I arrived early at Nick’s front door, enthusiasm summoned for another long, back-breaking day’s painting, and reached out to press the bell. But the door was already open and swung wide at my touch. Nick never left his door unlocked, never left it open. I hesitated for a moment, calling out as I headed up the stairs.

‘Hello, Nick! You there?’ I stopped on the landing and tapped on the bathroom door. There was no movement behind the frosted glass panel, no sound of running water, no reply. ‘Nick?’ The silence, the stillness, was beginning to unnerve me.

I could see the light was on in the living room. I trotted up the last few stairs and stood in the doorway.

I will always remember everything about that moment: the rumpled rug, the patch of rubber missing from the sole of Nick’s slipper, the blue and white striped legs of his pyjamas, his brown dressing gown with its twisted cord: his skull smashed in like the shell of a meringue. Blood had seeped over the collar of his dressing gown, splashed over the fender and the green glazed tiles of the fireplace; there was blood on the rug, spreading out in a puddle from behind his head, dried rusty brown and soaked deep into the pile, a sharp, metallic smell.

My knees gave way and I clutched at the door frame, holding on while the room reeled sickly and a dizzying wave swept up from the soles of my feet. I clung on, staring, hearing the ticking of the clock in the corner. It was slowing down, a heartbeat of time between each swing of the pendulum. For Nick, time had stopped altogether. His white fingers had stiffened into cold claws digging into the carpet. His face was half turned towards me, one blue eye, for ever frozen, staring like the eye of a creature in a glass case.

I choked back bile with a shudder and fled, stumbling down the stairs, yanking open the door, desperate to get out. I couldn’t breathe. I lurched into the alleyway where I staggered like a drunk, leaning against the wall to steady myself, bent over, hair falling over my face, whilst I struggled to heave air into my lungs. Then I plunged out into North Street, heading for the nearest shop.

A neat young man rose from his desk as I burst in. Behind him were boards displaying photographs of houses, and I realised, as I gaped around me foolishly, that I had blundered into an estate agents. As he took me in, his expectant smile faded. He wasn’t very old, in his first job probably. In his grey suit and tie he looked like a school prefect. I couldn’t force my words out. There was a choking lump in my throat and I couldn’t stop shaking. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.