‘I know you mean well,’ she admits through gritted teeth. ‘Just try not to be so heavy-handed, alright? My life is not your problem.’

My life is not your problem. Truer and more devastating words were never spoken.

‘You can say that, but those guys downstairs might come up and make trouble for you, and this front door of yours is a fucking joke. I’m staying here tonight.’

Her jaw drops in horror. ‘Not on your life. Don’t you try to pull that card. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘I’m not trying to get into your knickers, love. This isn’t some sleazy ploy. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

We both look at the sofa, which is a modest two-seater and a good foot or two shorter than me.

‘Go home, Bren,’ she says wearily. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Who knows how much I’ve pissed them off. I don’t want them to come looking for trouble and break this fucking door down. Your locks are shite, by the way.’

‘You can’t sleep on the sofa,’ she protests, ‘and you’re not sleeping in my bed.’

‘Fine.’ I stride over to the sofa and pull the seat cushions off, throwing them in the direction of the door. I do the same with the various scatter cushions. It will be woefully inadequate, but it’ll have to do.

It’s only one night. How bad can it be?

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Marlowe asks, looking at me as if I’ve finally lost the plot.

Maybe I have. The Brendan Sullivan I know doesn’t walk away from the career opportunity of a lifetime to hang out on an airless paediatric ward for a week. He prefers living it up in the South of France to playing endless rounds of Marco Polo on the weekends.

And he’s sane enough to choose to go home to his bespoke Hästens mattress instead of playing build-a-bed with some foam blocks.

Churlishly, I shove the big square cushions against the wall so they form a makeshift mattress in front of the door. If these dickheads want to threaten Marlowe and Tabs, they’ll have to get past me first.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I ask crossly. ‘I’m sleeping on the floor.’

CHAPTER 57

Brendan

It’s stupid o’clock and I can’t sleep. Not surprising, given this flat is like a furnace and every time I turn over, the cushions skid on the laminate floor and separate.

I should probably just sleep on the floor itself.

As soon as Marlowe took herself off to her room I called Yan to tell him to go home. Then I called a mate of mine, Adrian, who runs a seriously hardcore private security firm. I met him through the guards who patrol my apartment block and he now does quite a bit of work for us.