I pushed as hard as I could and felt a scream that wouldn’t come, utter terror making my heart pound, trying to get my knee up to connect with his groin; and then, just as quickly, he was pulled back off me with a grunt.

For a moment all I could see was a man dragging Robin off by the scruff of his neck, then pushing him hard so that he fell to the floor. ‘Fuck off,’ said a voice. ‘Go on, fuck off now before I smack you one.’

‘Alright, mate, alright, calm down. No problem.’ Robin scrambled to his feet, dusted off his trousers and marched off after the rest of them, none of whom was any the wiser.

It was Stuart.

I was still frozen to the spot, my back against some grubby graffitied wall, breathing coming in short gasps, my hands in tight fists, fingers already beginning to tingle. I could feel it coming on, fighting it as hard as I could. I really didn’t need to be having a panic attack at eleven o’clock at night in the High Street.

He came back over to me, but not too close. He stood to one side so that the light from the estate agent’s window fell on his face, so that I could see it was him. ‘You alright? No, silly question. Okay. Deep breaths – come on, breathe with me.’

He put one hand on my upper arm, and ignored my flinch. He made me look him in the eye. ‘Take one deep breath and hold it. Come on. One breath – hold it.’ His voice was calm, soothing, but it wasn’t helping.

‘I need to get home, I – ’

‘Just wait a second. Get your breath back.’

‘I – ’

‘I’m here. It’s okay. That idiot won’t come back. Now breathe, slowly, come on, breathe with me for a bit. Look at me. That’s it.’

So I stood still and concentrated on breathing. Despite it all, despite the terror and the shock of it, I could feel my heart rate slowing. The shaking wouldn’t stop, though.

His steady, unflinching eye contact was unnerving and reassuring all at the same time.

‘Right, that’s much better,’ he said, after a few minutes. ‘Are you okay to walk?’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and set off. My legs were shaking, and I stumbled.

‘Here,’ he said, and offered me his arm.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling the terror coming back. I wanted to run, I wanted to run fast and hard and not look back. But then I took his arm, and we started to walk up towards Talbot Street and home.

A police car suddenly pulled to a stop beside us, and a tall, lanky officer got out. ‘Hold up a second, please,’ he said to us.

The shaking got worse.

‘Alright?’ said Stuart.

‘CCTV saw you back there,’ the officer said to me. His radio, clipped to the front of his stab vest, was bleeping and talking to itself. ‘Looks like someone was giving you some trouble. Everything alright?’

I nodded, vigorously.

‘You’re looking a bit shaky,’ the police officer said, eyeing me doubtfully. ‘Had a lot to drink?’

I shook my head. ‘Just – cold,’ I said, my teeth chattering.

‘You know this gentleman?’ the police officer said to me.

I nodded again.

‘I’m going to walk her home,’ said Stuart. ‘Just around the corner.’

The officer nodded, checking us both out. From the car, the other officer said, ‘Rob – flash call just come in.’

‘Long as you’re alright,’ he said, but he was already halfway inside the car, and the sirens started a second later, making me jump half out of my skin.

We carried on walking. I’d not drunk anything stronger than fruit juice, but each step felt as if the ground was swaying.

‘You don’t like police, huh,’ Stuart said. It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer. Tears were pouring one after the other down my cheeks. I’d felt the panic at the mere sight of him, at the cuffs buttoned to the front of his stab vest, and the siren had just about finished me off.

By the time we got to the front door, he was just about holding me up. I was gripping his arm like a lifeline, too afraid to let go. ‘Come upstairs, I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he said.

As soon as the front door was shut behind us, I let go of him. I checked it, just once, even though he was there. I opened the latch and closed it again, pulled the door to, pulled it again and heard it rattle, ran my fingers over the edge where the door met the jamb, checking that it wasn’t still slightly open. I wanted to check it again but I realised he was watching me. I managed a weak smile.

‘Thanks. I’ll be alright now.’

I waited for him to go up the stairs so I could check the door again, but he stood his ground.

‘Please. Just come and have a cup of tea. We’ll leave my door open so you can leave if you want to. Okay?’

I stared at him. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

He didn’t move.

‘Please, Stuart, you can go back out and find your friends. I’m alright now, honest.’

‘Just come and have a cup of tea. The door’s locked, I saw you do it. You’re safe.’ He was holding out his hand, waiting for me to take it.

I didn’t take it, but I did manage to give up on the checking. ‘Alright. Thanks.’

You’re safe? What an odd thing to say, I thought, following him up the stairs. I couldn’t look at my flat door as we passed it, because I wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to start checking. As it was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

He turned on all the lights in his flat as he went in, putting the kettle on in the kitchen. To the left of the kitchen area was a large, open-plan living room, with two bay windows on to the front. Leafy green plants on the windowsills. I wandered over to them and looked out. Despite the dark, there was a good view over to the High Street, crowds of people still walking up and down without a care in the world. From up here you could see over the rooftops of the houses across the street, down across the twinkling orange streetlights of London towards the river, in the distance the lights on top of Canary Wharf flashing on and off, and beyond it, the Dome, lit up like a landed spacecraft.

He put a mug of tea for me down on the coffee table and sat in one of the armchairs. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked gently.

‘I’m okay,’ I lied, my teeth chattering. I sat on the sofa, which was low and deep and surprisingly comfortable, hugging my knees. I felt so tired, all of a sudden.

‘Will you be alright later?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ I said.

He hesitated, and took a drink from his mug. ‘If you start feeling like you’re getting a panic attack, will you call me? Come and knock on the door?’

I spent a moment contemplating this, not answering. I’d like to, was what I wanted to say, because I knew full well that he was right, I would undoubtedly have a panic attack later on, and I also knew that wild horses wouldn’t be able to get me out of my own flat when it happened.

I thought my hands might have stopped shaking enough to risk picking up the mug, and I took a gulp of tea. It was hot, and funnily enough he hadn’t done a bad job of making it. Not quite enough milk, but good enough to make it drinkable.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ he answered. ‘Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.’

Those words started the tears falling again, and I put the mug down and covered my face with both my hands. I half-expected him to come over, to try to hold me, and I braced myself for the shock of it, but he didn’t move. After a few moments I opened my eyes and found a box of tissues were on the table in front of me. I gave a short laugh and took one, wiping my face.

‘You have OCD,’ I heard him say.

I found my voice again. ‘Yes, thanks for pointing it out.’

‘Are you getting any help?’

I shook my head. ‘What’s the point?’ I cast him a glance and he was watching me impassively.

He gave a little shrug. ‘Maybe it could give you some more free time?’

‘I don’t need any more free time, thanks. My calendar’s hardly what you’d call packed.’

I realised I was probably starting to sound a bit hostile, so I took another drink of tea to calm myself down. ‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You’re right, it’s absolutely none of my business. And very rude of me to point it out.’

I gave him a weak smile. ‘What are you, some kind of shrink?’

He laughed, and nodded. ‘Some kind. I’m a doctor at the Maudsley.’

‘What sort of doctor?’

‘A clinical psychologist. I work on an assessment ward as well as doing some outpatient clinics. I specialise in treating depression but I’ve seen plenty of people with OCD in the past.’

Oh, fuck, I thought. That was it. Now somebody else knew that I was turning into a nutcase. I would have to move house.

He finished his tea, stood up and took the mug out to the kitchen. When he came back, he had a small piece of paper which he put carefully on the table in front of me.

‘What’s that?’ I said suspiciously.

‘The last time I’ll mention it, I promise. It’s the name of one of my colleagues. If you change your mind about getting some advice, some help, ask the Community Mental Health Team to refer you to him. He’s a top bloke. And he specialises in OCD.’

I took the piece of paper. In neat letters, the words ‘Alistair Hodge’. Under that, the word ‘Stuart’ and a mobile number.

‘That’s my number,’ he said. ‘If you have a panic attack later, you can call me. I’ll come down and sit with you.’

Yes, I thought, like that’s going to happen.

‘I can’t go and see anyone. I really can’t. What about work? I’d never be able to get a promotion again if they know I’m nuts.’

He smiled. ‘You’re not “nuts” at all. There’s no reason why your employer needs to know about it. And even if you decide not to go and see anyone, there are a lot of things you can do on your own which might help. I could recommend you some books. You could try some relaxation therapies, that kind of thing. None of that would ever go on your records.’

I turned the piece of paper over and over in my fingers. ‘I’ll think about it.’

From outside, a sound of a police siren filtered up to the top floor. ‘I should go home,’ I said.

I stood and made my way to the front door. It was still open, giving me easy access to the hallway beyond. ‘Thanks,’ I said, turning towards him. For a moment I wanted to give him a hug. I wanted to feel what it was like to have his arms around me, whether it would feel safe, or not. But I could still feel the pressure of Robin’s body against me, and it held me back.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.

‘Sure.’

‘Couldn’t you do it? Couldn’t you treat me?’

He gave me a smile. I was outside the flat, he was inside it, keeping that space between us. ‘Conflict of interest,’ he said.

I must have looked confused.

‘If we’re going to be friends,’ he said, ‘I’m too involved. It would be unprofessional.’

Before I had a chance to react to this, he’d given me a smile, said goodnight, and closed the door. I went all the way downstairs to the front door, and started the checking.