He was quite ordinary looking, and in his early thirties or so. He wore a pair of jeans that were sodden, like the rest of him, from the rain. His jumper was slightly out-dated, but nowhere near as old as the kind of thing Dad sometimes wore. His raincoat was a greyish-brown, very unremarkable, and his hair was slightly longer than normal. He had the beginnings of a beard. I screamed, then. Within half a minute, his hand was over my mouth and the scream was cut off.
“None of that, now, d’you hear?” He had a country accent.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, as soon as he removed his hand from my face.
“That’s a long story, lass, and I’m tired. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,” he added hopefully. I made him the drink and he gulped it noisily. It must have been boiling. He barely paused to let it cool.
“Are you going to tell me?” I asked when he finished. I had got over my fright, now just curious. Who wouldn’t be?
“Let me get my breath back!” he laughed. I did not laugh with him. Instead, I took his coat and hung it over the radiator to dry, feeling miffed about the fact that he had dripped all over the kitchen floor.