The next time I saw Alistair I told him that I was going through another difficult time. I told him about Lee’s habit of moving things, hiding things, and about the twisted scrap of red cloth and button I’d found in my pocket. I could tell by the expression on his face that he’d never come across a story quite like this one, even if he did his best to hide it. He probably thought I did it myself. He probably wondered whether actually I’ve got some sort of psychosis as well as an anxiety disorder.

To his credit, he was both soothing and at the same time strict. However it happened, the button was just a button. It didn’t mean anything. The world was full of red things, he said, and they didn’t cause us any harm. The red button didn’t actually cause me harm. It was in my pocket, I touched it, it made my anxiety levels increase, but other than that, it didn’t actually hurt me, did it?

It wasn’t the button that was the problem, I wanted to shout, it’s how the fuck did it get in my pocket? But there was no point going over all that with him, he couldn’t help, and I was all too used to people not believing me. I needed to hear back from the police, to be reassured that Lee was safely still miles away. In any case, one thing was just starting to become clearer to me, a faint glimmer within the darkness. Whether I was picking up red objects to feed my own fears, or whether Lee was actually starting to stalk me again, what I needed from Alistair was the same. I needed to learn not to be a victim this time – of myself, or of anyone else. I needed strength, to deal with the bad things that life threw at you. I needed to take back control.

For now, Alistair said we should concentrate on the PTSD. Working on the PTSD had a number of elements. When I had flashbacks, or thoughts about Lee, I should let them come, and let them go.

I remembered being in the café in Brighton with Stuart when he’d said something similar about that man who had startled me. It was all about recognising the thoughts as being part of the disorder, rather than something that was defining me as a person.

‘I’d prefer not to have the thoughts at all,’ I told him, ‘never mind accepting them.’

Alistair rubbed his hands together, sliding the middle fingers against each other in a regular pattern that was somehow soothing.

‘The thing you need to remember, Cathy, is that these thoughts have to go somewhere. They are in your head at the moment and they have no way out. That’s why they’re so upsetting. You have these thoughts and when you get them, you try and bat them to the back of your mind. You try to push them away, then they will have to come back because your mind hasn’t had time to process them, to deal with them. If you let them come, consider them, think about them, then you will be able to let them go. Don’t be afraid of them. They are just thoughts.’

‘You say that. They might be just thoughts, but they’re still bloody scary. It’s like living in a horror film.’

‘Think of them like that, then. They are part of a horror film, and sooner or later, no matter how scary they are, they will come to an end if you just let them come, and let them go.’

His voice was calm and curiously soothing. I tried to think of Stuart in here, running a clinic, listening to people telling him about their misery, about grief, loneliness, about not understanding the world any more, about wanting it all to end.

Then I went home to try to digest it all.

As would be the case with any other addiction, on the nights when I was here alone, it would have been very easy to get away with indulging in my vice without Stuart or anyone else knowing. But checking didn’t give me any actual pleasure, it never had; it was more of a relief – a temporary absence of terror. Alistair gave me a number of things to try to reduce the stress caused by not checking properly, including the deep breathing, rationalising my fears, re-naming them so that they become not real, normal fears but just a manifestation of my OCD. They’re not good fears, they are part of my condition – why would I want to keep them?

Earlier this evening, just after I got home from work, I had a phone call. My first thought was that it was Stuart, but it turned out to be DS Hollands. That sudden racing heartbeat – would it ever get any better? I thought she was going to tell me that Lee was missing, Lee had told someone he was coming to get me, one of the other officers had been tricked into telling him my home address.

‘I just wanted to let you know – I spoke to my colleague at Lancaster police station DA unit.’

‘Yes?’

‘They sent someone round to check up on Mr Brightman on the morning after you called me. Can’t guarantee he hadn’t been round to see you, but it’s very unlikely. He was in bed having been working the night before. He’s working at a nightclub in the town. The officers checked it out and he was definitely at work the night you rang. So although it’s not impossible that he made a trip to London, it’s pretty unlikely. Do you have any other reasons for thinking he might know where you are?’

I sighed. ‘Not really. Just that I know what he’s like. Isn’t he supposed to have some sort of licence, if he’s working as a doorman?’

‘He’s not a doorman; apparently he’s just a glass collector. Lancaster is going to check it out, though, don’t worry. Even though he’s not got any conditions attached to his release, I get the impression they’re keeping a close eye on him.’

Can’t be close enough, I thought to myself.

‘I think you can relax a bit, Cathy. If he was going to come looking for you, I think he would have done it by now. And you’ve got my numbers, right?’

‘Yes, thanks, I have.’

‘And if you think there might be someone in your flat, just dial 999 straight away. All right?’

‘Yes.’

I wish I could shake off this feeling. It’s not a fear that one day he might come for me, it’s more certain than that. It’s not if he finds out where I am, it’s when. The only reason he has not put in an appearance yet, assuming of course that I did leave my own curtains open and I did somehow absent-mindedly pick up a red satin-covered button from somewhere, is that he doesn’t know where I am.

But when he does, he will come for me.