"I'm the guy who tore the toilet door of its hinges last week". The bookkeeper looked up slowly from her invoices that were strewn across her desk.

His voice reminded her of Lurch the butler in The Adams Family TV program, deep and throaty. Adrenalin rushed through her body producing that primitive fight or flight reaction in an instant.

He filled the doorway. It was the only entry and exit to her small office on the first floor overlooking the Bus Terminal. The boss was away and the security guard was probably doing his rounds of the harbour view restaurants at the other end of the wharf shopping complex. She was on her own in more ways than one.

Standing up carefully, then moving around to the front of her desk, trying to look taller than her actual diminutive height and smiling as warmly as she could, she asked, using her best manager's voice, "Would you like to sit down?" He slumped into the nearest chair, legs spread-eagled.

"They've banned me from the bar. The barman said I had to come up to the Management Office and pay for the damage before they'll let me back in the bar. Is this enough?" He looked desperate as he handed her some crumpled notes pulled from his dirty trousers. Her mind was racing a mixture of fear and indignation, anger. The barman hadn't considered the danger he had placed her in, she made a mental note to give him the rounds of the kitchen, later, if she survived.

Looking at her visitor, she wondered how much danger was she really in, he seemed to be sober, if not, the invisible emotional switch, that most alcoholics have, would be thrown and he could potentially turn nasty, or worse, violent. Behaviour that she had witnessed before.

"Do you want a receipt?" she asked, hoping he would just leave, all the while estimating the level of danger. To her relief he replied, "Nah, just call them and say that I've paid for the damage so I can get a drink." He stood up. One minute she was looking at his face the next, his belt buckle. He was a giant at least seven foot tall and well built. His face had the helpless look of someone who wasn't quite right in the head. His expression showed regret, not the anger that he had apparently displayed the week before. He had a demeanour of quiet desperation.

His focus was on getting a drink and her focus was on escaping.

And then he was gone.

Leaning back against the desk her heart was pounding. Relief came followed very closely by anger. Major anger.

She picked up the phone . . .