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anywhere else.’
    I look up at the window of our flat and cock my ear. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to hear but everything sounds fine. I enter the tatty hallway and bypass the out of service lift and climb the stairs with Fiona and Alistair following, stepping around empty sweet wrappers and discarded cigarette butts as we go. Mrs Mollard appears in her doorway, her paisley scarf knotted tightly at her throat.
          ‘You're a wee scunner girlie. I'm going ta skelp yer wee behind I am. I’m not canty. Bucking music.’
    Fiona looks at me with a puzzled expression.
          ‘Is she foreign?’ she whispers while nodding pleasantly to Mrs Mollard.
          ‘She hasn’t got her teeth in and can’t say her ‘f’s, and yes, she’s Scottish.’
          ‘For God’s sake,’ groans Alistair.
    I’m starting to think that all Alistair can do is moan and groan, and I’m thinking he does that very well.
          ‘Bucking pervert’, says Mrs Mollard with her eyes lowered to Alistair’s crotch.
    Fiona yanks up his flies and he yelps.
          ‘I’m so sorry Mrs Mollard, what music was that?’
          ‘Bucking racket,’ she repeats. ‘Yer deaf are yer?’
          ‘Have you seen Julian?’ I ask.
          ‘‘ooligan, what ‘ooligan?’
          ‘No, Julian,’ I shout. ‘Have you seen Julian?’
          ‘He went oot with th’ motor.’
          ‘Oh thanks so much Mrs Mollard.’
    I bounce up the next flight of stairs hearing Fiona’s heels clattering behind me and Alistair’s heavy panting, sounding every bit like a bucking pervert . When I reach my door I see it is ajar.
          ‘Your door is open,’ says Fiona in a breathless raspy voice.
          ‘I know,’ I say
          ‘That’s not right is it?’ she whispers.
          ‘Why do you keep stating the bloody obvious?’ I hiss.
          ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.
    Okay, I must calm down. There is absolutely no need to panic. Just think of all the obvious sensible things that most people would think when faced with their front door ajar and both their cars gone, not to mention a missing boyfriend. Oh God, I can’t think of one sensible thing. Julian said he was coming home early to get changed, that explains why he was home this afternoon and playing music. He probably hurried and rushed out. Yes, that must be it. Good theory, whispers a voice in my head, but how do you explain him driving two cars at the same time? And he must have been in one hell of a rush to not even close the front door, let alone lock it. I sigh, oh well it was a good theory while it lasted. I decide that now is the time to panic.
          ‘I think we’ve been burgled,’ I whisper.
          ‘I bet it was those buggers downstairs,’ says Alistair shakily. ‘They’d probably slit our throats for our mobile phones.’
          ‘This isn’t Africa,’ hisses Fiona.
          ‘Feels like it.’
          ‘Don’t be racist.’
          ‘How is that racist?’
    I take a step towards the door and am about to push it open when Fiona says,
          ‘Nothing makes sense. If you’ve been burgled then why has Julian gone, and why has he taken your car and why hasn’t he phoned you?’
          ‘Maybe he panicked,’ I say lamely.
    Or maybe he didn’t take your car, whispers that inner voice again. Perhaps it wasn’t Julian. Perhaps Alistair is right and they have slit his throat for his phone and that’s why he hasn’t called.
          ‘I think we should call the p-p-police,’ whispers Alistair.
          ‘Why?’ I say feeling panic turning into hysteria.
          ‘B-b-because I’d feel safer.’
    I push the door open and gingerly step inside.
          ‘Julian,’ I whisper, peeking around the door with one eye closed and the other squinted. The living room door is also ajar. I fling it open, deciding I may as well get the vision of