Back home, I slam the front door behind me, slide the chain across and sink down onto the floor with Daisy on my lap. She must have picked up on my fear because she’s fussing and squirming in my arms. I had always thought of Martin as a harmless busybody. But what if he’s not? What if there’s something sinister going on next door? You hear about these things on the news, where the neighbours had no idea they were living next door to a nutjob. Is he? Is Martin dangerous?

Footsteps outside. They’re getting closer. I try to quieten Daisy with kisses and forced smiles, but she’s not having any of it. The doorbell rings and my heart pounds.

‘Kirstie? It’s me, Martin!’

He’s followed me home. What’s he doing here? What if he knows I’m onto him? What if he’s come to drag us over there, into his basement? Can he get in here? Did I close all the windows? Did I lock the back door? I can’t remember. The doorbell rings again, an echoing chime through my body, setting my teeth on edge. My thoughts skitter all over the place. I ease myself up, away from the door, and start to tiptoe away down the hall towards the kitchen. As I do so, the sound of his voice, clear and loud, makes me give a stifled squeal.

‘Kirstie, are you all right?’ He’s calling through the letterbox. I’m sure he can see me creeping away, but I daren’t turn back around. ‘You seemed a little scared back there,’ he calls out. ‘Did something happen? I can see you, Kirstie.’

I freeze. I don’t know what to do. I can’t reply. Can’t move.

‘What are you doing?’ he calls out. ‘Why did you run away like that? Aren’t you coming back?’

I stand rigid. Daisy has started wailing, her face red and angry.

‘All right. Well, I’m going now,’ he says. ‘But I’ll call back later – check you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine,’ I croak. ‘Just feel a bit sick. No need to come back.’

‘Sick? Okay. Well, I hope it isn’t contagious. I suppose I’ll have to measure next door on my own.’

‘Okay, bye, Martin.’ I hear the letterbox rattle closed, and I pray he’s really going. That it isn’t a ruse. That he won’t try and come to the back door instead. I still haven’t turned around. That saying ‘frozen in terror’ is a real thing. I can barely breathe, let alone move.

But Daisy’s displeasure finally forces me into action. Breathing heavily, I carry her into the kitchen and place her in her high chair and put her favourite set of plastic keys on her tray. She instantly stops crying and shoves one of the oversized keys into her mouth. I stumble over to the back doors, relieved to find them closed and locked. I wish we had blinds or curtains that I could pull across to block the vast expanse of glass. Next, I check the kitchen windows, my fingers shaking as I test each handle in turn. But I won’t be able to leave it there. I’m going to have to check the whole house, top to bottom. For a brief second, I toy with leaving Daisy in her high chair while I check, but I dismiss the thought straight away. I’ll have to bring her with me.

As I make my way from room to room, I try to marshal my thoughts. To think logically about what I just saw at Martin’s house combined with everything else. Fact: I heard a baby crying the other night. Fact: it wasn’t Daisy who was crying. Fact: Martin has several Toy Shack carrier bags in his house. Possibility: they could contain baby paraphernalia. Fact: Martin has a basement in his house. Possibility: the crying could have come from Martin’s basement – maybe there are windows or vents down there. Or maybe Martin brought the baby into the main part of the house during the evening, which is how I heard it crying.

Why would he have a baby in his house and then lie about it to the police? Could he be keeping the baby’s mother down there against her will? Worse still, is the baby his offspring, the result of keeping a woman prisoner down there, like some Dorset version of Josef Fritzl?

Having finished my checks, I stand at Daisy’s bedroom window, staring out across the fields at the back of the house. I realise that I have no proof of anything. Just a gut feeling that something is terribly off. But can I trust my gut? With all the doors and windows finally secured, I should be able to relax, safe in the knowledge that no one can get in. Instead, I feel more terrified than ever. Like a prisoner. Like the outside world is pushing up against the boundaries of our house, closing in, squeezing the air from the rooms, from my lungs. I can’t see anyone out there. Just a distant dog-walker at the far treeline. I glance across to Martin’s garden, but I can’t see him out there either. Maybe he’s gone next door to number six. Or maybe he had no intention of going over there in the first place. The whole thing could have been a ruse to get us over to his house. I shudder.

If only Dominic were here with me. If only he hadn’t gone off for the day. I don’t even know what time he’s coming back. No. I don’t want to be this pathetic woman, desperate for the support and comfort of her husband. I’m stronger than that, aren’t I? I want to be a good role model for my daughter. To teach her independence and self-reliance. I’ve always been proud of my career, of the fact that I have a strong mind, separate to Dominic’s. I’m not meek and mild. So why am I desperate for my husband to be here right now? Why am I this quivering mess when he’s not home?

I can’t call my parents; they would only worry and fuss. I don’t want to tell Mel; she would dismiss it as me having an overactive imagination. She would tease me about it, and I couldn’t bear that. My mind is too fragile for teasing today. And anyway, we’re still not on the best of terms after the other day. No. I’ll have to deal with this on my own. I won’t be able to relax until I know exactly what is down in that cellar.

A movement outside makes me start. There’s someone leaning over the Parkfields’ back fence. A man. Not Stephen Parkfield, not Martin either – someone slimmer, younger, with dark hair. I press my nose up to the window and try to see if I recognise who it is, but there are too many trees and bushes in the way. I can’t get a clear enough look at their face. What if they’re trying to break in?

I can’t stand here and do nothing. Am I brave enough to go out there? Not really. The thought makes my palms sweat and my head swim, but I can’t ignore it. I could call the police, but I’m hesitant to do so after last time. If I can just summon up the courage to go into the garden, maybe I can scare off whoever it is.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry down the stairs and into the kitchen with Daisy and open the bifold doors. The warm air and openness makes me instantly regret my decision. I feel as though I’m about to pass out. I pull the doors closed again and stand for a moment, trying to calm my panic.

What am I scared of? Martin? What if his face appears over the fence again? But what can he do? He can’t drag me over the fence. Not without a fight. Not without me kicking and screaming. He’s not a big, strapping man. He could snatch Daisy. But he would have to come into my garden to do that. And then he would have to climb back over the fence with her in his arms. That’s not likely. I decide to lock Daisy in the house. At least she will be safe inside. I strap her into her high chair, and place several of her toys on the tray. I won’t be outside for long. Just a few minutes at most.

I slide open the doors once again and remove the key. I take a deep breath, feeling unsteady as I place my foot over the threshold. Then I slide the doors closed behind me and turn the key in the lock. The air is still and sweet. Birds sing and a dog barks in the distance, setting off a volley of other dog barks. A bluebottle buzzes around my head but I barely register it as I walk across the yellowing grass, dislodging puffs of dusty earth. Maybe whoever it was has gone. I hope they’re not already in the Parkfields’ garden, sizing up the house. Maybe if they can’t break in next door, they’ll try my house. The thought stops me in my tracks for a moment. But I can’t just wait around inside to be burgled or worse.

Once I reach the back fence, I peer over, instantly shrinking back down. The man is still out there, his arms resting on next door’s back fence. It looks like he’s just staring up at the house. Maybe he’s casing it. Checking for weaknesses. I need to scare him away.

‘Hey!’ I call out in my sternest voice, even though I’m still hidden behind the fence. ‘What are you doing out there? This is private property.’

I cock my ear, but there’s no reply, no sound or movement. Maybe he’s gone. I peer over the fence once more and find myself staring directly into a familiar pair of eyes, and a face framed by chocolate-brown curls. I give a start, almost crying out in shock.

‘Hi, miss,’ the boy says, his voice deep and scratchy. Although, I guess he’s more of a young man than a boy. A name surfaces from my memory. It’s Callum Carson. He used to be one of my students, but he left school at the end of last term. He was a promising artist but he didn’t want to pursue it. He said there was no way he was going to art college, that he wanted to start earning money, not racking up debt. I don’t suppose I can blame him, but it’s a shame when talent isn’t allowed to blossom due to a lack of funding.

‘You scared me, Callum. What on earth are you doing back here?’

His eyes dart away to the ground before he looks back up at me. He kicks at the grass with the toe of his trainer. ‘My football went into their garden. I was just looking for it.’

‘Do you want me to go and ask them for you?’ I offer.

‘Nah, that’s okay. I’m gonna head off.’

Something occurs to me. ‘Callum…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Your second name is Carson, isn’t it? Is your dad Rob Carson, the site manager at number six?’

‘Yeah. I started working with him over the summer.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘S’all right I suppose.’

‘Day off today?’

‘Yeah, Dad’s a bit of a slave driver, but even he lets me have Sundays off. Just thought I’d have a kick about on the field.’

‘Okay, well, nice to see you again.’

‘You too, miss.’ He turns and walks away, his hands stuck in his jeans’ pockets, shoulders hunched.

Strangely, after talking to Callum, I feel much calmer. Less panicky. Almost back to my normal self. I decide I’m going to go next door and get his ball back for him. I can give it to him on Monday when he’s back on site. First, I’d better check on Daisy, make sure she’s still okay in her high chair. I stride back towards the house feeling altogether lighter. Seeing Callum reminded me of school. Of work. Of normality. Earlier, my mind had conjured up something sinister, when all along it was a teenage boy playing an innocent game of football. Maybe I over-reacted back at Martin’s place. I think I must have had some kind of panic attack. Even if there is something dodgy about Martin, he’s not about to grab me in broad daylight.

Daisy’s face lights up as I slide open the doors and walk over to her. She reaches out her arms to be picked up, and I undo the straps and lift her out.

‘Soon be time for your lunchtime sleep, Daisy Doo.’

She gives a happy gurgle in reply. I lock up the back and head out the front door before my nerve deserts me. I feel like I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone, but it feels good. Like I’m spitting in the eye of my fears. And Callum is a good kid. I’m glad to be getting his football back, to be doing something nice for him.

I walk past the sold sign in the Parkfields’ front garden, stand on the doorstep and ring the bell. A few seconds later, a very flustered Lorna opens the door. She’s wearing shorts and an old T-shirt, her normally perfect blonde hair scraped off her face in a messy bun. Her face is flushed and she scowls at me like I’m the last person she wants to see.

‘Hi, Lorna. Err, sorry, is this a bad time?’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m just trying to get stuff packed up. It’s all a bit chaotic in there.’

I move back as she steps outside onto the pathway and closes the door behind her.

‘I don’t envy you,’ I reply. ‘Packing is a nightmare.’

‘Try it with three kids,’ she says, no trace of a smile on her lips.

My request is probably not going to go down too well. ‘Well, sorry to disturb you, but a young lad I used to teach has accidentally kicked his football into your back garden. I was wondering if I could get it back for him.’

‘A football?’ she says. ‘What young lad?’

‘His name’s Callum.’

She heaves a sigh and shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘He most certainly cannot have his ball back. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Oh.’ I’m taken aback by the venom in her voice.

‘Look, Kirstie. There probably is no football. That boy has a crush on Hannah and he keeps hanging around our house. Is he still out there? If he is I’m going to tell him to piss off.’

‘He’s already gone.’

‘Good job. Where was he exactly?’

‘On the playing field behind your house. But he’s a nice lad, honestly. He’s harmless.’

‘How would you know?’ she snaps.

‘I used to be his art teacher.’ With anybody else, I’d put her rudeness down to moving stress, but Lorna has always been an uppity madam – and that’s a nice way of putting it. I bite back a rude retort and instead decide to ask her something else. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard a baby crying in our road? Apart from Daisy, that is?’

‘A baby?’ She frowns. ‘No.’

‘It’s just that I could’ve sworn I heard a baby crying the other day, and I’m worried about Mart—’

‘Look, Kirstie, like I said before, I’m a bit busy and I really haven’t got time to stand around chatting. Some other time, okay?’

Yeah, like the twelfth of never. ‘Sure, sorry, I’ll leave you in peace.’ I turn to go.

‘Kirstie…’

I turn around, wondering if she’s going to apologise.

No such luck. Lorna is back inside her hallway, a scowl etched onto her face. ‘If you see Callum Carson hanging around here again, tell him if I see him I’ll call the police.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’

‘Oh, just mind your own business, Kirstie.’ She turns away and slams the door.

I stand there for a moment, unable to believe her cheek. I was only trying to help someone out. Well, that was a complete waste of time. I’ll be glad when the Parkfields have finally left Magnolia Close.