The midnight street shimmers in the chill drizzle as the dark-clothed figure steps silently from the car. After donning a black ski mask, he moves into the shadow of the high wall and finds a purchase on the rough-hewn stones. He works his way up, probes the top and confirms that it's just as he thought - the old, eroded glass cemented there is no more dangerous than a puppy's yelp.

He drops inside the grounds and edges through the undergrowth to where the house rises from the lawn like a Vincent Price set, eerie and introspective. He circles to the rear, where it takes just seconds to gain the protection of the kitchen garden fence. A quick peek provides the night's first disappointment. No washing line! Shit! He wouldn't mind if it were empty because of the weather, but none at all means no future pickings either.

To make doubly sure, he checks the far side of the house. No line there either!

Disappointed, he uses the lee of the house to shelter from the rain saturating his tracksuit. He eases the soggy wool away from his face, noticing a glow from a window further down.

He creeps along and peeps in. It comes from the corridor beyond, lighting the utility room enough for him to make out the washing machine and tumble dryer against one wall, and ... his heart stops! ... a basket of washing on a table.

The window latch is unsecured, but a shove proves the bottom sash to be stuck fast. Resigned, he stands on tiptoe and half-heartedly tugs the upper sash, almost whooping with glee when it slides smoothly down. Moments later he has climbed in and stands leaning over the basket, breathing heavily.

The contents beckon like a voice from Beyond. He tears off the mask, empties his lungs, closes his eyes and plunges his face into the purple pile. Holding back until his lungs ache, the reward is an inhalation deep enough to reach his trainers.

Expecting detergent or fabric conditioner, he almost faints when his lungs fill with the raw, thrilling musk of femininity. Working his head back and forth he stirs the knickers up, revelling in the differences. One gusset exudes a rich, full scent; another parries with a sharp, penetrating acidity; yet another releases a restrained odour which creeps up on his senses like a slow burning fuse.

He rummages happily and it's a while before he realises he is wasting precious resources. These treasured items must be taken home immediately and individually sealed to preserve their bouquet.

As his pockets are already full, he stuffs the dozen or so pairs up his jumper and returns to the window. He hauls himself up. But his luck has run out. His foot slips and his body drops like a stone. His chin slams against the top rail and his lights go out with the brutal suddenness of a blown fuse!