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I’d switched off the electricity from the broken main fuse box, then turned off the gas by the tap on the meter’s main feed out (I suppose I should have been grateful that these lunatics hadn’t tampered with that or left the gas stove turned on). Any telephones that had been there were gone, so I used my mobile to ring a local handyman I hired regularly to change door-locks, board up windows, and carry out any other jobs that would make the property more secure; personally, I had no argument with squatters, but building societies, banks and landlords in general detested them, so it was part of my brief to keep them out. Lastly, I’d taken an inventory of anything inside the house that might be worth selling on, so that the creditor could at least recoup something towards the damage caused. Unfortunately, nothing of much value had been left behind.
    That evening - it was a Monday - I’d returned to the empty, vandalized house to check everything was still in order and that my handyman had done his job properly. It’s location was in the rougher part of Kemp Town, the building itself set in a terrace of similar type properties down a narrow turning, and I let myself in with the shiny new key. Because of the boarded windows it was dark inside, like winter dusk, and there was the mouldy stench of damp everywhere.
    Any of the undamaged furniture that had been left behind had been removed by the bailiff’s men, and my steps along the gloomy hallway had that echoey resonance peculiar to empty buildings. There was enough natural light seeping through the small, dusty, arched window over the front door, as well as from the unboarded landing window above, for me to see my way, but still I took out the pencil-thin torch I always carried in my jacket pocket and switched on its beam. First I ventured into the front parlour, checking the window boards, making sure they were secure enough. My workmen had done an excellent job as usual, only a narrow shaft of light shining through the middle join. Next I examined the kitchen, trying the dry taps even though the stopcock was off. My report to the building society would state that I’d visited the reclaimed property a second time to make sure everything was in order, all services shut down, the house itself impregnable to the casual intruder. The cost of alarms and stronger defences was prohibitive to the creditor, who had already lost enough on their unwise loan, and my report would say that the precautions now taken were satisfactory. It was when I was checking the bolts on the back door that I heard the noise from upstairs.
    It had sounded like something breaking.
    I swore under my breath. Surely nobody had forced entry so soon. The squatters’ grapevine in Brighton was finely tuned - they even had their own advice bureau - but I’d considered this place a reasonably hard nut to crack.
    The sound again, sharp, tight, over-loud in the empty building. Outside a seagull gave out a startled shriek as though it, too, had been alarmed by the sudden noise.
    I left the kitchen and shone the slim torch beam up the hallway stairs, treading cautiously as I went, for some reason wary of my own footsteps. Stupid, I told myself silently. I wasn’t the intruder.
    ‘Okay,’ I hollered up the stairs. Who’s there and what the hell are you doing on private property?’
    That should be enough to send them scurrying for the nearest window, I figured. Obviously the trespasser or trespassers had found their way in from a garden window at the back of the premises, a window I’d thought not worth boarding. I paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for more sounds, hopefully of running feet. Nothing stirred, though.
    I’d have to investigate. I’d have to go up there. Probably it was only neighbourhood kids up to mischief, aware that the property was vacant. Even more likely, it was an animal of some kind, maybe a cat on the prowl, or mice searching for food. Could even be rats. I