Ian’s face above me was bloodied from a badly split lip, the sleeve of his sweatshirt torn away at the seam, hanging uselessly round his wrist. I could tell he was panting violently. I looked into his eyes and I stopped shouting, stopped thrashing my legs. Lay still, waiting for my own breathing to subside. Still Ian sat on me, crushing my ribs. Stunned, I swivelled my head, tried to orient myself, but Ian’s bulk was in the way. All I could see was a small girl, wearing a bright red Christmas hat with a silver bell at its end. She was terrified, bawling her eyes out, her arms wrapped round her mother’s neck. The mother, who was kneeling on the pavement, muddying her jeans, shot me a furious look. I recognised the girl-she had smiled at me by the Buttery Bar and said something about a giant. I went limp and Ian loosened his hold.

I’m going to get up now,’ he said, and stood stiffly.

I lay on the wet paving for a moment, wondering what on earth I could do next. Ian leaned down and pulled at my lapels.

‘Come on, get up. Get up.’

I crawled to my feet, rubbing my neck. I pulled my jacket round me, picked up the damaged chairs and set them straight, as a crowd stood and watched me. Head down, I followed Ian back to the truck. He opened the door to shove me in and I looked back for the little girl in her Christmas hat. I wanted to say sorry but she’d gone, melted away. I sat in the passenger seat, head bowed, as Ian tore a parking ticket from the windscreen, cursing. He started the truck and pulled away.

I looked up and in the window of the deli I could see two pale, twin-like blond heads.

Ian said nothing until we were in the York Café, windows streaming with condensation, tinny Christmas decorations spinning in the fan’s draught, the red benches filled with builders, scaffolders and students. He motioned for me to sit down in the only empty booth and went to get two mugs of tea, a glass of water and a handful of paper napkins. How did he know that I couldn’t do anything? He dipped a napkin in the water, pulled my hand across the formica table and gently wiped away the blood and gravel. Then he took the other hand, as burly men looked over at us and whispered to each other. With a clean, damp napkin, Ian leaned across the table and wiped the blood from my grazed cheek. I sat there thinking I should do the same for him but I couldn’t. He sat back and looked at me trying to light a cigarette with hands that trembled too much. I threw down the matchbox and he signed, ’What the fuck was all that about?’

‘I don’t know,’ I signed back.

‘Well, I think you’d better work it out.’ He leaned forward and began to speak, reinforcing the words with gestures. ‘Jimmy told me about when you went after Darren — Darren, for Chris sake, he’s half your size. And what were you planning on just then? Were you going for him or her?’