‘They’ll return this way when they think we’ve gone,’ he whispered. ‘Stay here, and in precisely six minutes, go outside and fire the Schtumper to the east. That will give away your position, so you are then to retreat thirty paces towards the museum, and if anything comes out of the snowstorm that isn’t me, let them get within knockout range and pop them. If they’re armed, then full choke to kill.’

‘It’ll end the truce,’ I said.

‘If it’s Lucky Ned,’ said Fodder, ‘then him being here is breaking the truce. Six minutes, yes?’

‘Six minutes.’

He then stepped out of the door, hopped over the turnstile, looked around, and walked silently away into the gloom. I moved backwards to sit against the wall of the ticket office next to the door so I had a view of the outside, then stared at the radium glow of my watch hands as they crept round. I expected to hear the muffled whump of a Thumper or the harsher whap of a Bambi, but there was nothing. Not a single sound reached my ears as I lay crouched, the cold from the floor gradually creeping into my leg.

I thought of Mrs Tiffen, who had been redeployed, then Josh and how he wasn’t happy with it. Then Lucy Knapp and her pride at working at HiberTech, and Aurora and what it might actually have been like – physically and psychologically – if I had bundled with her. I thought of Toccata and her aggressive manner, then about Laura’s desire to see Wintervolk proven, the somewhat-unhinged Jonesy with her fictional nostalgia and Fodder with his much-needed nightmares, and then Birgitta. Finally, I thought about how I should have heeded everyone’s advice and let Mrs Tiffen go. Logan would be alive right now and I’d be back in Cardiff, safely watching the Winter from indoors, and not crouched in an empty room during a blizzard, armed to the teeth and with orders to kill someone.

At the appointed time I stood up, stepped outside and checked which way was east. I lifted the weapon, leaned forward to counteract the kick, and pulled the trigger.

I knew that firing a vortex cannon into a snowstorm would be an impressive feat, and I wasn’t disappointed. The localised temperature increase that accompanied the sudden pressure change melted the snowflakes instantaneously, and there was suddenly clarity in the air – a momentary cone of perfect vision, rolling away from me in a languid manner. I could see the wooden lattice of the roller coaster and a brightly coloured hoarding advertising thrills and spills, then the helter-skelter beyond, and an ice-cream kiosk. The view did not last long. The melted snow turned back to ice as soon as the pressure equalised and the world reverted to nothing more than a swirling white mass.