They roared past the Freaks Tattoo and body-piercing shop, where a cluster of pre-teens fitted with enough metal to build a small bicycle stood in the street, gawking at the chase. A bald-headed man with a white goatee came out waving a cricket bat, shouting curses at them as the front of the car knocked over a 55-gallon drum of rancid fryer oil from some nearby greasy spoon. The driver didn’t waste much time using the horn. He simply nudged, shoved and rammed vehicles out of the way with the crunch of plastic, metal and glass. Birendra was ready at the window, the muzzle of his shottie in prominent view.

The Volvo’s windows were tinted, allowing Jules to lean forward and search for Cesky’s men without having to squint into the fierce antipodean light. At this time of day, the sun burned with the intensity of an unshielded furnace. A nuclear fire rendering everything outside the car into flat, monochromatic severity. It was the wet season, but the monsoons had failed for three years running, and the urgency of their pursuit had thrown up thick clouds of dust and trash.

Vehicles blared their horns, and drivers leaned out to abuse them until they saw Birendra with his shotgun. Once they clocked that, they wasted little time in moving, to clear the way. Slower vehicles found themselves shoved into stalls, crushing product and proprietor alike. The rubber-neck brigade materialised at each individual tragedy to gawk and enjoy the spectacle without providing anything in the way of assistance.

As Julianne watched their target negotiate a left-hand turn at high speed, to take them even deeper into the district, her eyes went wide at the sight of a pedicab suddenly launched into the air a hundred metres ahead of them. The bright orange rickshaw, its driver and passenger separated as they headed into orbit, perversely reminded her of that old footage of the space shuttle coming apart after launch.

They followed the turn into a tighter alleyway, pushing past a cluster of what looked like military tents on the left, with a high climbing wall of shipping containers to the right laced together with metal mesh walkways. The passage of Cesky’s team snapped free lines of laundry, adding to the confusion. The still airborne bits of tighty whities, naughty nothings and bed linen drifted down onto the windshield of the Volvo. A rain of rubbish, beer cans and bottles fell down upon them from directly above, thrown by enraged locals. The wipers came on when a particularly nasty bit of brown fluid hit the windshield, showing the exact contents of somebody’s poorly digested dinner from the night before.

The last vehicle took another turn, this time to the right, crashing through a chain-link fence.

‘Brace, brace, brace!’ the driver shouted.