Something close to a smile forms. She’s due at work in an hour; she’ll be leaving home soon. Is she as nervous as I am? It’s hard to imagine. Does she even believe that I’m going to go through with it? She’ll have her doubts, I’m sure of that. My stomach burns as I imagine our plans for tonight – for when this is over. For the first time today, I am certain.

This is happening.

5.11 a.m.

I’m halfway down the stairs when I see it. I stop dead. This is what I have to put up with.

Clinging to the banister holding my breath, I cock an ear up towards the landing. I listen for confirmation that Gramps is still asleep. There’s a lengthy silence, then a desperate gasp for oxygen as his snore resumes its rattle. Relief – chronic back pain from a lifetime of laying lawns and patios makes him prone to unpredictable early risings. The thought of him stumbling on this doesn’t bear thinking about.

I creep the rest of the way downstairs, shaking my head as I stare at the front door. My own jerky breathing seems deafening; the creak from each stair makes me wince. I’m certain I’ll wake him any second.

On the mat, in the soft blue glow through the frosted glass, lies one unlit match. As I crouch, the now-familiar stench of lighter fuel fills my nostrils. Level with my eyes, a couple of tiny spheres of the liquid dangle from the sharp edge of the letterbox.

This is the third time. I’m furious that it still freaks me out so much; that my hand still trembles as I lay a palm on the bristles of the doormat and study the shiny coating it leaves on my fingers.

‘Fuck you,’ I hiss, my teeth digging into my bottom lip as I spit the words. The heat comes fast to my eyes; the floor becomes a blur. I swipe the sleeve of my dressing gown across my face. ‘Why the fuck do you do this to me?’ The words leave my mouth as a whining whisper. ‘What did I ever do to you?’

It’s not that they don’t have the balls to light the match. They do. They will. This is just another warning shot, a little reminder of what’s to come today. This is their game. Think of an executioner: when does he feel at his most powerful? As the axe slices through his victim’s neck, or as he stands, wielding that axe far above his head?