I know the warning signs. Tingling toes, buzzing ears. But the day is too beautiful, too vibrant and I’m anxious to be part of it. I pull on my trousers, tuck in my shirt without fastening the buttons all the way. Can’t be bothered with a tie.

I throw open the front door and here I am, facing the sunlit garden and the infinite possibilities beyond. The scrunching of the gravel drive sends exquisite shivers up my spine. I run my free hand across next door’s holly hedge and shudder with pleasure. The soft, luxurious lawn like cool silk forces me to take off my shoes to feel it against my bare feet. The chill of the dew and the velvety down of young growth drive me nuts with joy, until the mobile in my left hand rings. I stare, surprised to see it there, and hesitate before answering.

“Hi, Craig. It’s Kim.” Kim sounds stressed.

“Hello, Kim,” I say. “It is a beautiful day.”

“Yes. Look Craig, I’m running a bit late, I–”

“No problem. I’m fine. I can cope.”

“Listen, get yourself breakfast. I’ll be there in twenty–”

“Not having breakfast. Too beautiful.”

The postman’s bright red Citroen Berlingo pulls up. “Hello, Postman,” I say, as he alights.

“Good morning, young man.” The postman returns my smile. “You’re out early.” He glances at my feet, and I bend to retrieve my shoes.

Kim’s voice changes pitch. I’d forgotten him, but must have switched the phone to loudspeaker.

“Craig, you’re outside, aren’t you?”

I slip on my shoes.

“Have you taken your medication?”

Silence as I tie the laces.

“Go back into the house, Craig.” Kim’s voice is more urgent now. “I’ll be there as–”

“Just going for a walk,” I say, and cut him off. Tucking the phone into my pocket I smile again at the postman, who is trying not to gape. “Lovely day!” I say.

The postman has delivered something next door and is returning to his van. He says nothing, but gives one of those looks that always fill me with guilt. I pull from my pocket what I think is my mobile and brandish it. “Better reception out here,” I explain.

He puckers his forehead in puzzlement or amusement, I’m not sure which. Perhaps both. He drives off, still wearing that look. When I go to stow my phone, I see it’s not the phone at all, but my flick knife, its blade still sleeping within its carved, wooden handle. I don’t think the postman realised my mistake. He drives too fast. The bright red van takes the blind bend where the trees obscure the road. I imagine the sound there’d be if he collided with an oncoming vehicle whose driver was equally reckless. His supercilious grin turns to horror in the seconds before the vehicles crumple and he’s crushed within a tangled metallic mass. I see myself sitting glumly in his front room as I inform his widow of her sad loss. You never know. We might get on. She could take a fancy to me and …

There’s no crash. The only sound is the receding throb of the Berlingo’s engine and, from somewhere in the holly hedge, or one of the sycamores beside it, a bird’s tweeting, reminding me I should be on my way.

I walk, fast, towards the park, say hello to a passing female. Girl. Young lady, really. “Lovely day,” I say, but her face assumes the postman’s expression. She turns and hurries on.

I can see how all this might end, but I’m too supercharged to take the usual precautions. I’ll not become angry today. Far too beautiful with the dappled sunlight. It’ll soon be spring. I skip through the park and laugh with the young boys, picking up their tennis ball and throwing it to one of them. I wish him a good day and skip on. Some of the boys skip after me, but I’m faster than any of them. I think maybe we could make a game of it. Tag, or something, but their mothers call them back, sending icy stares my way.

At the ice rink, the skaters are so graceful I feel like crying. I remember that Russian ballet Kim and Josey took me to when I lived at The Home. I look around for someone, anyone, to share the story with, knowing I must be cautious. Some strangers are kind, but others, when I speak to them, turn their heads and walk on, or else they give a hard stare and say rude words. Once, someone head-butted me just for saying hello. Horrible person. That’s when Jim sold me the knife.

“Just for protection,” he said, “You’ll never need to use it. Just show it.”

One of the girl skaters has a grace unmatched by any of the others. She pirouettes every so often and whirls so fast she might spin all the way up to heaven. For a moment, I see her rising off the ground and am sure I’m about to witness a miraculous ascension when I’m jostled from behind. A rough youth with pockmarked skin and a black, woollen hat gives me a hard look and says, “Sorry, pal.” I can tell he doesn’t mean sorry. He manoeuvres himself right in front of me so that I can no longer see the skater.

I am bubbling with energy, but try not to be angry. With deep breaths, I control my heartbeat. I’m getting better at that.

Now I know exactly where to go, and how to share my joy. I stride out, cursing myself for bringing no money. It has to be croissants and coffee on Sarah’s terrace. That would be perfect.

There are several customers ahead of me at the baker’s. I hover unnoticed until I see my chance. One assistant is retrieving wholemeal loaves from the shelves at the far end of the shop. The other is busy with a customer asking about Danish pastries. I swoop down behind the glass screen, snatch two pains au chocolat and run like the very devil, onto the street, across the road and down the hill to the new shopping mall. There is no audible reaction for a surprising length of time. Then I hear a distant shout of ‘Stop, thief.’ Or have I imagined it? It reminds me of a Dick and Dora story my primary school teacher read out to the class when I was five. I want to laugh but my chest hurts so much I think it might explode. I sit, panting, upon a wooden bench and rest until I feel better. I can’t be far from Sarah’s flat.

My mobile rings. It is Kim, of course. I don’t know why I answer. It’s awkward, holding the pastries in one hand while answering my mobile with the other.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Oh hi, Kim,” I say. “I’m at home, just about to have a shower.” Even as I utter the lie I’m trying to sound as normal as possible, but think perhaps trying to sound normal makes me sound weird.

“You’re fibbing, Craig. I’m at your place now. Mr Rees tells me you went out for a walk.”

I remain silent. Mr Rees lives opposite. He spies on me and tells Kim where I am, what I do, the mood I’m in. I suspect that Kim has confided in him about my issues. I stop thinking about that because the thought could very easily ruin this lovely day. I take deep breaths and speak calmly. “It’s a perfectly beautiful day today, Kim. It really is.”

“Where are you, Craig?” Kim’s voice is deliberately calm and he speaks slowly. I can tell he’s doing his best not to excite me, trying to keep me there, on the end of the phone.

“I’m in the High Street, doing a bit of window shopping. There’s this lovely wedding dress in Marks and Spencer’s.” Then I wonder if I’ve said too much. Do Marks and Spencer sell wedding dresses? Why wedding dresses? “I’m surprised how many customers there are,” I add to reinforce the lie. In my mind’s eye, I see the wedding dress, and at the top of the imagined gown, enveloped by a veil of the finest silk, is Sarah’s beautiful face. I march on, controlling my breathing the way Kim showed me.

I see the block of flats across the road and remind myself to be careful crossing. A distant, tinny voice tells me Kim is still on the line. I bring the phone to my ear.

“You remember our discussion the other day, don’t you, Craig?”

I say nothing.

“The restraining order? You remember? You do understand what I said?”

I don’t hear any more, because I see Sarah standing on her balcony, wearing… I can hardly believe this. It’s some kind of flowing gown which might be a night dress, or a ball gown, or…

She looks how I thought Galadriel should have looked before they made that film and spoiled it all. I thought I’d lost the image forever, but here it is again. She, too, has a mobile, pressed to her ear as she looks out over the balcony, ruby lips curled. She is perfect. My happiness stretches my mouth into a smile. A genuine one, of real joy, not the artificial one that Kim taught me to use when I meet strangers.

Sarah, still chatting on her mobile, is pacing back and forth. She appears to look in my direction. I hold up the two pastries but can’t tell if she has seen me or, if she has, whether she recognises me at this distance.

I approach, waving both arms as though I’m drowning, smiling my real smile with such pleasure the warning honk surprises me. Of course, someone winds down his window to shout abuse. So many horrible people.

The tinny voice tells me Kim is still speaking. This time, it’s in his stern, headmaster voice.

“Go home now, Craig. Everything will be all right. If you visit Sarah again you will end up being arrest–”

I pocket the phone, look left, then right, then left again before continuing, and look up at Sarah. Her face has changed. She seems worried, or annoyed. I hold up the pains au chocolat again and gesture to the table on her balcony. She disappears into her flat.

The entrance gate is open for once and I cross the forecourt with another delicious scrunching of gravel before pressing the bell for number thirty-four. A full minute passes and I’m about to ring again when I see movement in the hall. A uniformed concierge or lift attendant strides towards me and opens the door. He looks less than friendly and my pulse begins its trajectory.

“Clear off, now,” he says. “Miss Evans is calling the police, so don’t force me to get rough.”

I flash the smile Kim taught me, but I sense this horrid man knows it is fake. I show him the pastries, but he slaps them to the floor. Then he clutches me by the throat and utters some appalling filth about my being a weirdo. He pushes me hard and I fly backwards, sprawling on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. I can hardly breathe, and make odd choking noises as he approaches again. He wears an expression which suggests more of the same is coming my way. Then his face softens, and I wonder if he’s afraid he hurt me too much. Or perhaps like me he has an inkling of what might happen as I thrust a hand into my pocket.

For a moment, I see myself lashing out as he leans over me. He staggers back as a crimson jet sprays across the abstract paintings on the wall and over my clean shirt, no longer tucked into my trousers. The concierge or lift attendant or whatever he is clutches his throat and writhes for a short while before becoming a still life within the abstract red spreading about him upon the mottled tiles.

Then the image fades and I see him how he really is. I am gripping the knife and he backs away with one hand up like a traffic policeman.

“Now hold on, son.” He puts his other hand behind him, searching for the door knob to a lobby in the corner. He finds it, never taking his eyes off me, opens the door and disappears.

Jim was right. I only had to show it. My knife is like a magic wand. It’s made him disappear. I’m devastated to see the pains au chocolate looking forlorn in the middle of the hall. I scoop them up, summon the lift and enter its air-conditioned interior. I press the button for the third floor.

“Doors closing,” whisper the hidden speakers. “Going up.”

I feel I am spinning, like that skater, a little dizzy at the prospect of seeing Sarah once more. Indeed, I feel as though I am ascending unto heaven.

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