White light fills the narrow stairwell with its worn red lino. He climbs up to the small landing, unlocks the flat door and enters. The beer is weighing heavily on his arm and he is thirsty. He makes his way into the tiny kitchen, opens one of the dented cans and drinks it down. The cold amber kangaroo piss stings the back of his throat but lifts his spirits.

It’s midnight when Hamilton polishes off the last of the beer and lets out a loud belch that almost makes the walls shudder. He rubs his eyes, which are sore from spending the entire evening typing his Jordan Kelly and Danny Jobson story.

On the streets below he hears the drunken hollering from the closing-time crowd as they spill out of the pubs and queue for the exotic delights of AbraKEBABra to soak up their beer and cheap cocktails.

Hamilton stands up but feels a giddiness that makes him wobble on his feet. He lifts his arms to right his balance.

‘Steady on, you old fucker,’ he mutters and stumbles into the bedroom. Unwashed underwear and socks litter the floor. Kicking off his shoes, he climbs into bed with his clothes still on. His body has had enough for the night, his eyes begin to close and soon sleep washes over him.

He wakes sometime later to the creak of a floorboard. He has a pounding headache and a bloated bladder.

He sits up.

The room is dark. He doesn’t remember switching off the lights, but then he did drink a skinful. The bedroom door is ajar and a slice of yellow light cuts through from the living room. The voices outside are gone. The only sound is the occasional beep of a car horn.

He hears breathing, deep and unfamiliar. He freezes, thinking he must be imagining things, but isn’t so sure.

‘Who’s there?’ he says, his voice trembling.

He sees the silhouette of an arm swing up and close the bedroom door, plunging the room into darkness.

‘Mr Bahadir, is that you?’

He wonders if Bahadir isn’t the weak-minded fool he takes him for. Perhaps he and his dodgy foreign mates have come to rough him up for not paying his rent again.

Hamilton points at the darkness. ‘I’m with the press, you know. I’m important. Don’t any of you think of laying one finger on me.’

The light switches on. It’s glaringly bright causing Hamilton to shield his eyes but in a single moment he catches a glimpse of a solitary dark figure standing at the end of his bed. As his eyes adjust to the light he takes in the intruder.

His mouth begins to dry and he starts to shake uncontrollably.

It’s him. But it can’t be. Why would he be here?