It was right then—right on the Pops of Coco Pops—that the intercom buzzer rang. Frankie looked first to Paco, then to Budge, but neither man was currently best placed to go and pick up the phone.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, forcibly pushing the table away and getting to his feet. He went clumping out into the hall just as the buzzer sounded again, and snatched the handset from its cradle. “What?”

There was silence from the other end of the line. Nothing but the faint electronic hum of the intercom, and the distant rumbling of traffic. “Hello? Hello? Who’s fuckin’—?”

The door beside him shook as something struck it from the opposite side. Bang. Bang.

It flew open on the third impact, before Frankie had even returned the phone to its hook.

“The fu—?” Frankie ejected, and then a man was there in his hallway, all skinhead and scowl.

Frankie swung with a punch, but it was blocked, then a slap cracked across his jaw, drawing a disconcertingly high-pitched cry from his lips.

Hands grabbed at him. The world lurched. His back hit the wall of the corridor outside his flat, and all the air left his body in one big, “Fuck!”

“You mind your language, you cum-chugging walnut-cocked wee fuck,” the attacker hissed, and Frankie’s nostrils were assaulted by the stench of stale cigarettes and fresh booze.

The stranger was older than Frankie. Quite a lot older. Strong, though, and fast.

It was the look on his face that concerned Frankie most. He’d known enough true, genuine headcases in his time to recognise it. It was a look he’d tried to replicate himself in the mirror many times over the years. He’d come close, but it had been a shadow of the look on this man’s face. An artist’s impression. This. Here. Now. This was the real deal.

It was the look of a man without an off-switch.

“You alright, Uncle Frankie?” Paco called from the hall.

Frankie’s head jerked. He let out a clucking sound at the back of his throat, shouted, “Piss, fuck!” then hissed, “Do I fucking look alright?! Where the fuck’s Budge?”

Paco danced from foot to foot. “He’s putting pants on.”

“Fuck his pants! Tell him to get—”

Another slap struck him, spinning his face to the wall. Open-handed. More humiliating than painful.

But painful, too.

His facial features all spasmed in different directions. He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Here, watch what you’re—”

Another strike. The back of the hand this time.

Then the front, for good measure.

“Will you quit fuckin’ slapping me?”

Crack.

“No.”

“Everything alright here, gentlemen?”

The voice came from the stairwell on Frankie’s left. He turned his head enough to see the big polis bastard from yesterday come plodding up the stairs, both hands in his pockets and a smug-looking smirk on his face.