Someone was throwing themselves against it, and with such force that its small panel of frosted glass was already riddled with cracks. Another furious blow followed, the entire door frame shuddering.

‘Get upstairs!’ Lucy shouted, lurching down the hall. ‘Find that mobile, and bring my spare staff …’

‘Staff … what’re you talking about?’

‘Remember, when I moved out, I left some spare kit in the wardrobe in my old room … there’s an extendable baton in the harness.’

Cora turned and hurried up the stairs.

With the next impact, the door jamb split. With the next, the door itself burst inward several inches, only the chain holding it.

‘Who are you?’ she shouted. ‘What the hell do you want?’

There was no response – no self-identification by a police raiding party, no announcement that a warrant was being executed. That, along with a distinct lack of blue lights outside, and of course, that face in the window, was all that Lucy needed.

She averted her eyes from the mirror hanging in the hall, and rammed it with her right elbow. It shattered, shards jangling to the floor. She swooped down and scooped up the largest as she advanced to the door. It was six or seven inches in length, and curved like a dagger.

As she reached the door, the chain exploded loose, fragments flying in all directions.

Lucy hurled herself against the wood, but was bounced backward by the colossal figure on the other side. Through the expanding gap, she glimpsed a massive bald head on a trunk-like neck, and a barrel-shaped chest. A scarred face, centred around two glittery green eyes, was written with dark, furious glee; it was a madman’s face, a mass murderer’s face.

So, Lucy slashed it with the shard.

Up, down, sideways.

Animalistic screeches followed as the bear-like form tottered backward, a massive, leather-gloved paw clamped to the wounded visage, blood throbbing between the spread fingers.

Lucy threw herself at the door again, slamming it closed and kicking the lower bolt home, though with the door jamb fractured, it wouldn’t hold it for long.

‘Lucy … what in God’s name?’ Cora called from upstairs.

Lucy dropped the shard and galloped back down the hall and into the living room, where, without even looking at the window, she flung the tea-mug aside, grabbed the coffee table, and carried it back to the front door. Any second, she expected another attack. Before it came, she ripped the welcome mat up and tossed it behind her, and then upturned the table and jammed it diagonally under the door knob, bracing the lower end in the square concrete impression left by the mat. As she backed away, the next assault commenced, this time accompanied by female shrieks so berserk they were almost equine.

At the same time glass shattered somewhere else in the house.