As soon as I get home, my neighbour, Mrs. Atkins, blurts out, Theres a man shouting in your house every day weve all had enough! But how can that be, when I live here by myself?
The very next morning, I decide not to go to work and instead hide under my bed. Sure enough, at exactly 11:20, a stranger unlocks my front door with his own key and what he does sends chills down my spine.
When I come home in the afternoon, Mrs. Atkins is waiting outside my door.
Its far too noisy in your house during the day, she tells me. Theres always a man shouting.
Im completely taken aback.
Thats not possible, I reply. No ones here during the day. I live alone and Im always at work.
She shakes her head sternly.
Ive heard it more than once. Almost every day, near noon. A mans voice. I even knocked but no one answered.
Trying to brush her off, I force a smile and say perhaps Ive left the television on. She goes away, but her words keep spinning in my mind.
Walking through my house, a strange unease settles over me. Everything is as I left it: doors locked, windows latched, nothing missing, no sign of intrusion. My head says its all fine, but something in my stomach twists uncomfortably.
That night, I barely sleep.
The next morning, I make a decision. I call my boss at Barclays and say Im ill. At 7:45, I leave the house in plain view, get in my Vauxhall, drive around the corner, then quietly slip back in through the side door. I sneak into my bedroom and crawl under the bed, pulling the cover down to hide myself completely.
Time drags endlessly. I begin to doubt my own sanity when, at 11:20, I hear the sound of someone unlocking the front door.
Footsteps echo through the hallway, calm and habitual, like someone who knows their way around. Their shoes scuff the floor; the rhythm strikes me as oddly familiar.
The steps approach the bedroom.
And then, I hear a male voice deep and annoyed:
Youve made a right mess again
He says my name.
I know that voice too well. And in that moment, Im absolutely horrified as I realise who this mysterious stranger really is.
I discovered the truth only after it was all over.
The landlord had been coming into my flat every single day, the moment I left for work. He had his own set of keys. He knew my schedule: when I left, when I came back. Id happily mentioned it to him out of politeness, never thinking twice.
He wasnt there to steal. Didnt touch my things, never rummaged for cash or jewels. He simply lived in my space.
Hed take off his shoes in the hallway, just as if it were his own home. Hed lounge on the sofa, switch on the telly, help himself to my food from the fridge, use my shower, even nap on my bed sometimes.
Of course, he knew where everything was hed chosen all the furniture and let out the flat for rent in the first place. In his mind, it was still his space.
He felt entitled.
Sometimes he talked aloud grumbling about the mess, my habits, the clothes I left draped over the chair. It annoyed him that I didnt look after the flat properly. These were the outbursts the neighbours had heard and complained about.
He knew my name, my routines. He was sure Id never return before the evening.
He never expected Id be the first one to hear him.
When the police finally took him away, he looked completely bewildered. He insisted there was nothing wrong with what hed done. After all, he said, its his flat. His keys. He was just making sure everything was alright.
From that day on, I never move into a new place without changing the locks on the very first day.
