It is Sunday, I figure as I lie under the covers with my eyes closed, my mind blissfully devoid of thoughts beyond this moment; but then I see the patches of blood on the sheets, the cut on my hand from where I’d reached through the glass to pick up the brick, and the rest of the world comes hurtling back into view.

The note, scrawled on an otherwise innocuous piece of white paper in childish handwriting, still lies on the table as I move into the kitchen. After taking a shower to clear my head, washing the blood from my hand and my chin, I pick out an outfit at random from the pile of clothes strewn around my bed, feeling in my coat pocket for my keys, and only then remember the missing purse and shoes. I make a mental note to call the bank as soon as I get to the newspaper offices tomorrow to order a new card. It can wait that long – it isn’t like there is any money in my account to steal between now and then.

Sweeping a handful of pound coins from the counter into my palm, I pour a whisky to take the edge off the headache that has taken hold and close my eyes at the soothing, burning sensation against the back of my throat.

Kentish Town police station is just a short stroll from the flat, and I take the back route to get there, cutting through the Stables market, breathing in the familiar scent of burnt falafel and cheap incense.

The brisk afternoon sun has already receded behind the buildings as I settle on the steps of the station, fifteen minutes later, to finish my cigarette before heading inside.

The officer behind the glass counter pronounces her words pointedly, looking at her watch as she draws her conclusion.

‘So you saw something happen, when was it – Saturday morning? Although why you didn’t report the matter at the time …’ I clench my jaw, my fingers pushing against the counter, out of her view. I’m sorry, I imagine telling her. I desperately wanted to say something but I was off my face on a variety of Class A drugs, and I knew that not only would you not believe a word I said but that thanks to the completely lopsided and ineffectual drug laws you have chosen a career to uphold, you might also have foreseeably had me arrested, thus risking my job, my livelihood and my home. I say nothing, and she continues.

‘All I am saying to you now is that I can’t quite see the connection between this … incident … and the brick that you say was thrown through your door some twenty-four hours later …’ the woman continues and I hold her eye for a moment before pulling away, nodding as I walk out of the station, pulling out another cigarette and feeling a shiver as I light up.