I wanted an explanation but if I pressed too hard, maybe I would prick the skin of this unreality bubble I had stumbled across and Abigail would disappear just as suddenly as she had appeared. Perhaps, I reasoned as well as you might expect anyone could reason in this situation, I had a brain tumour and she was its one positive side-effect. Maybe she was a ghost come to visit me to teach me a lesson. Or a parallel-universe Abigail. Abigail the time traveller. Abigail the angel here on Earth to earn her wings and tell me It’s a Wonderful Life. None of the bullshit I came up with sounded right.

I made the decision never to ask Abigail why or how she was here. Back when she died, I was so depressed I couldn't even eat Toffifees which I worshipped as my favourite sweets. I had exhausting dreams in which I would discover that she was actually still around, and if I couldn’t raise the alarm, we’d lose her for good. I saw her once sitting on the steps of a police station, head in hands, staring at the roadside with solemn, introspective eyes. I’d shout at my parents to stop the car but they wouldn't hear me – no one ever heard me – and Abigail's forlorn face would recede into the distance. Now that she was back, understand that I was not going to jeopardise that one fact with something as trivial as rationality.

'No,' I said, ‘you don’t look dead.’ I was still shaking, not just shock now but a sort of nervous excitement.

'Silly boy,' she said, giggling. 'Look, I'm cold and got naff all else to do. Why don't you fill me in on what you've been up to? I hear you've been a busy boy.' A worm of goose pimples slithered down my spine as she said that. 'Take me home. Come on. Which way is it?'

'You mean walk it?'

She slapped me hard across the face. I was elated with this validation. I had never been interesting enough for her to slap before. As the welcome warmth in my cheek grew, I caught her scent, the same beautiful perfume she had always worn. I didn’t come on the spot.

'Walk?' she shouted, indignant. 'Walk?'

'Okay, let's catch the next bus.' I replied. I was out of my depth; my mind was a spinning top, unable to settle but primed to crash. What the hell was I supposed to say to her? Usually social situations were good to me, I always knew what to say and never embarrassed a crowd. It was like I was on a first date, trying to act natural and cool yet remain guarded.

The next bus drifted into view on cue. I flagged it down while handing Abigail some money to buy a ticket. This was the test. I was shit scared that forcing the universe to confront Abigail might make her vanish again. If I was imagining her, no one would acknowledge her presence and reality would right itself, taking her out of an equation she didn’t belong in.

As the bus stopped, brakes squealing, my heart thumped and there was tightness in my chest. I kept telling myself to get a bloody grip, but it wasn't happening. The doors slid open and the burly bus driver summoned us aboard the same way Bruce Lee beckons an opponent to give it their best shot before he Kung Fu's their arse. Sweating, I waved my Townabout pass at him and headed towards the back of the bus. I felt like everyone was staring at me like I was some freak having drug-induced hallucinations. If only.

Halfway down the aisle I couldn't bear it any longer and had to turn around. Abigail was there and had already put the cash into the tray. The driver was procrastinating over each coin as if the schoolgirl in front of him was about to pull a fast one. Impatient, she huffed and said, 'Come on, how long does it take to count bloody 75p?'

'Alright, lass, alright, keep your 'air on, rules is bleedin' rules,' the driver replied.

We sat at the back, she beside the window. She spent the journey staring outside in silence, observing everything we passed. I was relieved because I could not bear any more tense conversation. I rested, gathered my thoughts and listened to the roar of the diesel engine, unsure where this trip was taking me.

I glanced a few times at the dead 15-year-old beside me. I saw her legs drawn up onto the seat with little black socks sticking out of her shoes. I saw the curvature of her bosom bulging like a white sunset over the brown horizon of her blazer, reacting in slow motion with every bump in the road. She was the Mary Poppins of my desire, practically perfect in every way.

* * * *

As soon as I shut the front door, there was a tongue in my mouth and a python's grip constricting my body. Of course I felt randy, of course, but bear in mind that I couldn't even bloody chat to her yet. I was supposed to kiss her now? Having never invited a single woman to my hideout in case things ever went sour – return to sender, address unknown – I couldn't believe it was her in my bachelor pad. Abigail had torn through my defences and was manhandling emotions of china.

My hands on the back of her blazer mapped the contours of her shoulder blades, piecing together the shape of unknown territories. The sensations were so raw, so real and unattenuated, that my muscles rebelled, trembling. The paradox was too much. I couldn't believe she was hungry for me, unable to duck the possibility that I was ensnared in my very own film noir, femme fatale ready to off me when the time was right. I couldn't reciprocate, despite the fact that she was the only girl I ever wanted on this crappy planet, and pushed her away.

'Don't you like me?' she shouted. 'I thought you liked me. You were supposed to like me. Don't you want to? Are you gay?'

'You're fifteen,' I whispered, staring at my shoes as if her gaze would turn me into stone. The conversation was no better than earlier; she was a roller-coaster and I was hanging on for dear life.

'You're not fifteen. How old does that make me?'

'You're fifteen,' I repeated. 'Fifteen.' Her saliva still laced my lips. Her perfume held dominion over the air.

'Okay, but when you were fifteen, would you have thought twice about it?'

'It's different.' When did logic ever matter where sex was involved?

'I see,' she said, disappointed. 'Well, I guess that's it then.'

Concern forced me to look up, braving her petrifying gaze. 'What?'

'I guess you don't want this, then,' she said with a knowing, sexy smile, cocking her head to one side, seizing me with her ocean blue eyes. Her face floated to within inches of mine and I could feel the gravity of her body prickling across my skin.

A hand descended upon my crotch and kneaded; intense sensations coursed through my groin as if I had just emerged from a long, celibate winter. These feelings were so overpowering that the experience was unpleasant. And I couldn't stop her because I didn't know how to.

She increased the pressure of her hand, rubbing so hard that she was jerking my package around. The process inelegant but the result inevitable: I came with a whimper. Shudders rippled through me and my legs surrendered. Abigail chuckled, pleased with making another man fall to his knees.

As something like lukewarm porridge began to cool in my underwear, all of the emotions that had been swirling around like a dangerous alcoholic cocktail found their outlet. Collapsed on the floor, I burst into tears, head in my hands, confused. I couldn't look up at her, see her disappointment at the one she had chosen to visit. I folded myself up into a foetal position and sobbed it all out like a bloody baby and, even though I didn't look, I knew she was still there. Waiting.

After minutes of blubbering, the mental turmoil eased. As the sobs diminished, Abigail reached down and clasped my hand.

'Iain, get your party gear on. We're going to a club.'

* * * *

I hadn't been to Satellite for a while. Every time I'd visit I'd end up in a queue for around an hour and then the bouncers would hassle me about one thing or another. Abigail, being Abigail, charged past the entire queue, dragging me into the heart of the bouncer coven. Seeing me with a schoolgirl, they gave me a special look that was normally reserved for paedophiles. I may be mistaken; it could have been envy.

'Well, well, I think you're a bit young to be let in, miss,' said one hulking bouncer who was wearing mirrored shades. All of his fellow bouncers gave a boisterous laugh.

'So I thought it was school outfit night, shithead,' she said, staring him down with an icy glare.

'So where's your tie, love?'

Abigail went ballistic. 'Who the hell are you? Head bloody prefect?'

'Yes and I suppose this is your dad here for the open day?' Another hearty laugh echoed around us.

Abigail slapped him hard and then whispered something in his ear before he had a chance to react.

I stared at his face, seeing only a distorted, shiny reflection of Abigail and myself in his shades. I expected him to punch me in the face. I always expect bouncers to punch me in the face, although it's only happened once and that was Greg's fault. His henchmen watched with expectation as if they, too, thought he was going to punch me in the face.

After a tense few seconds he said, unsmiling, 'Alright, in. Both of you.'

As we entered the darkness of the club, I asked Abigail how she'd got us in, but either she couldn't hear me or she didn't want to answer the question. Humid heat rolled over me as we pierced the membrane of the dancing crowd and beams of coloured light – reds, blues, purples, very royal – swept across us. I glanced back at the giant display that stands astride the club's entrance; tonight it depicted an aquarium containing words that swam around and assembled into phrases. It said Touch Me Love Me Free Me. I wasn't drunk enough to appreciate it.

Turning back, Abigail was gone. I was frantic, unable to believe how stupid I was to let her out of my sight in a liquid crowd. I broke up couples, stepped on toes, and pushed broad-shouldered guys that didn't want to be pushed as I darted about trying to relocate her. I thought that this was it, this was how she would disappear, but then she flitted ahead of me holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and a glow-stick in the other.

I stopped searching and decided to wait instead, the only motionless individual on a floor of activity. She emerged again with a lighter instead of a glow-stick, lit the cigarette, then dived back in. It was as if she were plundering the clubbers for treasure, a dance floor magpie; she returned to me only after she had acquired a couple of bottles of beer.

When she handed me a beer, I found myself staring at the smouldering cigarette clutched in her hand. I hate smoking, the smell, the ugliness, the fag ends that litter the streets like unwelcome pavement graffiti. Seeing Abigail with that burning stink in hand made me horny. It made her more wrong, you see, and the more wrong she was, the stronger the lust. Such are the contradictions of man.

I don't think we said anything to each other. She began to dance to the music, something frenzied that I didn't recognise, while I kept my eyes trained on her to make sure she wouldn't run off again. She replied with a clear shake of the head as if reassuring me: Relax, sweetie, I'm here for you.

She closed the distance between us and, at last, it began to feel natural with Abigail, as I mimicked her motions and slipped into the backbeat with her. This was sexual play I was comfortable with, all these moves I understood. I gulped the beer down, an obstacle between me and her, and half of it dribbled down my chin. She laughed and I laughed too, then she reciprocated, pretending to drink her beer while pouring it down her front.

It was then I realised that I couldn't talk to her because I had never talked to her. The only language my mind had used with Abigail was that of the flesh. She knew that. That's what she had been trying to do – engage me in a common tongue. She'd just made the mistake earlier of skipping the start of the bloody conversation.

Soon enough we weren't dancing anymore, instead mingling in each other's arms, lips moving across lips, tongues around tongues, as the battery of sensations from the nightclub was replaced with something more satisfying and physical. Then we weren't there anymore, we were back in my flat lobby kissing and groping through déjà vu. After that we were in my bedroom and I was removing her blazer and unbuttoning her sodden blouse while she wrestled with my belt.

My hands explored her nude geography for what seemed eternity, learning the texture of her breasts, the fine hairs on her legs and her peculiar, bony elbows. I slapped on protection even though she protested it was unnecessary and moved upon her, poking all the wrong places for a while, but then struck gold.

We made the memories of a lifetime, sex without peer.

Abigail kept me busy all night. There was so much to see, so many positions to try and so many rooms to do them in. My flat lost its virginity too. The following morning, the place was in chaos and a spicy blend of bodily fluids and cigarette smoke haunted the air.

I took Thursday and Friday off sick and, as you do when you're sick, I spent all day in bed. I knew it couldn't last forever, but I would make it last as long as I could.

I needn't have worried. When I left her the following Monday, she told me she'd be back later in the week – and she was. She was waiting for me outside the office on the day I shouted at the boss for coming down on the team so hard about problems of his own making. I told Abigail about it, explaining I might be fired, but she didn't really care and neither did I. It wasn't of consequence.

Months of secret shagging followed. She'd disappear for a few days when I needed a break but then always turn up again when I was ready, still wearing the same school uniform, freshly laundered. I didn't always appreciate what she told me to do to her, but I complied with her instructions. It wasn't romantic in the least; she wasn't interested in talking about work, watching the depressing EastEnders together or going shopping for Christmas presents. She was adventure, pure and simple.

(to be continued)