I didn’t have much time to get there. I stayed on the road, listening for cars as I walked, ready to jump into hiding, but no one appeared. Once I was in position, crouched behind the tree, waiting, I wasn’t thinking anything other than: would he really come?

It’s me, I’d texted. Did he have the phone? Was it near him?

I held my breath and felt an almost visceral thrill of satisfaction as it delivered.

I wasn’t afraid, waiting for him in the silence. I was focused and determined. It was quite calming standing there in the dark listening to the sound of my own steady breathing. Gradually my senses became heightened. I heard an owl, felt the wind pick up, heard the snap and rustle of an animal of some description moving about in the leaves – and eventually an approaching car engine.

The headlight beam bounced as the driver steered it into the clearing, coming to a stop, facing me. I stayed hidden away. The engine cut, the lights went off and I heard a car door opening, then slamming shut.

I took my pencil torch from my pocket, switched it on then held the light up in front of me, before covering it with my hand, showing it again – and repeating the signal once more. Would he risk it? Would he follow it into the woods to find me?

I held my breath and listened to the sounds of footsteps crashing through leaves, thudding into the ground. Yes, he would. His obsession had won. He couldn’t bear not to come running. I killed the light and there was a pause as he stopped, disorientated.

‘Alex?’ I heard him whisper. ‘Where are you?’

I flashed the light once more, and he set off again. I reached into my pocket, curled my fingers around the handle of the knife, swallowed, and once he was practically upon me, I stepped out from behind the tree.

He yelped then froze rigid, his eyes widening as I held up the torch to illuminate the blade.

‘Do not move,’ I said. ‘You really believed, in spite of everything you’ve done, that you’d been summoned here for sex tonight? You’re that narcissistic?’ I put the torch in my pocket, then reached into my coat and brought out the plastic plunger I’d carefully removed from the Calpol packet in the bathroom. Every parent has one these days. I stepped over to him and placed the knife tip at the base of his Adam’s apple – but not close enough to actually touch him – in one precise movement. Perhaps I should have been a surgeon, except I prefer to make the difference at grass-roots level.

‘Open, please,’ I instructed, and with my left hand, I squeezed the 5 ml water solution into his mouth. ‘Swallow and then open your mouth again.’

Terrified, he held it – I could see his cheeks bulging. I sighed, put the plunger back in my pocket, reached out and pinched his nose tightly. The fingers of the disposable latex gloves felt almost slippery as I squeezed.

‘If you spit it out, I’ll shove this knife right into you here and now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I don’t even care any more.’

He closed his eyes and swallowed.

‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Open wide, please?’

He did as he was told, and I reached back into my pocket for the torch and shone it in his mouth. All gone.

‘What the fuck have you just given me?’ He tried to sound angry, but his bottom lip trembled. He was frightened it was going to hurt.

‘It’ll be painless,’ I said truthfully. ‘You can relax. I’m going to move the knife a little bit further away from you so that you can sit down. I want to talk to you.’

He watched me warily, but stayed standing, although he visibly wobbled, almost swaying on the spot.

I frowned. The pills wouldn’t have an effect that fast. ‘When did you last eat something?’

‘What do you care?’

His words were slightly slurred and I realized he was sweating. Ah, now this was interesting. I relaxed immediately. This was going to be much easier than I had anticipated. ‘Jonathan?’

‘I had a bit of tea about an hour and a half ago.’

‘And your last shot?’

‘Same time.’

‘So you’re already hypo? That’s poor management, Jonathan. Really. Reach into your pockets and drop your phones – both of them – your keys, pen, any snacks you have, and your wallet on the ground. What’s your iPhone code?’

He didn’t take his eyes from me but did as he was told. ‘What did you just give me?’

‘Your code please?’ I held the knife steady.

‘2256. What did you just give me?’

‘Don’t shout. Two sleeping tablets – the same ones your mother takes – dissolved in water.’

‘Why?’ He couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice. ‘What is it you want from me?’

I raised my eyebrows, amused. ‘You think you have any bargaining power now? Really?’

‘I’ll say it if you want. I’ll say sorry.’

I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to say a thing. Not if you don’t want to. I already know you lied. For the record, pretending your iPhone was stolen outside the surgery, to cover up the fact there was never any initial message ‘stored’ on it in the first place, was weak. The texts on that,’ I pointed at the android phone, ‘were better. Obviously, they could have come from anyone, of course, although I get that was somewhat the point. Quite a nice touch though. Very dramatic. What did you do, buy another handset and message yourself?’

He cleared his throat and eyed the knife. ‘I’m sorry I did it.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘I’ll say sorry publicly too.’

I looked at him with interest. ‘Will you now? Why did you make it all up, Jonathan?’

He didn’t answer, just glanced wildly to his right and suddenly bolted off into the dark. I could hear him crashing off through the trees, panting with exertion as he hurtled towards the road. I sighed and got the torch out again, shining it up just in time to see him collapse and crumple to the ground. I bent and picked up his belongings, then walked over to him. It only took me about thirty seconds; he’d hardly managed to get any distance at all.

I stood over him. He was lying face down on the leaves, almost motionless. Perhaps he sensed me there, because he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Fuck off, you fucking cunt! You’re full of shit with your hands waving near!’

‘That’s it. You just keep lying down – and thank you.’ I said soothingly.

Such insults have not the slightest effect on me. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last, and actually, as he was making no sense whatsoever, I suspect he already didn’t have a clue what he was saying. It was no more than a physiological response; too much insulin in his system and horribly low blood sugar. As if to confirm my assessment, he fell silent and went still. I felt almost cheated. I’d wanted to tell him what was going to happen, how I was going to pour oil on the waters he’d so maliciously whipped up. I could have just left him – he was already as good as dead – but it wasn’t enough to make it appear an accident. Questions would be asked: why had he come to the woods in the first place? Everyone needed to see that he’d had intent. That there had been a plan.

I crouched down next to him. ‘I wonder how it will feel for your parents when they have to listen to an account of how you committed suicide here?’ I whispered. ‘Because, you know, lies hurt, Jonathan.’

He still didn’t reply, which was, frankly, very disappointing. ‘Let’s pretend you haven’t let yourself become hypoglycaemic already,’ I said conversationally. ‘Although – thank you. It’s been a great help. So – this is what everyone is going to think: you came to the woods, took two sleeping pills – because no diabetic intending to take their own life would want to wake up here hypo, hungry, confused and alone – and then you emptied your entire pen into yourself.’ Moving swiftly, I reached for his pen, gently parted his coat and lifted his top to expose his tummy. I discharged the contents into him and threw the pen on the leaves as if he’d dropped it. He would quite simply never wake up. I can think of worse ways to go – I have seen many of them.

I waited for a moment or two, lifted his heavy hand and selected his index finger, pressing the home button then ‘2256’ on his iPhone. I checked his messages. He’d sent one to ‘Cherry’ telling her he was still at home – he might see her later– so I sent another saying he’d decided to stay put after all. It was laborious having to use his single finger, but necessary. Once I’d selected the notes, typing ‘sorry for everything, and what this will do’ – because that was the least apology he owed – I put the phone down beside him. Finally, I picked up his pay-as-you-go phone and put it in my pocket, before beginning the walk back to the cottage. It was useful to have a moment to clear my head. When I arrived there was no car on the drive: Rob wouldn’t be back for at least another twenty minutes, and I knew Jonathan would already be dead. I peeled the plastic bags from my feet before I walked up the drive and left them carefully by the front door, reaching into my back pocket, removing the keys and letting myself back into the house. I quietly padded upstairs, but Alex’s door was shut; she’d even put a note on it helpfully telling her husband she’d taken the pill.

I thoroughly rinsed the Calpol plunger and put it back in the box, then tiptoed to the downstairs loo, retrieved my ‘forgotten’ phone from the side by the loo roll and carefully sent Mother a text telling her I was sorry if she was already home from bridge and I wasn’t, but that I’d be back soon. Once I re-emerged I placed Alex’s keys on the sideboard again and let myself back out, closing the door behind me.

I picked up the plastic bags, blipped my car and began the drive home. The whole thing had taken less than an hour.

As I drove, I felt only the calming of the storm. It had been difficult to watch that filth about Alex circulate in the press. I had started to become distracted myself at work – which unsettled me, as that should never happen. Poor Alex herself was evidentially clinging on by her fingernails – so unhappy and exhausted. Her hapless husband didn’t have a clue what to do, of course. She needed to be back at work, doing what she did best. I meant what I’d said – I missed having her there, we all did. It wasn’t the same without her. We support each other at work; we’re a good team.

I did wonder once if I might be in love with Alex, around the time she first arrived at the surgery, but before I’d had a chance to explore it any further, Rob Inglis arrived on the scene. I could have overreacted, I suppose, but I managed to calm my own feelings and instead reported her – anonymously, naturally. I was concerned that she might leave the practice in an attempt to ‘remedy’ the situation; start afresh elsewhere – and I didn’t want to lose her in a professional sense. The restrictions she received severely hampered her future employment prospects elsewhere and, as I suspected, she stayed put. So, in reward – I nurtured her, helped her develop her career, made her my partner.

The strategy has paid off very well, we’ve achieved a great deal together. She’s not suffered from not moving on – quite the contrary, she’s blossomed. Everything has worked nicely for all of us. I value her input and support; she values mine. We have a lot of respect for each other. Almost better than being married in some ways.

Then Day came along.

I glanced at the bags, tucked into the inside pocket of the car door and peeled off my gloves. I’d get rid of them on my late shift at the drop-in centre where I would be in exactly twenty-four hours’ time. The bags were destined for the recycle bin at the supermarket first thing in the morning, and Day’s phone would be finding its way into Bewl reservoir when I walked the dogs there after the shopping, along with one of my own pay-as-you-go phones. I’ve had several at home for years now. We get rotten coverage and I like to be prepared for all eventualities. When you have to make many difficult decisions a day about the one thing we all take for granted and yet could not do without – health – there is no margin for error. You get used to thinking around a problem and you certainly cannot afford to make mistakes.

I thought about Day, again, sitting in my room with his parents, casually feeding me his lies as if I was some kind of idiot. It was insulting that he thought I might fall for his routine. Charming, intelligent and ruthless types like him usually do well in life because they have learnt how to manipulate people and situations to their own end, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake without so much as a backward glance. I boarded with plenty of boys like Day. One of them is now the cabinet minister responsible for the stealth privatisation of the health service – whom I have also had the misfortune to erstwhile see wank into a sock. But here’s the thing about these people; they become so enchanted by themselves, so obsessed with power, they begin to believe they are unstoppable and then they overstep the mark. They make a mistake, they interfere and poke around in places they ought not to – upsetting the balance – as Day did when he parked his travelling circus in my waiting room that Friday morning and let his protein overloaded, ’roid-raged father start to yell about sexual abuse at the top of his voice.

What had Alex been thinking, sleeping with him in the first place? I knew she would, of course, need an alibi. Had she not called me first, I’d have contacted her to let her know that the police had been in touch for Jonathan’s medical records and did she need my help? I was naturally only too happy to oblige when she did ask.

I suppose had things come too close for comfort I might have been forced to retract my story and lay the blame at her feet – ‘confess’ that I had given her some pills of Mother’s that I shouldn’t have done, but I knew that wasn’t going to be necessary. The devil is in the detail. You just make sure you think of everything. Timings, especially, are what can trip people up, after the event. I really don’t like having to clean up like this and, thankfully, I’ve only had to do it a handful of times for one reason and another – one fellow medical student, but patients mostly. If you’re going to do it, however, do it properly and most vitally, for the greater good. Do it to affect the world around you for the better. Dispatch for a positive reason. Once her reputation has been fully restored, Alex will go on to treat countless patients successfully and she will make an enormous contribution to society. This is a demonstratively good thing. We need more people like her in our dark little world right now – shining a light – not less.

Jonathan was dangerous. It was like looking at my teenage reflection – I could see the damage he would do to every single life that became intimately entwined with his, how monstrous he would become, unchecked. Dispatching my younger self in the woods was not cathartic, but it was necessary. There is such a thin line between chaos and order, but Jonathan Day is now no longer a threat to anyone.

I do not mind that this will go unnoticed – no doctor ever seeks thanks for what they have done; I am no hero. I was just doing my job.

The truth does not always out, and for that we must all be thankful.