It’s just gone 6.30 a.m. The road is quiet, the front gardens tidy, with a row of black wheelie-bins left out for the refuse collectors. One has been pushed over by the wind, its contents spilling onto the pavement and coating the tarmac with potato peelings, empty baked-beans tins and wet kitchen roll. To my left I can see a solitary dog-walker on the beach, just a black silhouette in the distance. They are too far out to see me. And what I’m about to do.

I move the shotgun to eye-height and stride towards the white house, confidence brimming with every step I take. Everything has taken on a surreal quality, as if I’m in a video game. I stop when I get to the front door. I pull back the trigger, firing a single shot, and the lock splinters. The noise is bound to alert the neighbours and the occupants. I’d better be quick.

I kick the door open and stride into a narrow hallway. The staircase is straight ahead and I dart up it, every one of my senses alert. At the top is a door. I push it open and see a man getting out of bed. On his bottom half he’s wearing a pair of striped pyjama trousers, his large stomach hanging over the waistband. He has a gold rope necklace at his throat and wiry grey hairs covering his chest. The gunshot must have woken him. He’s older, late fifties, with thinning hair and broad shoulders. I’m repulsed by the sight of him. He tries to stand up when he sees me in the doorframe, his mouth slack, his brow furrowed. ‘What the …?’ Before he has time to finish his sentence I aim the gun at his head and watch in fascination as his blood splatters the Regency-striped wallpaper behind him. He flops back against the duvet, staining it red, his eyes still open.

I turn to leave. A woman is blocking my way. She’s even older than the man, and has white candyfloss curls. She’s wearing a flowery nightie. She’s stunned at first, her eyes widening in recognition at the sight of me. And then she starts screaming. I silence her with a bullet to her chest, which propels her down the stairs as though she’s a ragdoll. She lies in a crumpled heap at the bottom and, calmly, I step over her to leave. I can hear a dog barking somewhere in the house, maybe the kitchen, and I falter for just a few seconds. Then I stride out of the front door.