I sit at my bedroom window for what seems like hours, going over everything Holly said at work earlier. Mother calls it fretting.

‘It does you no good at all, David,’ she always says when she senses I’m in the grip of it. ‘Just let go of whatever’s worrying you. It’s no use churning it over and over in your mind.’

But setting aside troubling thoughts is far easier said than done. Nobody knows that better than me. Mother might call it fretting, but this time it feels a bit more than that.

For the last two years I have embraced my eventless life, my boring routine. That’s not to say I’ve sometimes wished for a little more variety in my days, but Mother and I, we were managing just fine.

Now, with Holly appearing next door – a good thing – and Brian moving in with us – most definitely a bad thing – it feels like the ground beneath me is suddenly not as rock solid.

Holly kindly invited me to join her for coffee in the terrace café at work. My anxiety was rooted in the fact that I might have inadvertently snubbed her.

Join me if you like. That was what she said, and now I can’t remember for the life of me what my response was.

As usual, I started ranting on about nothing, with the nerves and all. I think I said I couldn’t spare the time away from my desk.

That wasn’t really the reason. I was too worried to sit down and start a conversation with her. I felt nervous of long silences; afraid we’d have nothing to talk about.

Yet now I’m home and can look back in a calmer frame of mind, I realise it wouldn’t have done any harm just to sit down and chat for a few minutes.

We might have talked about the book she was reading, or the weather… or a hundred and one other things, come to that.

I wonder how I appeared to her. Nervous and unfriendly? Or perhaps just a bit off.

That’s the thing about being different. It’s so hard to know how to act in order to appear… well… normal, I suppose.

Growing up, I was told so many times by adults – teachers, Mrs Barrett, and Mother herself – to just be yourself. They meant well, but I knew even back then that myself was the last thing I needed to be. At least if I wanted to try and fit in at school.

Being myself meant never joining in with popular activities, always sitting on my own on school trips, not laughing at the jokes everyone else found hilarious, choosing the library instead of playing footie on the field. That was me, after all.

Things got more complicated as I grew older and entered the world of work. After A levels, I managed to get an apprenticeship at a small textiles factory.

Here there were no teachers to supervise, no responsible adults to watch out for the kids who were perceived as different. The worst bullies on the shop floor were the management. It was the same story at the printing firm, too.

I soon learned that being myself was the worst possible way to endear myself to colleagues. Yet I just couldn’t pull off how to behave normally, how to fit in like the others.

Just like the kids at school, colleagues grasped within minutes that I wasn’t like them.

No matter how often I sniggered at jokes I didn’t get, or put myself through the agony and discomfort of drinks after work, they still weren’t fooled.

There was a seamless continuation from my school days. The sly grins, the subtle nudges and the same clandestine whispered conversations that broke up the instant I entered the room.

I’ve learned the hard way that people who don’t fit the social norm, for whatever reason, are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Simple as.

And that’s why, earlier today, I didn’t try to be the person Holly might have expected in the café. That’s why I just acted normally… normal for me.

She probably thought me a bit stand-offish, and that’s what bothers me now. Because I didn’t mean to be. I really, really didn’t want to come over like that.

She couldn’t have been left with a positive impression, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Or is there?

I decide, on the spur of the moment, to pop round to Mrs Barrett’s on the pretence of checking the water pressure, which we sometimes have problems with around here.

I change into my jeans and trainers and a rather nice blue sweater that Mother says brings out my eyes, which I always think sounds a bit of a sinister thing to say.

The dragging sense of dread has given way to a lighter step, a sense that things might yet be salvaged.

As I reach forward to turn off my computer monitor, I happen to glance down into next door’s yard.

My hand freezes on the monitor button and I wince at the sharp pain as I unwittingly bite down on my tongue.

Once I realise what’s happening, I race downstairs and rush past Mother, ignoring her astonished expression.

Once outside, I instinctively know not to go anywhere near him, but I must warn Holly. I wonder if Mrs Barrett knows what’s happening out in her garden.

Even though I know she doesn’t use it much, I bang on the front door, and when there is no answer, I ring the doorbell. Still no answer. With the heel of my hand, I thump again.

Finally I hear Mrs Barrett’s muffled voice calling out and stiff bolts being drawn back. She opens the door, and when she sees it’s me, her annoyed expression dissolves.

‘David! I was in the kitchen making tea, with the radio on. Why on earth didn’t you just come around the back?’

‘Can I come in?’ I ask.

She stands aside and I step into the hallway.

‘What is it?’ She closes the door behind me. ‘Are you upset?’

I press my finger to my lips, but I can’t hear any voices from the garden. The back door must be closed.

Mrs Barrett puts her hand on my arm.

‘David, are you feeling quite well? Have you taken your tablets today, or—’

‘She’s out there,’ I hiss. ‘Talking to him.’

‘Talking to who, dear?’ She shakes her head at me, frowning with concern. ‘Come on now, you’re not making much sense.’

‘Mr Brown is with Holly in the garden. What are they talking about?’

‘How should I know? I’m not the girl’s keeper.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Yes but nothing. You’ve got to get past this thing with Mr Brown, David, or it’s going to ruin your life.’

‘He already has ruined my life.’ I spit out the words like bitter pips. ‘I don’t care what you, or Mother, or anyone else around here says… it was all his fault. He can deny it all he likes, but I know it.’

Mrs Barrett sighs and looks up at the ceiling as if she’s searching for inspiration. Then she speaks slowly, precisely.

‘David. We’ve talked about this before. You can’t go around making these unfounded accusations, you just can’t say—’

We both freeze as dishes clatter in the kitchen.

Mrs Barrett bustles down the hallway and stops at the kitchen door. Her voice is bright and thin.

‘Holly, dear. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ Holly replies. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit… Oh, hello, David.’

‘Hello,’ I say, peering over Mrs Barrett’s shoulder.

I hear the mower start up outside, and through the kitchen window I catch sight of Mr Brown at the bottom of the garden.

‘Holly, were you talking to Mr Brown?’ I ask.

Mrs Barrett throws me a warning look.

‘Yes,’ Holly says. ‘He was just… he was telling me about the improvements he’ll be making in the garden.’

She stares at me and presses her lips together.

I don’t know why I call him Mr Brown. I ought to call him the Monster or the Liar. But somehow, referring to him as plain old Mr Brown helps me maintain a distance from him, helps me remove his threat and keep my mind calm.

‘Right!’ Mrs Barrett claps her hands. ‘Holly, you go and get changed upstairs, and David, you can help me with tea if you’re at a loose end.’

‘I’m not at a loose end.’ I clench my hands. ‘I only came over to see… if everything was all right. With the water pressure.’

Mrs Barrett turns on both kitchen taps and the water gushes out at full pelt.

‘There. Nothing at all wrong with it today.’

Before they can say anything else, I turn round and head back up the hallway to the door. I imagine their eyes burning into my back like laser beams.

They’ll be talking about me when I leave, I just know it.

Mrs Barrett will explain to Holly that I have a problem with Mr Brown, and then Holly will ask why and the whole sorry state of affairs will be revealed.

I don’t have Holly down as a gossip, but what if she is?

What if she blabs at work – maybe just by mistake, through simply not thinking – and Mr Kellington gets to hear about it and calls me into his office?

He might not believe my account of events. He might wonder if he’s made a mistake in appointing me to such a responsible position in the company.

When I get back home, Mother is preparing a pasta sauce.

‘Is everything all right, David?’ The words sound muffled, as if she’s saying them from behind a thick wall of glass.

I watch as she breaks up plum tomatoes with a fork, mashing and slicing the smooth elongated spheres of fibrous red flesh.

I often dream of doing the same thing to Mr Brown’s face.