The guy set off at once, climbing over my side gate and out of sight of the camera to get to the back. The woman broke out a lockpick and a tension wrench and started fiddling with my front-door lock.

I pushed the phone back into my pocket. Time to make tracks. Flipping up the mattress, I pulled out the small metal case I had secreted beneath it. Spinning the numbered wheels of the combination lock, I clicked the case open and took out its contents – a fully loaded Glock 17 TB semi-automatic handgun and a suppressor, what used to be called a silencer. Screwing on the suppressor, I moved to switch off the bedroom light, then squatted down at the top of the stairs.

A tinkle of glass sounded from the kitchen. The blond arsehole had broken the window in my back door to get in. The scratching at the front door grew more urgent, then stopped as it clicked open. So much for my door lock – I’d been assured that was state of the art. State of the arse, more like. The brunette took a step into my house, her burglary tools replaced by a handgun. Silhouetted against the lamp almost directly outside my house, I had a better view of her than she had of me. Without hesitation, I opened fire. Three shots in quick succession – two to the body, one to the head. She pitched forward and hit the ground without a word. Her blood was going to ruin my beechwood floors. Blood was a bitch to get off a floor like that when it seeped into the joints.

Footsteps came running from the kitchen. I bunny-hopped to one side of the stairs. The blond guy paused momentarily when he saw his colleague lying face down on the ground. He gasped, then turned and charged up the stairs. Another three shots in quick succession. I lit him up. This fool had it coming. What was charging up the stairs meant to do? Put me off?! And his blood was going to ruin my oatmeal-coloured stair carpet.

So much for packing up a few belongings and getting the hell out. Time for a truncated plan A. Just go.