‘Thought so,’ Danny says from our building door, gun pointing at Sherwin. ‘He’ll kill us both, Nicole, you don’t see it.’

I scream, hearing my own voice echo from bare streets. There’s a shot and Sherwin falls onto me, holding his shoulder. Danny’s fighting with someone. It’s the man, the one who followed me. They’re fighting for the gun.

Sherwin has recovered, is leaping the stairs, running. I want to go with him but instead I jump the steps and throw myself at the man, wrenching at limbs, hair, even eyes. He falters. Danny takes the opportunity, pushing him away, firing three times. The man falls, shock for ever cast on his face. Danny elbows me aside and I stumble against the brick, nearly go over into the basement. He runs to the centre of the road, standing with his legs wide apart, waits, fires. I hear a mute thud. Sherwin, I want to say and I can’t. I scream, louder and longer.

When I open my eyes I’m huddled against the cold steps and they’re still there. The dead man. Danny motionless in the centre of the road as though his feet are stuck. He looks at me and his eyes are like empty space. He comes back to the building steps, looming over me. I flinch. His face crumples.

‘Nicki, I’m sorry, babe. I’ll take care of you. I love you.’

I’m crying too much to say anything. He reaches out a hand, and I have to take it. His fingers are cold as the concrete steps, making me cry even harder. He lifts me to my feet. It’s only us now.

COSMOGRAMMA

She thought the doctor had kind eyes, but his face shifted somehow, and like dusk into night something arrived that frightened her. Layla backed away, even as Heminol swivelled in his chair, exposing tiny chips of white teeth. Her stomach clenched. Sweat dotted her temples. In a matter of seconds the moment was gone. She settled in her seat, unsure of what she’d seen, eyeing his tall, bony frame.

‘It’s OK,’ Mother said, leaning towards her. ‘He’s trying to help. Don’t be scared.’

‘That’s right. He’ll make it better,’ Father added, and his fluty voice soothed her.

‘In your own time,’ Doctor Heminol said. He smiled wider. ‘When you’re ready.’

She lowered her head, took a step away from his desk, gathered herself and began to sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. Her voice was strong, by turns slightly hoarse, then fluty like her father’s. She saw him through quick glances as he closed his eyes, his jaw tight, and almost stopped singing. Her mother watched from the edge of her seat, fingers clasped, nodding as though someone had asked her a very serious question. The doctor’s pen touched his upper lip.