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street. Locked in one another’s arms, the couple stagger along then cross the road before entering an apartment block. She climbs three floors and unlocks the door to her apartment, snaps on a light. On the wall beside her is a large corkboard littered with photographs of the man she had been watching in the club; some of them blurry Polaroids, others what look like grainy screen-grabs. Amongst these are sticky notes with times and addresses scribbled on them.
    She peels off her gloves and takes a fresh set from a box on the counter, pulls them on.
    She crosses to a desk on top of which are several small TVs and powers them on one by one. Static slowly gives way.
    The first is a row of apartment blocks similar to Bridget’s own, fronted by a communal grassy court. The scene emerges just as the couple she had been watching come into view. They walk across the grass, the man’s hand sliding up and down the woman’s arm, caressing her tattoos, then they enter one of the buildings.
    Bridget’s attention switches to the next screen, awkwardly positioned on top of two VCR decks. This one is a stairwell, the lighting dim but the couple still recognisable at the edge of the picture. The man presses the woman against a wall, kissing her neck. The woman smiles, then eases him away, takes his hand and leads up towards the stairs.
    The next screen, showing a small and cluttered studio apartment. There’s a flare of light as a door opens, the glare blinding Bridget’s view like a nuclear blast. When it subsides the couple are wrapped in one another’s arms, frantically removing each other’s clothing. The door slams shut behind them. They move out of view.
    The next screen is blank. Bridget waits, thinking it is just too dark to see anything, then slaps the side of the device. The TV blinks into life, the image jumping and fizzing. She hits it again and a bed comes into focus.
    The woman lies out on it, her arms extended above her head towards the pillows as the man tugs at her jeans to remove them.
    Bridget opens a drawer in a unit next to the TVs and removes a headset of the sort call centre workers would wear. The audio cable ends in a small, plastic box. She slides a button to switch it on and a red light glows. In her ears now, the sounds of laboured breathing. She closes her eyes to it for a few moments then opens them again. Reaches in with her gloved hands and removes a small, latex-coated vibrator.
    She pulls a small armchair into position before the TVs and settles into it.
    The couple are both down to their underwear now, the woman almost lost beneath the broad expanse of the man’s back. Her legs wrap around the back of his.
    Bridget lifts her skirt and switches the vibrator on.

7.
    She watches the man pull on his trousers and T-shirt then quickly tie his shoelaces.
    He says something to the woman but the words are lost amidst static crackle. Bridget takes off the headphones and lets them sit around her neck. Then the man is gone from the TV screen, appearing on the one showing the staircase a minute or so later, still tucking himself in. Back on the bedroom camera the woman is now getting dressed, buttoning her jeans and pulling on a fresh T-shirt, black with the yellow smiley face on it, her tattoos like bruises in amongst the graininess. She quickly re-applies some make-up then pulls on a jacket and leaves the apartment.
    With the woman gone, Bridget gets up and cracks open a fresh bottle of whiskey. She tips a couple of fingers into a glass then adds some coke. Swallows half of it in one go. Tops up the liquor.
    She quickly burns through two glasses and is pouring herself a third when there is a knock at the door. She checks the spyhole before undoing the locks.
    “Hey Liz,” she says, opening the door and letting her visitor in.
    The woman breezes past Bridget, removes her coat and hangs it up on a peg on the back of the door. Medium height with rich black hair and multiple tattoos peeking out from beneath a