‘Hey!’ I yelped, partly from surprise and partly because hot coffee had hit my hand.

I spun around. My intruder had taken a few strides inside and was leaning against the wall, panting hard.

‘What does she want?’ he shouted.

I don’t take to being brushed aside and scalded. I put the mug down, kicked the door shut, and moved up on him prepared to pay him back. He was a surprise packet. He levered himself off the wall and came at me swinging. I caught a strong smell of alcohol and sweat as his punch missed and his suit jacket swung open. I dropped my shoulder and hit him hard in the sternum. I felt it bend. His flailing hands fell away and I caught him with a solid left to the ribs. All the breath went out of him and he sagged back against the wall, knees buckled. He was a sitting duck and I didn’t have the heart to hit him again. Besides, he was very drunk and I didn’t want him throwing up on me.

He was wobbling, close to tears. He wore a dark suit, blue shirt and red tie like a banker or a politician, except that the tie knot had slipped down below where I’d hit him. I grabbed a handful of shirt and tie and eased him along to the stairs. He didn’t resist and I dumped him on the third bottom stair the way you handle a bag of clothes destined for St Vinnie’s. He reached for the banister and winced. A good rib shot hurts. He was pale and having trouble catching his breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘You fucking should be. Hang on. I’ll get you some water.’

I recovered the mug and swilled down the remainder of the coffee. In the kitchen I filled a big glass with water and took a quick swig of scotch.

‘Here you go.’

No response.

I reached the stairs and found that he’d stretched out with his legs splayed forward and his top half resting comfortably. He was out cold.