“That’s more like it,” Rosie said. “Don’t let the buggers grind you down.”

The fierce note of solidarity prompted Jem to lower her cup. “I try not to.”

“Good. Sorry, just a sec.” Rosie adjusted her earpiece, listening to her comms as she fastened her jacket. “Bollocks, I’ve got to run. There’s a riot kicking off at McTucky’s in Beswick.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, assault with a spicy chicken wing. This city is ridiculous at times.”

Jem watched Rosie hare down the corridor, narrowly avoiding an elderly bloke heading for the toilet.

“Be careful out there!” she shouted after her.

Rosie paused halfway through the door and raised a hand in acknowledgement. “You too!”

The door slid shut behind her, and seconds later, flashes of blue marked her passage from the hospital grounds, the light growing distant and then disappearing altogether. The man doddered from the loo, one hand grappling with his open gown, the other slapping the wall as he struggled for balance.

“Here.” Jem offered him her arm. “Which bed did you come from, love?”

“Fifty-four.”

There were twelve bays on Majors. “Aye, that’s what I thought,” she said, and led him around to the nurses’ station.

* * *

“Incoming! Duck, Kash!”

Rosie dodged the man’s swinging fist as Kashif heeded her warning, diving out of harm’s way.

“Chicken, technically,” Kash said, and clobbered the shins of their would-be assailant with his baton. Enraged, the man sucked in a deep breath and spluttered, spraying spit onto the Formica. He lashed out with his arms, not caring whom he caught in the crossfire but coming nowhere near the table Rosie had taken shelter behind. She watched, bemused, as his movements gradually lost coordination. His eyes bulged, and his face turned first scarlet and then a funny shade of dusky blue as he grappled at his clogged throat with both hands.

“Shit. Kash? Kashif!” Rosie waved frantically, but Kash was too busy disarming a lad brandishing a flick knife and a spork, and the shop’s proprietor had disappeared behind the deep fat fryer. “Bloody Nora!”

She darted to the shop counter, creating enough space for a run-up, and threw herself at the bloke’s back. Blindsided, he went down like a sack of spuds, bouncing hard onto his beer belly, and she followed him to the floor, straddling his hips as he retched and spat half a chicken drumstick across the lino.

“Get off me, you fat bitch!” he yelled once he’d caught his breath.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And that’s muscle, not fat, you cheeky git. I go to the gym three times a week. Now, you do not have to say anything—”

“Fuck off.” He jerked his arse sideways, trying to throw her, and she gripped harder with her thighs, reaching for her cuffs.

“But it may harm your defence,” she continued, snapping the cuffs into place, “if you do not mention when questioned—”