I grip the side of the black plastic bin, a hot ball of panic in my chest. We’re outside and we’re alone. The smell of newspapers and rotting food wafts into my nostrils, making me gag. I clamp my lips together, hold my breath and turn around.

Martin is standing at the end of his driveway wearing a checked dressing gown and matching slippers, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he asks, his expression stern, the light from the streetlamp casting a strange shadow across his face.

My mind races with possible excuses before settling on the most plausible. ‘Hi, Martin. I was just… checking that everyone is recycling properly. Sorry, it’s a bugbear of mine. I’ll go.’ I release my grip on Martin’s recycling bin, and flip the lid closed with a loud clatter, wondering if I’m going to have to make a run for it. If I scream, will the neighbours hear? Will I be loud enough to wake Dom? Would he get down here in time to save me?

‘Very commendable, Kirstie,’ Martin says. ‘But you won’t find anything amiss in my bins. I’m extremely fastidious about recycling. Not like some other people I could mention. I would lay bets on young Melinda and the Cliffords not bothering to sort their general waste from their recyclable materials.’

‘Okay, well, that’s great. G’night.’ I start backing away, almost tripping over in my haste to get home.

‘You shouldn’t come out here with bare feet,’ Martin admonishes. ‘There could be broken glass or bits of builder’s rubble. You could hurt yourself. In fact, you shouldn’t be out here alone. You might think this is a lovely little close, but it’s not safe to be out at night. You’re a young woman all alone. Anyone could be out here.’

‘Thanks. I’m fine,’ I mutter as I stumble away, wondering if that was some kind of veiled threat.

I hear soft footfalls behind me and give a startled yelp as his voice sounds almost in my ear. ‘I’m impressed that you care about looking after the planet, Kirstie. We need more people like you in the world.’

I don’t reply. Instead I break into a jog, keen to put as much distance as I can between me and my oddball neighbour, praying he doesn’t come after me. He wouldn’t dare – anyone could be looking out of their window. But as I finally arrive back at my front door, throwing a final panicked glance over my shoulder, I see that my pathway is empty. He hasn’t followed me, as far as I can tell.

My skin still prickles with the sensation that someone is watching me. I glance up at the Parkfields’ house and almost scream with fright as I see an ethereal figure at one of the upstairs windows. It’s Lorna, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She’s scowling as usual, but this time I can’t blame her. I probably woke her up when I slammed the bin lid shut. I’m too shaken up to do anything about it tonight. I’ll apologise when I next see her – make some excuse. All I want right now is to be at home, where Martin can’t get at me.

Safely inside, I close the door with a soft click, pull the chain across with clumsy fingers, and sink down onto the hall floor almost sobbing in relief. What was I thinking? I have to stop going out there at night. Stop imagining that everything I see is a threat. Martin is undeniably odd, but does that make him dangerous? I didn’t see anything strange in his recycling, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t in there, stuffed beneath the newspapers and other innocuous things. And unless I go back for a second look, the evidence will be removed tomorrow, crunched up in the jaws of the bin lorry. But there’s no way I can go back out there now – my nerves are shot, my legs like jelly. I doubt I’d make it back down the path without collapsing. Besides, Martin is awake and could be staring out of his window, waiting for me to return.

I brush the grit off the soles of my feet and attempt to stand, taking deep, steadying breaths. Before going back upstairs, I have to go through my usual lock-checking routine. Once I’m satisfied that everything is secure, I begin to tiptoe back up the staircase. My heart sinks as Dom appears on the landing in his boxer shorts.

‘Kirst? That you?’ His voice is gruff. ‘What you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply in an upbeat whisper. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘I will, but what are you doing?’

I can’t tell him I was getting a glass of water as my hands are empty and I can’t think of an excuse, so I stupidly tell him the truth. ‘Sorry if I woke you up. I was just checking Martin’s rubbish bins in case he had anything dodgy in there.’

‘You were what?’

It sounded even worse when I said it out loud. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.’

But instead of shuffling off to bed, he switches on the hall light. I wince at the brightness, and at the realisation that we’re about to have a row.

‘Kirstie,’ he says, ‘do you know how crazy that is?’

‘Shh, you’ll wake Daisy.’

‘Come into the bedroom,’ he says, turning his back on me and striding away into our room.

I follow meekly, wondering how I can make my actions sound saner. Dom is sitting on the edge of the bed in the semi darkness, light from the landing casting a yellow glow up the wall and across a triangle of carpet.

I stand in front of him, hanging my head, understanding I’ve crossed a line in the what’s-acceptable stakes.

‘This has to stop, Kirstie,’ he says, rubbing at his forehead.

‘What has to stop?’ I say, knowing full well what he’s talking about.

‘Don’t think I can’t hear you going downstairs at night, triple-checking the locks, laying out Daisy’s toys as some kind of booby trap against imaginary burglars.’

My shoulders sag. He knows.

‘I’m not stupid,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I thought things would get better if I didn’t make a fuss. But it’s getting worse, isn’t it?’

I don’t respond. Humiliation coats my skin and furs the inside of my mouth.

‘Kirstie, I’m not angry; I’m worried about you.’ He pats the space next to him on the bed, but I can’t move. So instead, he gets to his feet and takes my limp hands in his firm ones. ‘What did you think you were going to find in Martin’s bins?’

I clear my throat. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Kirst. What were you hoping to find? I’m on your side here.’

I shrug. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like a naughty schoolchild this week. ‘Something incriminating, I suppose.’

‘Like what?’

‘Baby formula tins, nappy bags, baby toy packaging.’

‘You seriously think Moaning Myrtle could be a child abductor?’

‘I don’t know,’ I snap. ‘That’s why I was looking in his bins. I wanted evidence before I came to you, or the police.’ Unable to look at my husband’s incredulous expression any longer, I get to my feet and walk over to the window. I peer behind the curtain and stare out across the silent close, the stillness out there a deep contrast to the turmoil inside my body. On the one hand, I can see why Dom is so worried about my behaviour, but on the other hand, I know I’m right to be anxious about this.

‘Do you think…’ he begins, but then trails off.

‘Do I think what?’

‘Do you think you might need to talk to someone?’

I turn around to face him. In the gloom, I see his eyes are full of concern.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘But, Kirstie—’

‘Honestly, I think if I just try to get a few nights’ good sleep, I’ll get back to my old self. That baby monitor thing last week freaked me out, but I’ll be okay.’

‘But if you went to your GP, she might be able to—’

‘I don’t need to see my GP. I just need to get some sleep.’ I turn away from my husband again and go back to staring out of the window. This time I don’t see what’s outside, instead, my distorted reflection stares back at me. The truth is that I’m scared to put into words how I’m really feeling. I’m afraid that if I go to a doctor and unburden myself, they will say I’m having some kind of breakdown. They may even say I’m not fit to look after Daisy. And no one is taking my baby away from me. No one.