The reporters and their entourage of technicians have all finally left, leaving a high tide mark of cigarette ash on the steps down to your flat, the butts stubbed out in your pots of daffodils. Tomorrow I’ll put out ashtrays. Actually, I misjudged some of them. Three apologised for intruding and a cameraman even gave me some chrysanthemums from the corner shop. I know you’ve never liked them.

‘But they’re school-uniform maroon or autumnal browns, even in spring,’ you said, smiling, teasing me for valuing a flower for its neatness and longevity.

‘Often they’re really bright colours,’ I said, not smiling.

‘Garish. Bred to be spotted over acres of concrete in garage forecourts.’

But these wilting examples are stems of unexpected thoughtfulness, a bunch of compassion as surprising as cowslips on the verge of a motorway.

The chrysanthemum cameraman told me that this evening the News at 10 is running a ‘special’ on your story. I just phoned Mum to tell her. I think in a strange mum-like way she’s actually proud of how much attention you’re getting. And there’s going to be more. According to one of the sound technicians there’ll be foreign media here tomorrow. It’s funny, though – weird funny – that when I tried to tell people a few months ago, no one wanted to listen.

Monday afternoon

It seems that everyone wants to listen now – the press; the police; solicitors – pens scribble, heads crane forwards, tape recorders whirr. This afternoon I am giving my witness statement to a lawyer at the Criminal Prosecution Service in preparation for the trial in four months time. I’ve been told that my statement is vitally important to the prosecution case, as I am the only person to know the whole story.