John climbed the stairs two at a time, jumping over the torn lino. He reached his landing, placed his key in the lock, turned it. He could feel his heart begin to hammer, sweat on his neck, the familiar dread. Why now? There was no rhyme or reason to his panic. This was his home, not a stranger’s. There was no sniper, no mangled boy, no live grenade. Perhaps his landlord had come in. He had a key, though he usually gave John warning. John took a deep breath, pushed the door wide open. There was an air of occupation, as if a ghost had wandered through leaving a scent of honeyed milk. Her.

John grabbed his umbrella from the stand by the door. It wasn’t much of a weapon but it could parry a first blow, give him a head start. He kicked the door so it slammed against the wall. No one was hiding behind. He stepped into the sitting room, his umbrella in two hands like a rifle, eyes left, eyes right, scanning, searching. He was a soldier again, boots heavy and soiled. The shade on his standard lamp had been knocked askew, and the reading lamp lay on the floor. The newspaper on the table was crumpled, the books tipped off the shelf. He leaped forward, turned, no one behind, turned again, three paces, kicked open the bedroom door. The bed was as he had left it, the cord of his pyjamas showing beneath the pillow where he’d folded and tucked them. He sidled in, checked behind the door. His work jacket hung on the hook, next to his woollen dressing gown. He bent down, peered under the bed. Shoes, slippers, dust. No crouching form ready to spring.

He walked back through the sitting room. He could taste the blood rust of iron as his stomach churned. He relaxed his hold on the umbrella, gripped it again. The door to the kitchenette was ajar so he pushed it open and let it bang against the wall. The muscles in his legs began to quiver.

A bloodied hand had dragged along the window and over the sink and tiles behind it. It had wiped across the enamel top of his table and there was white stuff dribbled down its legs. John traced the trail across the room, poked it with his umbrella, not sure what it could be. The cups on the draining board had been knocked off, smashed on the floor, curved shards of blue china, a handle smeared with blood. Blood was spattered on the cupboard and on the twisted mesh door of the food safe. John looked behind him. The sitting room was empty. He held his breath, poked at the door of the safe, swung it open.