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?

This phase of their campaign is three weeks old now. Nate Mackie’s whisper from behind me in that school assembly replays in my head. ‘We’re going to burn your house down, Morcombe,’ his speech slow, no intonation to the words. ‘We’re going to burn it down when your grandad’s asleep.’ His hot breath was millimetres from my ear, the rancid waft of stale Marlboros curling round me. ‘He’s getting cremated, Ollie.’

The fight, once contained within the school’s perimeter before sprawling out into the parks, alleys and pavements of my route home, had now reached my own front door.