A sound; footsteps- intruding into my late evening semi-doze. I blink and sit up, mute the TV. Have I been fully asleep and dreaming?

I am alone in this house, children with their father for the weekend and no paying guests at present. I glance at my phone. It’s ten-thirty pm.

A louder sound. The first, a key in the front door, then through the second door into the hallway. I hold my breath and stand, pause before padding to the living room door and listening, my steps carpeted and silent. Even so, I think my breathing must be audible and my pounding heartbeat detectable through the wall. I inhale, then yank open the door and step into the hallway, confronting the intruder. I stare at him. Knowing my face is drained of colour and my eyes are blazing, I force my breathing to slow as I stare at him.

He’d left two weeks ago in a fit of pique, brimming with angry, perceived slights and petty grievances. I hadn’t been ‘welcoming’. I hadn’t done enough to make him feel at home. I’d asked him not to park his car in front of my garage. I hadn’t left enough cupboard storage in my kitchen cabinets for his bulk-buys. The list of my shortcomings as a host had gone on and on. I’d suggested, then, that perhaps he might like to look elsewhere for somewhere to stay, only for him to storm out and slam the hall door with enough velocity to shake the handle loose.

I’d returned from work to find he’d taken me at my word, clearing his belongings from his room and from the kitchen, a discovery that had induced a profound sense of relief.

Now, here he is, back in the house, a look of defiance on his round, shiny face and the medallion he wears glinting in the light as he stands facing me- a short, squat figure.

I’m frowning. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.

He’s twirling keys round and round in his fingers. They are the keys to my house, keys that should have been returned to me when he left. But of course, I wasn’t here when he left. I’m eyeing those keys as they swing around his fingers.

‘I just might have left a few things.’

I remember that when he arrived I’d thought his American accent quirky and interesting. I look up. ‘And you chose ten-thirty pm to come back and get them? As far as I can see, there’s nothing of yours left here in the house.’ I’m forcing my voice to stay low and calm, even as I feel panic rising, my gut churning as I stifle an urge to shriek.

‘You went in my room.’ He takes a step towards me, chin stuck out. I draw back.

‘I assumed you had gone. You haven’t been here for two weeks. Your things, as I said, had all been removed. I needed to go in to clean and prepare for the next guest.’

‘No. You’ve been going in my room all the time.’ He pauses. ‘You’re sick!’ he says.

For a tiny moment I have an urge to laugh, since it’s clear now, if not before, that he has some mental health issues and is the sick one. But I’m also aware that I am alone here with him and must tread around him with light steps. At the same time, however, he needs to see that I’m not about to turn into a shivering jelly under his accusations.

I take a small, casual step sideways so that I’m in touching distance of the landline telephone, which sits on the hall console table.

‘You need to leave. And you need to leave your keys behind.’

He leans closer still. his face glistening and the medallion swinging in the V of his T-shirt. ‘You don’t tell me what to do!’ he hisses, emitting a few specs of spittle and I’m preying they didn’t reach me.

I extend my arm until my hand is hovering over the phone. ‘You need to go,’ I tell him, ‘or I’ll ring the police to come and get you removed.’

He stands stock still, glaring, before lifting his hand and throwing the keys on to the table by the phone, where they gauge a small scrape then slide off on to the parquet with a jangle. Then he turns, walks to the door, yanks it open and slams it behind him, repeating the action with the front door. It feels like the entire house shudders and I hear his footsteps recede down the path, a car door, the loud, coughing, spluttering engine of his clapped out sports car. Then- blessed silence.

I double lock. I push the console table until it’s against the hall door. I make a mental note to call the locksmith in the morning.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com