I put my phone in my pocket, sit back down on the sofa and click shite at random on my laptop. The window feels like fingernails drumming at the side of my head. I don’t look around. When my phone rings once, what feels like an hour later, I manage not to jump.

I stretch, stand up and wander over to the front door, out of sight of the window. I get out my gun and press my eye up against the peephole.

Darkness and the yellow door across the road, bulging insanely in the fisheye lens. The yappy little dog next door throwing a fit. Girls shrieking, somewhere far away. Then a fast jumble of footsteps coming closer, over the cobblestones.

I hold the doorknob and make myself wait till a wild flap of black rears up in the peephole. Then I whip the door open, two guys pressed close together stumble inside, and I slam the door behind them.

They trip on the rug, get their balance back and stagger to a standstill in the middle of my sitting room. Steve is gripping the other guy’s coat collar with one hand and twisting his arm up behind his back with the other. Big guy, black hair going grey – his hat’s gone missing somewhere along the way – long black overcoat. ‘Get off me—’

‘I’ve got him,’ I say, and point my gun at the guy’s head. Steve lets go and jumps back.

‘For God’s sake,’ the man says, and then he turns to face me and all three of us go still.

He wasn’t expecting the gun. I wasn’t expecting him. I was all ready for anything from a serial killer to one of our own, but not for this guy.

I’ve never seen him before, but I’ve seen everything about him, every day: the strong curve of his nose, the hooded dark eyes, the long black slashes of his eyebrows. For a second it feels like some fucked-up practical joke; my mind, skidding, grabbing for handholds, wonders if the squad wankers somehow organised this to wreck my head. He’s the spit of me.

Steve is staring back and forth between us. His hands are open by his sides, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

I say, ‘Steve. You can go.’ My lips are numb.

The man says, ‘Antoinette—’

‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot you.’ I tighten my hands on the gun. He shuts up. ‘Steve: go home.’

Steve starts to ask, ‘Are you—’

‘Go. Now.’

After a moment he leaves, practically tiptoeing. The door closes softly behind him. Me and the guy are left looking at each other.

He adjusts his coat collar where Steve had a hold of it. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure who that was—’

‘I asked him to bring you in,’ I say. ‘I’ve had enough of you hanging around my road.’