I sit on the bench in the children’s playground opposite the sandbox, waiting. I can see the entrance of the building from here without being seen myself. She’s punctual. As usual, she leaves the apartment block at eight-thirty in the morning. And she’s wearing the beige coat that she wears every day. Bag over her shoulder. Hand around its leather straps. She goes along the path past the playground to the bus stop. I duck slightly. Head lowered, looking at my trainers. I don’t want her seeing me, don’t want her to notice me. She passes me and I watch her go. I see her walking past the refuse bins in the direction of the bus stop.

I stand up, follow her, an old newspaper in my hand. I stop level with the refuse bins, open the lid of one of them, throw the newspaper in. I wait. Peering out from behind the open lid of the bin. I see the bus coming closer, stopping – she gets in. The bus drives on. I close the lid of the bin and go back to her apartment block.

At random, I press one of the many bells. At the third attempt I’m lucky and I hear the hum of a door opener. I brace myself against the door, it opens, and I’m inside.

The hall of this building is hardly any different from the hall of my own opposite. The only difference is that instead of the green line running around the walls about a metre above the floor, the line here is red.

I take the lift up to the mezzanine floor leading to the fourth storey and climb the few steps up. I tread on them carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible each time I put my foot down.

I put my hand in the pocket of my army jacket and take out a small plastic card, which I insert in the groove between the door and the door frame. I bring it down a little way until it meets resistance. Take it a very little way out and then press against the latch, level with where I felt the resistance. A click and the door is open.

I look in all directions. Nothing. I disappear into the apartment.

In the corridor I stand behind the door, breathing deeply, my heart thumping. Crazy and ridiculous. This isn’t the first time I’ve broken into a place, yet this time it’s different. I don’t want to steal anything, I just want to look around.

The apartment is like my own, except that it’s a mirror image. In the corridor a coat-stand with coats, a jacket, a pair of shoes on the floor. A mirror opposite. A pinboard on the wall. Cards for the theatre and concerts. I look at them more closely. Musicals, straight plays, The Phantom of the Opera, Cats, Starlight Express, Die Fledermaus and Richard Clayderman. Not my kind of thing.

I reach for one of the shoes and pick it up. A light brown leather shoe, the toe pointed, the brown insole slightly worn around the heel area. The heel itself is medium high, slender, slightly trodden down on the outside. I sniff it: a pleasant leather smell. When I was a child I always used to go to the cobbler’s with my mother. His whole shop smelled of leather and cobbler’s glue. My mother said you got addicted to that smell.

To the left, the door to her living room, no, the bathroom. Only logical, it’s all a mirror image of mine. Small bottles, tubes and pots all over, under the mirror, on the glass shelf. I spray some of her perfume in the air, smells good, delicious. Clothes for washing dumped in the bathtub. I poke around in them a little. Blouses, tights, panties, a bra. I hold it up. Flesh-coloured, not at all sexy.

I go into the living room: three-piece suite, green cord covers, smoked glass coffee table. A shelving unit on the opposite wall, pale pine. I take a good look at the things on the shelves. Romances, cookery books, reference books, Yoga for Everyone, self-help manuals and a guide to the opera. In the top row, right in the back corner, something is jammed between the books and the side of the shelf. It looks like a picture frame. I reach up, take hold of the frame and pull it out. A photograph, colours yellowing a bit with age. I like the picture; it reminds me of my childhood. My mother was only a few years older than the girl in the picture when she fell pregnant. The same dark-blonde hair, the pale face. She was so slender and fragile. I take the picture with me, put it in my jacket pocket. She’ll never notice.

Suddenly there’s a rustling sound behind me. Quite soft. Then a scraping. I stand perfectly still, listening. I don’t move from the spot. The sound gets louder. Where does it come from? The door? Damn it, she lives on her own. No one lives here except her. I open my jacket a little way and reach into the back right pocket of my trousers. I take my hunting knife out. It clicks softly as I open it. With the open knife in my hand, I steal out of the room on tiptoe and cross the corridor. The sound comes from the kitchen. Knife in my right hand, I push the door gently with my left hand. The door is ajar. It slowly opens. I take a step forward, look around. No one there.

A loud clatter, followed by a clinking sound. I spin round, the knife still in my hand. Then I see the cat, standing on the table and hissing, its fur on end. It jumps down, races past me through the open door. Broken china on the floor. Bloody animal, how it scared me!

I close the knife, put it back in my trouser pocket. Go down the corridor to the front door of the apartment. Look through the spy hole. No one outside. I leave the apartment.