As Russel D McLean’s new novel Ed’s Dead begins, Glasgow bookseller Jen Carter has dumped her boyfriend Ed, an outwardly charming waster. Returning after a night out to celebrate her decision, Jen quickly sobers up when she realises the front door to her flat is open and she may not be home alone…

I breathe.

Listen to the quiet of the night. And that’s when I hear the noise. Out in the hall. The sound of something moving, shuffling. And I know there’s nothing out there.

And then I think: The cupboard.

Of all things.

The one place I didn’t think of. The last place in the flat where I would think someone – or something – could hide.

‘Just the floorboards contracting,’ I say, still looking in the mirror, trying to form an expression that says, I know what I’m talking about.

It’s true: this building is old enough that at night there are all kinds of odd noises that you could mistake for an intruder. Just the kind of thing that happens when temperatures drop and old wood is exposed. Old buildings creak. They have draughts. All the things that I was warned about when I moved into the place, and all the things I didn’t mind because the flat felt like home the moment I walked across the door.

Five years ago.

And now, in two seconds, my home feels alien and terrifying. As though it’s been hiding some terrible secret from me.

‘Just look,’ I say to my reflection, but she really doesn’t seem convinced. ‘There’s nothing there. And when you see that, you’ll laugh.’ The girl in the mirror frowns. The wrinkles in her forehead form a little too easily.

Aye, of all the times to notice something like that.

I hold up the knife. The girl in the mirror smiles. It’s half-hearted, but it’s something.

The weight of the knife in my hands is awkward. I try to balance it properly. Remember a self-defence class I attended a few years back with Caroline. We were taught the best thing to do is run. But there are situations where that isn’t possible.

Like when, Jen?

Like when you don’t need to defend yourself because you’re imagining that there’s an intruder in your house.

I think about what they told us about using a knife, about the most secure grip you can have that stops someone from twisting it out of your hand. But it doesn’t feel right. It’s counterintuitive to hold the blade point down, facing away from me. And what if I’m getting it wrong? I’d treated it like a game. When would someone like me ever have to defend themselves using a knife?

Goes to show you never can tell.

I hold the blade with the point facing out, simply ready to stab anyone who comes near me. I might not take them down, but maybe I’ll give them something to think about.

I walk back out into the hall.

I notice for the first time that there’s light spilling from inside the hall cupboard. Normally, I have the light off. Sure – like I did with the front door, I could have simply forgotten, but this time I’m sure my memory’s not playing tricks on me. I definitely turned that light off. I haven’t been in the cupboard in days. I would have noticed before now.

This is no longer paranoia. Childhood fears begin to feel justified.

My heart starts doing its business again.

My throat constricts.

‘Anybody in there?’ I say, and the words rasp out more harshly than I expect. I almost cough at the end of the sentence.

Nothing.

‘Last chance.’ I think about calling the police. But what if I’m wrong? What if there’s nothing in the cupboard? The chances of them arresting me for wasting their time are slim, but all the same, the horror of being so completely stupid would burn for days. I’d feel like people could see it written all over my face every time we talked, like somehow they’d heard about the girl who got so freaked out she called the police to investigate a cupboard with a light inside.

‘Last. Chance.’ Okay, okay.

Then I hear it: something moving in there.

Something?

No. No. Someone.

The door opens.

I panic.

A shape. Taller than me, definitely male. That kind of build: looming, threatening.

I act on instinct.

The knife feels solid in my grip. Reassuringly so. That rubberised handle feels natural, like the adverts promised.

I should have used it before now.

I push it forward and up to protect myself from the psycho in the wardrobe. He’ll get the point.

‘The fu–?’ The shape doesn’t stop. In fact, it falls forward. Arms out. Slamming against me as though to push me away. But how can I, when he’s falling on top of me?

My arms stays where it is, thrust out at waist height.

The shape of the man has a familiar smell. One I know, but I can’t place because my brain is screaming at me to get out. To move. To escape.

But I can’t.

His weight falls against me. I can’t push back. My knees go and I’m falling.

I hit the floor hard. The handle of the knife presses bruisingly against my torso, just below my breasts.

Jesus, it hurts.

I let go of the knife, and use both hands to push him off. Roll away.

Lie on my back. Feel where the handle impacted. I’ll be black and blue, but otherwise, I think it’s okay. If I broke a rib, I’m sure I’d know about it.

The man – the shape – doesn’t seem to be moving. I can hear him breathing, though.

I turn my head and get a good look at him.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?'

Ed’s Dead is published by Saraband, £8.99