The door was flung open and there stood Old Man – I realized I didn’t know what his surname was, and quickly wished that I did. Bartrum, the newsreader’s voice in my head said. So, there stood Old Man Bartrum.

‘Mr Bartrum?’

He was a big man, tall and gangly with a sharp face like a hatchet. His head was shaved and his arms were covered in tats. His biceps were unexpectedly big and meaty and I guessed he probably worked out. But he also had a bit of a paunch so I guessed he probably called in at the chip shop on the way home from the gym. He had a gold tooth in the front of his mouth.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Me. Well, I don’t wanna know ’cause I already know actually. I’ve come to have a word with you.’

‘Who are you? And why are you dressed up like – what are you dressed up like? Some sort of cheerleader?’

‘I’m Awesome Man and this is my costume—’

‘Step off.’ And he slammed the door on me.

I immediately wished it would bounce back open, of course.

He stood there glaring at me. ‘I said, step off!’

Once again he slammed the door and again I wished for it to bounce straight back open.

‘We can keep this up all day if you want,’ I said. ‘But why don’t you just listen to what I have to say? It’ll be quicker.’

‘I’ll tell you what’ll be quicker,’ Bartrum growled. You often read in books about people growling when they get angry. I’d never really heard it before. He deliberately deepened his voice and put a sort of gritty edge into it, if you know what I mean. ‘It’ll be quicker if you just clear off before you leave in an ambulance.’

‘I need to speak to you about your son—’

‘You leave my boy out of this! He ain’t done nothing, d’you hear me? And if he did it ain’t my fault. And I don’t even have a son, anyway. If you’ve come here to complain about him, I’ll give you something to complain about! You come round here, knocking on my door – the nerve of it! The liberty!’

I could see he was working himself into a fury. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘calm down—’

‘Calm down? You’re asking for a clock on the snotbox, you are!’

‘No I’m not—’

And the next moment, he clocked me on the snotbox. The nose, I mean. Which of course turned diamond-hard at the moment of impact.

Blood spurted from his knuckles. He staggered back, clutching his hand and cursing.

‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Bartrum, why don’t I come in and we can discuss this in a more civilized manner?’

‘We could do that, yeah, or we could try . . . this!’