Mr Brown at number 11 is in his front garden again.

This is something of an anomaly for a Tuesday morning, when a) he would usually be at work, and b) he mowed the lawn just two days ago.

I reach for my Rolodex rotary file system. It’s an original, a vintage model that I purchased from eBay for a considerable sum. Like my fountain pens and wax seals, it has that certain something that new technology simply lacks. Spreadsheets and databases can’t compare with the pungent permanence of real ink or the assurance of thick, textured paper under one’s fingertips.

I pull the Rolodex across the table towards me and open it at one of the three yellowed cards I’ve filed under the letter B.

I select my green fountain pen and make a note that Mr Brown has purchased a new orange Flymo lawnmower. It’s one of the less expensive models, the sort that doesn’t pick up after itself by collecting the cut grass, but that isn’t really surprising. When I scan my earlier entries, I’m reminded that last summer, Mr Brown got rid of his failing fancy gas barbecue and bought a bog-standard coals version.

Also, the rusting wrought-iron bench on the small patio has been replaced with a cheap plastic version. Mrs Brown often sits out there alone and in all weathers, staring for long minutes at the dark cracked concrete under her bare feet.

I completely missed the signs last time, but I don’t intend to make the same mistake again.

My attention is brought back to the window.

Mr Brown tugs the mower this way and that, employing a most unsatisfactory method that I feel sure will only serve to churn up the lawn and possibly cause irreparable damage.

I imagine exchanging my slippers for shoes and popping over there to warn him, but as usual, it is only a brief digression. I’m better off staying here, in the safety of my bedroom.

Mr Brown will most likely not appreciate my proffered advice one bit, and besides, how can I tell him I’ve been observing him from my bedroom window?

A quick viewing through the multi-zooms that Mother gifted me last Christmas – they arrived in a box with the tagline The World’s Most Powerful Binoculars – confirms Mr Brown’s furrowed brow and set jaw. He certainly doesn’t look in the best of moods; he looks rather like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

No surprise there.

I replace the cap on the green pen and pick up the red, the colour I’ve designated to signify an ongoing query in my notes.

MONEY PROBLEMS?

I print the letters neatly, underlining the query for good measure.

I’ll need to continue to keep a close eye on Mr Brown for obvious reasons. When people become worried about money, I know only too well how they can swiftly turn to desperate measures.

‘David!’ Mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Do you want sliced tomatoes in your ham and cheese sandwich, love?’

‘Please, Mum.’

I’m about to add that I quite fancy a bag of cheese and onion crisps too, but movement to the bottom left of the window distracts me.

It’s Mrs Barrett at number 7, bent almost double and sweeping her back doorstep. Our house, number 9, sits on the curve of the crescent, so when I look down to the left, I’m afforded a view of the whole of Mrs Barrett’s yard, including the back door, as I am number 11, the Browns’ residence, and a few houses either side.

The house is far too big for her now and must be rather a handful to manage. I thought she might sell up when Mr Barrett died; in fact, I’d already begun to fret who might come to live there if she moved on.

‘People react differently when a loved one dies, David,’ Mother remarked. ‘Some are compelled to escape the memories as soon as they can, while others can’t imagine ever leaving them behind.’

It seems Mrs Barrett has turned out to be one of those sorts of people who just stay put until it’s their turn to go.

I tap lightly on the glass but she doesn’t look up.

Over the last two years, I’ve done various odd jobs around the house for her, simple things like carrying heavy items upstairs or weeding the borders. I was just about able to manage that, despite the effort it took to leave my room. To her credit, Mrs Barrett has always been so very grateful.

When I started to feel a little better, I got my part-time job and finally plucked up the courage to take the bus every day. Sadly, I found it nigh-on impossible to visit Mrs Barrett several times a week like before, due to time constraints.

I make a mental note to pop next door again sometime soon. Yet as soon as the thought forms in my mind, my breathing turns shallow.

I expect it’s because I’ve had a difficult few weeks. There’s no particular reason for me feeling so unsettled, nothing specific I’m able to put my finger on, but then again, there rarely is. It’s just the usual stuff, emotions rising up inside and trying to spill out… just when I feel sure I’ve buried them good and deep.

Mother tries everything to bring me round.

Fancy a walk to the shops with me, David?

Would you mind just taking the bins out?

She means well, of course, but nothing she says can ever get through the impenetrable wall of fear that has installed itself in the forefront of my mind. Just when I think I’m over what happened, it seems to appear again, with a vengeance.

I cope OK with going to work, providing I’m able to follow all the necessary steps in the order I need to. It’s the unexpected and the out-of-the-ordinary that brings me out in a cold sweat, and that’s what I must strive to avoid.

This is why I know it’s so much better to stay home and adhere to my routine, rather than try and offer advice to Mr Brown about his mowing method.

To put things into perspective, I turned forty years old three months ago. I weigh just over fourteen stone and stand a shade above six foot tall.

That considered, it figures that it doesn’t look too good to others when you are a strapping man but are afraid of the dark. It doesn’t feel good when you dare not venture out alone at night.

I learned from my father’s fists quite young that real men don’t quake, don’t cry, don’t shake at the thought of leaving the house.

Real men aren’t kept awake in the early hours by a raft of terrible memories; they give themselves a shake and simply learn to get over whatever troubles them.

I try my best to keep busy. I try to keep the people around me safe, so they’ll never have to feel the fear. And most importantly, I try very hard to stay in the shadows and make sure that nobody else can spot my failings.

It’s a life of sorts, but I often wonder if I’ll ever move on from here. Living with my mother, doing the same thing day after day. I wonder if anything will ever change.

I don’t honestly see how it can.