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When I asked Sam, he denied all of it, said it was a wind-up. That really pissed Joe off and he swore again that Sam wasn't joking. So, rumours of the new neighbour's identity persisted for a while as no hard facts emerged. I could see her back door from my bedroom window and so I staked her out, looking for definitive evidence. Every spare waking hour. Telescope. Camera. Just the thought it might be her turned me on. The couple who'd lived there before weren't too bothered about drawing curtains so I was used to the Peeping Tom lifestyle. There was a TV in my room that was always turned on, but only as a diversion to anyone passing the door. I rarely watched it, preferring to spend most of my time with the light off and lenses trained on their windows - upstairs and down - jeans around my ankles in readiness. And many times I was handsomely rewarded. I think they even knew I was there, played to the crowd. But, despite all my previous practice, I never got more than a glimpse of a shadow of our new neighbour. She didn't seem to go out. If she had a car, it was locked in the garage. Gardener did the lawns and flower beds; cash was left in a plain brown envelope. Shopping was delivered. Parcel vans came and went. Everything left in the porch. When I looked later or next day, it had been covertly taken inside, like she waited for me to eat my tea, fall asleep, knew when I was spying. The frustration was unbearable. Many a morning I'd wake fully dressed, back propped against the foot of the bed, TV still chattering. I suffered at school those days, hiding at the back of the class, aching to close my eyes...

When I asked Sam, he denied all of it, said it