The phoney cop had got himself behind the crook of the counter and was busy firing at two sets of new arrivals. In the sheltered doorway of the bakery on Rue de la Roquette three men in headscarves emptied AKs through what remained of the French windows into the dining area. Erupting in the air: shards of glass, chips of floor tile, splinters from tables and chairs and window frames. Screaming on the floor: trapped civilians marooned between islands of broken glass and half-eaten steak-frites. There were casualties, too, but, as was often the case, fewer than seemed likely given the volume of fire raking the building. Down the side of the restaurant, on Rue Basfroi, another gunman crouched behind a parked car, respirator over his face, suppressed M4 carbine in his shoulder, taking single, aimed shots at the phoney cop – who’d ducked to reload his Glock.

I pivoted around the kitchen doorway, keeping low as rounds from the assault rifles opposite stripped the render off the wall above me. The cop looked up and I came down on him as he dropped the slide on the reloaded pistol. The force of the dive winded me, and brought his head down hard on to the tile floor. We grappled, dazed. He tried to point the Glock into my ribs. But he was too slow. Thirty-six years of Shaolin kung fu and the best I could manage was a Glasgow kiss. It worked. My forehead split the cartilage in his nose. Blood splattered his face and mine. His eyes automatically filled with tears, blinding him in an instant.

All fights are improvised. And your own skill is always relative to your opponent’s strength. I reached left, pinning his gun arm to the floor. My right hand found the broken top of a blasted absinthe bottle. I drove it into his neck, grinding it against the jugular. Gouts of arterial blood spurted against my hand and chest. I prised the pistol away from him and pushed the muzzle into his left eye. As he raised his hand, I turned my head away, and fired.

I checked the magazine. A Glock 19. Beloved of US Special Forces, and a lot of bad guys, too. I pressed the clip back home and looked in the breech. Fourteen shots remaining. I rifled through his pockets. No wallet; no phone; no ID – just the keys to the motorbike he’d ridden in on. I snatched them and pressed my eye to the fractured wood in front of me.