploaded it. High School Huneez began to play on the screen; the low amorous moans and grunts of pig-tailed schoolgirls emanating from the speaker. Then she had left.

Throwing another Jaffa Cake down her neck, she picks up her phone and scrolls through her messages, smiling when she comes to his. Dan, Dan, the disappearing man. He’s come good on his word and asked her to dinner. Such a shame. There had been something about him, something that had made her feel hopeful and… human, though she wasn’t quite sure how these feelings were supposed to feel. But she’d liked it, whatever it was she’d experienced in the brief time they’d been together. It would be a gamble… Lying low and staying out of central London, that was best for now. Once she’d finished the story, then perhaps she could go away somewhere – maybe Daniel would come with her? Maybe they would live together in a remote, sleepy village in a little cobblestone cottage with miniature roses climbing the front; a village with a pond and a pub where everyone knew everyone else, where there was a tiny post office and one of those old-style butchers that sold sausages on strings. An English country rose and her darling family waving to their neighbours as they went for their Sunday walk together. Her fantasy is poignant enough for her to reach for her phone and hit reply.

Yes, Daniel would be her future. But first she needed to rectify her past. She needed to write the ending.

She rubs at the dye on her hair. It’s beginning to drip, cold black droplets hit her back, making her uncomfortable. She pulls the towel around her shoulders a little tighter and carries on scanning the job section until she comes across something.

‘Experienced nanny needed for Beckenham-based family. Live-in. Taking care of a little boy of eight months, full-time with most weekends free. Some light domestic chores. Must have a clean driving license and references.’

She circles it three times. Bingo.