The alleyway ended by taking him out into a road that looked identical to the one he had just left. He turned right to walk the pavement. More tightly packed houses had him surrounded, but he knew he must head for where it opened up into a new-build block of flats at the end. His left hand fiddled with a black, circular lump of plastic that should grant him access to the building. It worked. He wafted it at a panel beside a sturdy door, a light flashed and a clacking sound made him flinch.

He hesitated for just a moment to remind himself of the details. Two flights up. Door number eleven was always unlocked. Two shots to the central mass of the pictured female. Then leave.

Simple.

It was bright as he stepped into the building, the light thrown by large circles that clung to the wall and flickered with the shadows of doomed moths. He strode past them, then past the doors of the flats on the ground floor, turning back on himself to move up the internal stairs. He could hear noises as he went: televisions, music, human interaction – normal life. There was no time to stop and consider his place in it, to consider what he was about to do. He had slipped into matchday mode. He was there to win at all costs.

Second floor. The door numbers increased as he moved past them. Nine was the first on this floor, then ten swept past. He didn’t even pause as he reached eleven. The door handle dipped in his hand as promised and the door pushed into darkness. He stepped forward. There was noise from straight ahead, canned laughter to accompany a flickering silver light from the end of a long hallway with closed doors either side. He walked towards it, lingering at the end of the hall to take in a television playing to a figure laid out on the sofa. He pressed the light switch. It came on a dirty yellow to illuminate a young woman who didn’t move. She was facing out. It wasn’t her.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else here!