He barely noticed Sunday morning or afternoon. Then, on Sunday evening, he heard sirens outside. The noise frightened him. He had a horrible fear – a feeling that had been with him all day – that the men had tried to do the job but had got the wrong address. What if that siren was an ambulance, carting away some other poor souls, people who had suffered because of him, because of mistaken identity?

There was a knock at the door. Jamie froze. What if it was the men? Or the police come to arrest him? He imagined “Charlie” being arrested on the way to the job – pulled up by traffic police who ran a check on the vehicle and realised it was stolen (Jamie’s imagination had gone into overdrive) and giving the police Jamie’s name. Maybe the police had been watching the two men, listening in on their calls. Maybe they knew all about it.

He looked out of the front window. There was a fire engine out there, several fire fighters standing beside it.

Jamie went out to the front door. The fireman in charge looked him up and down.

‘Where’s the fire?’ he said.

Jamie said, ‘There isn’t one. I think you’ve been hoaxed.’

The fireman’s eyes flickered with anger. ‘What did you say?’

‘Someone’s hoaxed you. It’s happened before. There’s no fire.’

‘It had better not have been you, pal.’ He sounded incredulous. Another fire fighter came over, who Jamie recognised from the night of the party.

The second fireman said, ‘I thought I knew this address. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? What the hell’s wrong with you? I told you before, it’s an offence to hoax the emergency services.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Jamie said weakly. He had an inkling of what he must look like to them. He expected he made them feel sick.

The first fireman said, ‘Then who was it?’

Jamie shook his head sadly and closed the door. He went back inside, ignoring the furious knocks. Eventually he heard them go away, not wanting to waste any more time on this loser. For the rest of the day he waited for the police to come, to arrest him for hoaxing the fire brigade. For once, he was pleased that the police round this part of the city never seemed to do anything.

On Monday morning he called his old office and asked to speak to Mike.

The woman who answered the phone asked who it was. He heard her say something – to Mike, he assumed – then she said, ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you.’

Jamie shouted, ‘I have to talk to him. Get me him now!’

The woman gasped, then there was the sound of murmuring, and Mike came on the line. ‘Fuck off, James, I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘They’ve stolen my money.’