I stepped three feet back from the curtains and rolled my shoulder forward to compensate for the old infantry rifle’s short stock. Through the open crack of the bedroom window I could see the ambulance lit up clearly enough by the flickering light of the porch lamp. I drew a bead on the crook of the backward L stencilled on the bonnet – and fired. The butt bit into my shoulder; my ears rang with the big, bold bang of the shot; and the room was engulfed in gunpowder smoke. The crew flattened themselves. Whatever the Gardaí had been expecting, it wasn’t an ounce of Victorian lead. The round smashed through the front panel and into the engine block. Oil spurted from the gash it tore and spread out under the ambulance, seeping on to the pea gravel beneath in a wide, dirty slick.

If I was trapped, so were they.

I worked the lever. Pain flared down my arm. The spent brass tumbled out of the breech. I loaded another of the soft lead rounds from the bandolier, snapped the lever home and listened. Boots on the stairs. I put down the rifle and stripped a pillowslip off the bed. I dropped half a dozen of the rifle rounds into it and then wrapped the improvised cotton cartridge bag around the fat etched-glass font of the oil lamp. God bless Doc Levy and his fetish for Victoriana.

Crouching down to the side of the bedroom door, I listened again. They were still on the stairs. Stun grenades and smoke would follow. Tear gas maybe. And then a lot of modern, accurate, high-velocity lead and copper. I had seconds left. I turned the lamp flame up as high as it would go and opened the door, lobbing the makeshift bomb into the air over the stairwell. It came down hard with a satisfying crack. The oil splashed and caught, igniting a thick tapestry hanging on the far wall. Shouting erupted from the unseen policemen. Lamp oil burns hot. The old wooden stairs would go up in no time. The house had survived the War of Independence. But it wouldn’t outlast the night. If I was lucky, the rounds would start to cook off. Anything to buy time.

The bedroom was in almost complete darkness now – the only light from the fingers of flame licking up the banister. I stayed at a crouch and watched the glowing stairs. Two Guards emerged on to the landing, burning. They’d been above the strike point, and both were alight. They dropped and rolled and beat the flames on their fatigues with gloved palms, and then together they recovered themselves, inching their way towards me – assault rifles up, the beams of the LED torches under their barrels cutting through the smoke like bright white lasers. They should have waited for the rest of their stick before clearing any more rooms. But everyone wants to be a hero. Once.