He was filled with the most extreme terror he had ever known, and he felt as guilty as a child who has been caught smoking a cigarette. He rolled the wheelchair out of the room as quickly as he could, pausing on the way only to look and make sure that nothing was out of place. He aimed himself straight at his bedroom door and tried to go through it at speed, but the right wheel crashed into the door-frame. Did you scratch the paint? His mind shouted at him. He looked down, but there was only a small mark - surely too small for her to notice.

He heard the noise of her car on the road and then turning in towards the house to park. He tried to move the wheelchair gently through the door without hurrying, but again he had to hold on to the frame and pull himself through it. At last he was in the room.

She has things to carry, he told himself. It will take her time to get them out of the car and bring them to the house. You have a few minutes still.

He turned himself round, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it nearly shut. Outside, she switched off the car's engine.

Now he had only to push in the tongue of the lock with his finger. He heard a car door close.

The tongue began to move - and then slopped. It was stuck. Another car door shut: she must have got the groceries and paper out of the passenger seat.

He pushed again and again at the lock, and heard a noise inside the door. He knew what it was: the broken bit of the hairpin was making the lock stick. 'Come on,' he whispered in desperation and terror. 'Come on.' He heard her walking towards the house.

He moved the tongue in and out, in and out but the broken pin stayed in the lock. He heard her walking up the outside steps.

He was crying now, sweat and tears pouring together down his face. 'Come on... come on... come on... please.' This time the tongue moved further in. but still not far enough for the door to close. He heard the sound of the keys in her hand outside the front door.

She opened the door and shut it. At exactly the same time the lock on Paul's door suddenly cleared and he closed his door. Did she hear that? She must have. But the noise of the front door covered the noise of his door.

'Paul, I'm home,' she called cheerfully. 'I've got your paper.'

He rolled over to the table and turned to face the door, just as she fitted her key into the lock. He prayed that the broken pin would not cause any problems. It didn't. She opened the door.