Rowan’s already moving forward as he hits the ground. Up onto the nearest bench, running, dragging the pricking knife from the pocket of her hoodie, pulling the eight-inch blade free from its sheath.

The police officer turns, hair sailing out like a black wave behind her. A little canister of something glints in her hand. Rowan’s boot flashes out, connecting with the knuckles and it spirals away. End over end. So slow and delicate.

She keeps going.

A man lumbers out from behind a pile of boxes by the back door. His little round glasses are hollow and empty, his goatee beard stretched wide by his open mouth. ‘No!’

Something grabs her ankle. Her knee buckles and the workbench rushes up to meet her. Duck, roll, kick out. . .

There’s a grunt and the police officer is going the other way, arms flailing, a ribbon of blood fluttering from her mouth.

And Rowan is on her feet again.

The man has a goatee beard, but he’s a sheep. He grabs a chair and hauls it up in front of himself, like he’s a lion tamer. But she’s not a lion, she’s a Fingerman.

She hammers straight into it, slamming him back against the door.

His fist crawls through the syrupy air towards her face. She bats it away with her left, then punches him in the ribs with her right. Something goes crack and his eyes bug.

Rowan pulls back her hand. The pricking knife’s long blade drips scarlet.

And bang – everything is proper speed again.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, making a high-pitched mewling noise that builds into a proper scream.

She steps back and the chair clatters to the floor.

Red blooms across his chest. ‘No, no, no, oh Jesus. . .’ He leaves a smear across the wall as he slumps sideways to the floor.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

She opens the back door, steps out into the alley, then closes it behind her.

Time to run.

Logan rolled over onto his back, hissing a breath out between gritted teeth. Burning coals seared through his stomach, melting all the way through to his spine, filling his lungs with scalding embers and choking ash.

Holy Christ, that hurt.

The back door slammed.

He worked his way up to his hands and knees, forehead resting on the scratchy beige carpet tiles.

Up. Get up. Get after her. DON’T LET HER GET AWAY.

The ground wobbled beneath his feet as he dragged himself upright sending fresh needles jabbing into his belly.

Ma’s counterfeiting shop was a mess: tables overturned, chairs, a smear of blood on the back wall. . . Dildo was lying on the floor by the door, knees curled up against his chest, a pool of scarlet seeping out onto the floor. ‘No, no, no, no, no: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!’