The Uninvited Guest

It all started with the disappearing bagels.

In fact that isn’t strictly accurate. It all started when I moved to Brighton to get away from Mike, my ex. He’d been getting increasingly possessive and jealous about petty things for the past few months, but the icing on the cake was when I discovered that he was cheating on me with a girl from work: a ditzy blonde receptionist at the recording studio. Sure enough he cried and pleaded with me to take him back, which of course I flatly refused to do.

I kicked him out of my poky one-bed flat in Shepherds’ Bush and foolishly thought that was the end of it, but Mike had other plans. He’d turn up drunk, and ring on the doorbell in the middle of the night, shouting and waking the neighbours and begging for a second chance. Then there were the silent phone calls to my mobile – dozens of them, at all hours. He even followed me home from the Tube with a bunch of flowers one night, which made me realise he’d lost the plot completely. That really scared me; there was no telling what he might do next time…

That particular incident was the last straw and I made up my mind to leave London and move to Brighton. Brighton would be safe; I’d always harboured a fantasy of living by the sea and an added bonus was that I had never even mentioned the place to Mike so it made perfect sense: it would be the last place he’d look for me.

So I duly put my flat on the market (wincing gently at the estate agent’s fees) and rented a little two-up, one-down Victorian cottage in a narrow alleyway near the station. One of the joys of being a freelance journalist is that I can live almost anywhere within a reasonable commute of London.

I picked up the keys from the rental agents on a sunny May morning and stood in the empty living room of my new home, relishing an incredible sense of freedom. I knew, without a single doubt that I’d made the right decision. I was going to love Brighton.

A day or two later I finished unpacking and was surprised to find quite how much stuff I’d accumulated: the contents of the little Shepherds’ Bush flat completely filled my new home. I couldn’t quite bear to throw anything away, so decided to put my extraneous belongings – an antique trunk stuffed with winter clothes and three large framed pictures that didn’t quite go with the new decor – into the loft. I’ve never been very good with ladders so I was only slightly annoyed when I couldn’t get the loft-trap open, despite pushing it as hard as I could. I dumped the trunk and the artwork in the spare bedroom and soaked in the bath for an hour instead.

I spent the next few days exploring the neighbourhood and found, in no particular order, a friendly pub, three second-hand bookshops, a beautician (I treated myself to a massage to work out the stresses of the past few weeks) and a fabulous baker’s shop, where I bought some organic cinnamon bagels. They smelled and tasted divine; I ate one and forced myself to put the remaining two away in the bread bin for breakfast.

Except that in the morning there were no bagels.

I searched the whole of the tiny kitchen – the cupboards, the fridge, and even the drawer where I kept the dusters - in an increasingly frantic mission to locate the missing bagels. I seriously began to doubt my own sanity at one point as I couldn’t find the damn things anywhere. I even checked the rubbish bin twice to make sure I hadn’t eaten them and thrown the wrapper away and not remembered. After half an hour I admitted I was defeated and went back to the baker’s shop and bought another two bagels.

The same thing happened the following week. I’d arrived back in Brighton late one evening after a particularly trying afternoon interviewing a twenty-three year old Z-list celeb for a magazine article promoting his autobiography. I had some leftover chilli in the fridge, and for most of the train journey home I was fantasising about a supper of chilli con carne washed down with a glass or two of Merlot.

But the chilli, like the bagels, had vanished. I was livid, convinced that either a previous tenant still had keys to the house and had let themselves in…or more likely that Mike had somehow got my new address and was deliberately stealing things in a twisted attempt to win me back. I checked every window in the house, and double checked the lock on the back door but there was no sign of any forced entry. What should I do? Phone the police and report the theft of two bagels and a dish of leftovers, with my ex-boyfriend as the main suspect? I found a phone directory and dialled the number of the local police station but hung up before they could answer - I knew they would think I was a timewaster; a mad woman. Instead I resolved to phone the rental agency first thing the next morning and demand that they pay for the locks to be changed.

I was on the phone at nine o’clock sharp, following a night of broken sleep and convincing myself that every creak from the old cottage was the sound of intruders. After several long minutes of me alternately cajoling and threatening, the agency agreed to cover the costs: I suspect they gave in just to make me go away in the end, but I was quietly impressed when a locksmith came round that same afternoon to replace the old Yale with a shiny modern lock. I slept rather more soundly that night and was pleased to see that in the morning that the bread and milk and cornflakes were exactly where I had left them.

The next day I was back in London for a further brain-sapping interview with the Z-list celeb, which dragged on and on: I finally escaped the publisher’s offices at around seven o’clock, shattered and wanting nothing more than to get home, crawl into bed and doze off listening to Radio Four.

I staggered through my front door two hours later and headed straight to the bedroom and kicked off my shoes. I went to switch on the radio – a little battery operated thing I’ve had since university – only it wasn’t on the bedside table where it belonged. I checked down the side of the bed, in the rubbish bin and even under the bed, but it was nowhere to be seen.

I was furious – that bloody Mike, it must be Mike; who else would break into my house to steal a worthless Woolworth’s radio? Nothing else was missing: the drawer where I keep my few pieces of jewellery hadn’t been touched. I burst into angry tears, feeling powerless and violated at the thought of him being in my house, uninvited.

Then a sudden, panicky thought hit me: what if Mike was in here still, hiding somewhere? Spurred on by indignation and adrenalin, I snatched up an ornamental candlestick as an impromptu weapon and checked the spare bedroom: nothing. I checked downstairs again: the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the cupboard under the stairs: but there was no sign of him anywhere.

Despite my relief I resisted the temptation to phone Mike and tell him exactly what I thought of him, instead vowing that I would go to the local police station in the morning and report exactly what had happened. I almost managed to convince myself that they would take me seriously, too.

For the first time since I’d come to Brighton I felt a shiver of doubt as to whether I had done the right thing by moving here; I had no friends or family living nearby who could pop round at this time of night, and I couldn’t just get on a bus or a Tube to stay with someone: it would be midnight by the time I’d made it back to West London…

I left every light in the house on that night. Despite tossing and turning and the tinny sound of pop music drifting from next door I somehow managed to eventually drift off to sleep in the small hours: I was just too physically and mentally exhausted to stay awake any longer.
I woke up late the next day, feeling even more determined to go to the police about Mike. I needed caffeine first though; I still felt like a train wreck from the events of the previous evening. I pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs, only to find that the milk was off. One thing I can’t stand is black coffee, so I threw on some clothes and grabbed my handbag.

The man in the corner shop was in a bright and chatty mood so I made some appropriate, polite noises about the council and the local parking problems but I was only half functioning. Clutching the pint of milk and a copy of the local paper I walked home, mentally rehearsing my conversation with the police and looking forward to drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in bed.

As I unlock the front door I think I can see something moving through the pebbled glass and I shake my head, annoyed that Mike has made me so stressed and anxious that my mind is starting to play tricks. I sigh and push the door fully open.

There is a man in my kitchen.

I scream as I take in an unfamiliar face, the filthy matted hair and beard, the once-white trainers, the sagging, dirty jeans. The man runs out of the kitchen and up the stairs, taking them three at a time. I hear a crash as he pulls up the ladder and slams the loft-trap shut.

I really will call the police now.