I bend down to pick up the papers and I see it. The front page of the FC is ripped. It might have torn when it was pushed through the letterbox. But since I asked the wholesaler to divide the papers into rolls, that normally doesn’t happen. When I look more closely, there is what looks like the indentation of the sole of a trainer next to the head of Peter Ramsey, who is pictured on the front page at a rally in Solihull. Has a neighbour trodden on it when leaving for work? My brain conjures a shadowy figure picking the Yale lock of the street door some time after 4 a.m., which is when the first editions are delivered, and whispering ‘Oh shit’ when he accidentally encounters my papers.

A flash of panic. Someone has been in my flat while I was asleep. He – in my mind it’s a ‘he’ – has invaded my territory. He had access to all my stuff. He may even have come into my bedroom, perhaps stood over me while I was snoring.

How do I know he’s not hiding in there somewhere right now? My hangover paranoia threatens to overwhelm me. Everything’s fine, everything’s fine, everything’s fine, I tell myself.

I walk briskly to the pavement, scan both ways in the hope that there might be a police car cruising the street. Surely if there was anyone in the flat wanting to hurt me they would have done it while I was asleep? Also, unless they were in the spare bedroom or second bathroom, I would have noticed them. Only then do I become aware that I’ve gone out in nothing but the red sweatshirt and a pair of grey boxers.

I don’t think of myself as a wuss, but I would prefer to wait for a friend before going back into the flat. The problem is I can’t ring anyone, because my phones are by my bed. I sit on the wall at the bottom of the stone steps, paralysed by imaginings of who – or what – may be in the flat.

‘Gil, are you OK?’

Not the voice I wanted to hear, when I’m on the street in my pants. It’s my news editor, Mary Nichols, walking to Highbury and Islington underground station, presumably on the way to the office. She’s in her smart Chloe trouser suit. She loves that suit. And she’s found me looking like a nutter, staring at Highbury Fields.

‘Gil?’ she repeats.

‘Fine, I’m fine.’ I stand up, waving the morning edition at her. ‘Just getting the papers in.’

She gives me a long, hard look. She’s not a fool.

‘You look terrible.’

‘Late night.’

Another intense, studying look. She is only a few years older, but she has the urge to mother me. I can’t face it.

‘Are you sure . . .?’

‘Absolutely,’ I insist, in my boxers. ‘All good.’