He was conscious of the rushing of blood through his ears as his heart raced faster and faster. The kitchen was small, but there was room to hide behind the door. He could stand there and not be seen until the person – Pete or whoever – came in.

‘Pete, you in?’ It was a woman’s voice upstairs, London accent and confident and shrill and puzzled. Fletcher recognised her – it was Pete’s girlfriend. He heard a creak above him and the sound of feet on the stairs. But this time they were coming down slowly, tentatively and nervously.

‘Pete? You there?’ The voice had lost its confidence. ‘Are you messing with me? Pete?’

Steps were in the hall. A shadow fell across the open kitchen door and onto the black and white chessboard tiles. Fletcher looked up at the window opposite. He could see a woman’s reflection framed in the doorway, almost in silhouette. ‘Pete? Stop kidding around, will you?’

Fletcher watched her hand reach into the room for the light switch. As she pressed it, he realised two things. One, his trainers were in the middle of the kitchen floor and, two, the woman would see his reflection if she looked up at the window.

Slowly, as if time was stretching itself so that seconds lasted minutes, and minutes lasted hours, Fletcher stepped out into the room, clutching the knife in his left hand. The woman screamed. Without thinking, he put his hand over her mouth, muffling the cries, and pulled her towards him. He didn’t want to hurt her. Just to shut her up. His knife was still in his left hand, five or six inches from her face.

‘Shut up. Don’t talk.’ He moved the knife towards her face, intending to scare her. But his hand was shaking so badly the blade nicked her cheek. And as she gasped, from somewhere in the hallway, or maybe at the front door, came another noise. A sound of air rushing from a balloon or car tyre. But there were no balloons here, thought Fletcher. And no car tyres.

At that moment, the world fell around him…

An explosion filled the house, filled the kitchen, filled his head, ending all other sounds, sending a ringing through this brain that wouldn’t stop. And at the same time, a flash so bright and blinding that he no longer knew which way was up and which was down. He stepped back away from the woman, but with his knife pointed at her chest, blood pouring from the gash in her face. There was movement in the hallway and then another explosion, this time more compact, and accompanying it a pain so searing that he felt molten lead was pouring into his chest. And then the feel of the cold kitchen tiles on his face and liquid on his mouth and boots moving in front of him and a woman crying and a radio talking and someone rushing forward and someone bending down and turning him over and then nothing. No darkness. No silence. Just nothing.