And there he was, had to be the guy, jeans unzipped and pissing against the doors of St Mary’s Cathedral, no bolt of lightning striking him down. A few revellers had stopped nearby and had their phones out to capture proceedings, soon to be shared on social media. Having got himself presentable again, the man jabbed a finger in their direction.

‘Go home and kill yourselves,’ he barked. ‘Cut your throats. You have to do it!’ His voice, not quiet to start with, was rising steadily. ‘Know who I am? I’m the devil’s son. And I’m telling you to do it.’

‘Right you are then,’ one of the onlookers said.

The man took a couple of belligerent steps towards the group. ‘You need to listen to me. If you don’t listen to me, I’ll cut you myself.’

‘You’re not cutting anybody,’ Driscoll interrupted, causing the man to turn towards him. His eyes were gaping, the pupils dark pinpricks. Driscoll had his baton in one hand, pepper spray in the other. No taser, though – Turnbull had one, but then Turnbull was, as usual, nowhere in the useful vicinity. The urine deposited against the place of worship was now pooling around Driscoll’s shoes, despite his efforts to steer clear.

‘Satan is my father,’ the man was telling him.

‘That must be handy.’

‘You’ll go home tonight and kill yourself.’

‘But I’ve a new car coming next week.’

‘If you won’t do it, then I …’ The man’s hand went into the back pocket of his ratty denims. Driscoll took his chance and launched the baton at him. It hit him square across the cheekbone and sent him reeling. He stayed on his feet, though, so Driscoll set about the back of his knees, buckling him. He sprayed the man’s face from close range, but that only seemed to rile him further. He was trying to get back to his feet, screaming like a wild animal, when Driscoll gave him another whack to the head. Two taps used to be sufficient – more than sufficient – but tonight it wasn’t working. He placed his weight on the man’s back, forcing him prone, then pushed the length of his baton hard against the exposed neck, holding it in place with his knee. The man started gurgling and gasping.

‘You’re killing him!’ a bystander cried out.

‘Given half a chance, he’d have cut your face off,’ Driscoll ­answered. He ran a hand over the pockets of the man’s jeans but couldn’t feel anything. The man started thrashing out with his legs.

‘You just going to watch?’ Driscoll called to the civilians. Not that they were just watching – a couple of them were still filming everything. ‘Aye, get your fucking fill,’ he spat. ‘It’s all any of you are good for.’