I push my plastic snack box, which Mother has packed to the brim with fruit and treats, into my small grey rucksack and leave the house.

After closing the door behind me, I stand for five seconds or so surveying the street. All seems quiet and safe, so I brace myself and set off down the short path to the wooden gate that leads out directly onto the pavement.

The bus stop is just a seven-minute walk from the house, and as I stride briskly up Baker Crescent towards the main road, I draw in a lungful of freezing air, relishing the burn of the late frost on the back of my throat.

As I pass the Browns’ residence, I wonder if either of them is watching me from behind the curtains.

I once saw a news special about sniper killers in America. How their high-powered rifles can pick people off even from a fair distance away.

If someone shoots me in the back of the head now, there’s nobody around to witness it. No Good Samaritan to call an ambulance. Theoretically, the killer could get away scot-free.

I pick up my pace but I don’t run. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m in the least bit spooked.

Even though spring is just around the corner, this unusually cold weather always serves to remind me of Guy Fawkes Night. The scent of the bonfires from early November seems to linger in the early chill.

I detest the various bonfire celebrations that pepper the district at that time of year. The big organised event at nearby Wollaton Hall always brings hordes of families to the area.

It’s not that I mind people having fun. In fact, I’ve often wondered what it might feel like to attend such an event, to stand in the open air with one’s friends and watch the staggering light displays that split the sky. To enjoy a hot toddy, be relaxed and at ease… instead of watching the fireworks as I usually do from behind glass, alone at my bedroom window.

It always amazes me how readily people embrace these events, feeling comfortable and knowing exactly how to act. The very thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat.

Last year, I actually got as far as pulling on my quilted jacket and wellington boots. In the end, however, I couldn’t quite muster the courage to go through with it.

‘Get going, man,’ Brian bellowed as I dithered at the door. ‘You might find yourself a young filly, have some fun. You’re not going to get any how’s-your-father stuck up in that bedroom, that’s for sure.’

The last thing I wanted was to pick up a woman, to use another of Brian’s unfortunate phrases. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t imagine ever having the confidence to do so again.

I shrugged off my outdoor clothing and marched back upstairs, leaving Brian’s crude remarks hanging in the air behind me.

It was just the thought of all those anonymous bodies surrounding me, pushing up close. Personal space didn’t exist when you were in the middle of a crowd, did it?

Theoretically, anyone could slip their hand into your pocket and relieve you of your wallet. A swift punch to the head could floor you, and you could end up trampled before the people around you even noticed you’d gone down.

In a crowd like that, people could watch you quite easily. Without you even realising it.

I glance behind me now, pulling my thin scarf up around my mouth.

At least work gets me out of the house each morning, and sometimes, whilst I’m there, I can even forget the past completely… for a while, at least.

The fact that Kellington’s is so conveniently situated close to home was one of the reasons I was persuaded to apply for the job in the first place.

Granted, part-time car park attendant didn’t sound the most exciting of career moves at the time, but when Mother read out the details of the vacancy from the local newspaper – ten months ago now – it instantly appealed to me.

I knew the exact location of this rather grand shop, with its small private car park to the rear. The successful candidate would be managing the parking space and, by the sounds of it, working quite autonomously for the daily four-hour morning shifts.

Set back from the busy thoroughfare of Huntingdon Street in the centre of town, the car park can be accessed by vehicle only from a quiet, unobtrusive side street.

Of course, that doesn’t stop some drivers trying it on. A stone’s throw away from Nottingham’s most popular shopping mall, the Victoria Centre, it remains a desirable and convenient space for harassed shoppers who don’t fancy negotiating the jammed, expensive multistorey car parks nearby.

I’ve noticed there’s a big emphasis on being a team player in the jobs market, something that’s overrated if you ask me. I used to work in a busy printing and lithography office in Lenton, fetching and carrying for the more important members of staff there, who took great delight in having fun at my expense. Banter, they liked to call it.

There’s a lot to be said for relying on your own initiative and getting on with a job with the minimum of fuss.

My resolve to work at Kellington’s was cemented the day I was called for interview, when I set eyes on the small external kiosk with windows that looks as if it’s been tacked on to the side of the store.

The existing attendant, a rotund, seemingly jolly man, nodded to me from his swivel chair as I cautiously made my way to the back entrance, as per the interview letter. I couldn’t help noticing that from this spot, the attendant had an unimpeded view of the entire car park.

I watched as a car reversed out of a nearby space. The attendant punctiliously recorded its departure on the impressive list of handwritten car registrations in front of him.

And it occurred to me, at that very moment, that life at Kellington’s might not be so bad.

If I was successful in securing the post, it would be just one step on from sitting at my bedroom window in my current security role.

By the time I entered the premises and was welcomed into the managing director’s office, I’d managed to slow down my breathing and unclench my fists a little.

I often find pleasure in thinking back over the significance of that day.

You see, by that time, I’d actually started to believe I might never leave the house again.

The prescribed medication had helped, and on better days, I’d take the odd trip out to the shops with Mother. This was a big improvement on the raw panic that had flooded me after… well, after it had happened.

But that day at Kellington’s, realising I might have found a place where I could feel integrated and useful again, it felt as if a tiny extinguished flame had started to burn once again in my chest.

Don’t get me wrong, I know only too well that life is full of disappointments, and I remember thinking as I entered the store that I had a good way to go before I could claim to have found my niche there.

I reach the bus stop in no time and check my stance, ensuring my shoulders are pushed back and both feet are planted firmly on the ground. I read somewhere that looking confident is paramount to disguising fear and discomfort when one is out in public.

There is nobody else waiting, and the digital display informs me that the bus is still four minutes away. So I allow myself to indulge in a little more memory-mining.

Mr Kellington himself and his assistant manager, Josh Peterson, interviewed me together. This confirmed my view that, far from being an inconsequential position in the company, the job I was applying for was in fact rather highly valued.

After cursory introductions, Mr Kellington asked why I thought I’d be suited to the role on offer, and I surprised myself by availing him of my Neighbourhood Watch monitoring processes.

The Rolodex, the detailed notes and observation techniques, and even my penchant for employing traditional administration methods where possible, rather than utilising modern technology, were all mentioned.

I decided, at the last minute, to leave out my frequent use of binoculars and zoom-lens camera.

‘Well, you certainly seem suited to the job,’ Mr Peterson said, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘Not sure I’d want to live next door to you, though. Do the other residents know that you’re a—’

Mr Kellington cleared his throat.

‘You seem, let’s say, very… observant, David,’ he remarked drily. ‘Just the kind of person we’re looking for. You also strike me as a man who takes his duties very seriously.’

On my mother’s advice, I had taken glowing references with me. There was one from her friend Beatrice, who worked as a nurse at the city’s respected Queen’s Medical Centre. The other had been provided by Christine Abbott, the team leader of Wollaton’s Neighbourhood Watch scheme.

‘These are excellent,’ Mr Kellington confirmed. ‘Although I always rely more on my gut feeling about a candidate than on what strangers might say. Hasn’t let me down yet.’

The following week, I started my new job.

I’d never seen Mother so proud, although I couldn’t help noticing that while she continually boasted to friends and neighbours that I now worked for Kellington’s, she made no mention of my job title.

Although it’s tough in the winter months to work outdoors in the biting cold, and even in snow flurries on occasion, the small convector heater in the kiosk – which I prefer to refer to as my office – ensures that frostbite is kept safely at bay. It’s a joke I like to call on in the cold weather, with our regular customers.

I sit there, warm as toast, with the large window in front of me, looking out on to the car park and the sliding glass hatch at the side that opens directly into the store’s foyer and allows me to speak to staff and customers. Everything organised and to hand, just as I like it.

And of course, I can’t deny that I both enjoy and take great pride in my job.

I think I can safely say that the bad time is finally behind me. And long may it stay that way.