Of all the options open to him, Rebus knew which he favoured – flight. And that’s exactly the option he took, Jack working hard to keep up with him as he fled across the grass, back towards Melville Drive.

‘Wait up!’ Jack called. ‘Hold on there!’ They were halfway across the playing-field, in the twilit centre of a triangle bordered by footpaths. Jack tugged at Rebus’s arm, tried to slow him. Rebus turned and threw the arm off, then swung a punch. It caught Jack on the cheek, spinning him. There was shock on his face, but he was ready for the second blow, blocked it with a forearm, then threw a right of his own – no southpaw. He feinted, made Rebus think he was aiming for the head, then landed one hard into yielding gut. Rebus grunted, felt the pain but rode with it, took two steps back before launching himself. The two men hit the ground in a roll, their blows lacking force, wrestling for supremacy. Rebus could hear Jack saying his name, over and over. He pushed him off, and came up into a crouch. A couple of cyclists had stopped on one of the paths and were watching.

‘John, what the fuck are you doing?’

Teeth bared, Rebus swung again, even more wildly, giving his friend plenty of time to dodge and launch a punch of his own. Rebus almost defended himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he waited for the impact. Jack hit him low, the sort of blow that could wind a man without doing damage. Rebus doubled over, fell to hands and knees, and spewed on to the ground, spitting out mostly liquid. He went on trying to cough everything out, even when there was nothing left to expel. And then he started crying. Crying for himself and for Lawson Geddes, and maybe even for Lenny Spaven. And most of all for Elsie Rhind and all her sisters, all the victims he couldn’t help and would never ever be able to help.

Jack was sitting a yard or so away, forearms resting on his knees. He was breathing hard and sweating, pulling off his jacket. The crying seemed to take for ever, bubbles of snot escaping from Rebus’s nose, fine lines of saliva from his mouth. Then he felt the shuddering lessen, stop altogether. He rolled on to his back, his chest rising and falling, an arm across his brow.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I needed that.’

‘I haven’t had a fight like that since I was a teenager,’ Jack said. ‘Feel better?’

‘Much.’ Rebus got a handkerchief out, wiped eyes and mouth, then blew his nose. ‘Sorry it had to be you.’

‘Rather me than some innocent bystander.’

‘That’s pretty accurate.’

‘Is that why you drink? To stop this happening?’

‘Christ, Jack, I don’t know. I drink because I’ve always done it. I like it; I like the taste and the sensation, I like standing in pubs.’

‘And you like sleep without dreams?’