The resulting clang of bolt meeting floor causes Ed to momentarily divert his attention from Tom, and that moment is all I need. I push myself off the floor and, leading with my shoulder, barge into his side, sending us both sprawling onto the floor. The gun tumbles across the ground and out of reach.

I position myself on top of him, straddling his chest whilst trying to control his flailing, emaciated arms. I can feel his rib cage rising and falling with the effort of trying to overturn me.

Despite having a terminal illness, his strength is impressive. His long limbs are difficult to control and when he catches my side with a well-placed punch, I struggle to remain on top.

Another punch strikes me and I fall off him and onto the floor, the cold creeping up my back. My discomfort intensifies as Ed places himself on my chest. He holds each of my arms to the ground with his knees and grins in my face as his hand tightens around my throat.

I kick my legs and try to swivel my torso with all the energy I can muster, though it isn’t enough to shift him. Coloured spots start to appear in my vision and I think of my dad.

Tears stream down my face as I imagine him opening the door tomorrow, expecting to see me but being greeted instead by a pair of uniformed police officers, bearing news no parent should ever have to face.

As his grip tightens, I feel my body give up and I begin to drift towards the welcoming darkness.

A huge crash echoes around the room and the grip on my throat relaxes slightly. Gulping in as much air as possible, I turn my head and see Tom getting to his feet with Ed’s discarded gun in his hand, the wooden chair splintered into several pieces.

Ed swears loudly and uses a reserve of strength to hoist me off the ground. He holds me tight to his chest with one long arm, his hand grasping my stomach; the other brandishes a shard of glass which glints in the light. The two men engage in a Mexican standoff, sizing each other up.

‘Put the gun down,’ Ed yells. His breathing has become strained and I can feel his ribs digging into my back.

‘Let her go,’ Tom replies, his tone calm. He’s looking past me and into the eyes of my captor.

‘Put the fucking gun down,’ he shouts, louder this time. When Tom doesn’t immediately comply, Ed brings the sharp fragment of glass to my face and drags it across my cheek. The glass easily tears the skin under my eye and leaves a deep, ragged gash from which blood cascades down my face. As he pulls the shard away, a bloodcurdling scream escapes my lips.

‘If I have to ask you one more time, it’s her throat next,’ he hisses, and I can feel the glass graze the side of my neck. ‘Now, for the last time, put the fucking gun down.’