Suddenly, the open front door and the banjaxed light don’t seem like mere inconveniences any more. A shiver runs down my spine and I feel my breath catch in my throat. I know I pulled the door shut on my way out. I’m fastidious about it. I always give it a little push afterwards, just to be sure. I freeze, not sure what to do. Do I push the door open, fumble for the light switch inside? Do I call the police? And tell them what? ‘My door is open, officer. Please come check my flat for me?’ I can only imagine their response – and that’s before considering how I haven’t always seen eye to eye with the police in this city. They’re not fans of me ‘sticking my nose in’ and I’m not a fan of their sweeping incompetence.

Still, some incompetence might be better than no support at all around now. I try to quiet my breathing, to listen for any unfamiliar creaks. I don’t hear anything, but I keep my phone in my hand – unlocked – just in case. And my keys, too, in case I need to defend myself.

Slowly I push open the door, reach my left hand towards the wall and find the light switch. To my utter relief, it comes on and floods the hall with brightness. At first glance nothing looks amiss. My bedroom door is closed, as I left it. The bathroom door is ajar, as is the door to the open-plan kitchen and living room. I cough, loudly. A cough that sounds just as fake as it is. I’m not sure why I do it. It’s unlikely an intruder will suddenly introduce him or herself on hearing it.

I look down at my phone, wonder if it’s too late to call a friend – or ask someone to come over for a bit. I’m feeling edgy. First my car and now this? I can’t ring Trina. It’s gone nine and she’ll be settled down for the evening, probably a few glasses of wine down. Married life and parenthood have combined to make her predictable. Besides, I don’t want to embroil her in this.

I edge my way into the living room, keeping my back tight to the wall so no one can jump up from behind me. Switching on the light, I see the room is untouched and I wonder as I look around if I’ve been making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe I wasn’t so thorough pulling the door closed as I thought – and it does stick a bit.

I feel brave enough to slip off my coat and hang it over the back of one of the two kitchen chairs. I don’t drop my keys or my phone, though. Not yet. And my heartbeat hasn’t slowed.