‘Stop it,’ Safa says quietly, trying to suppress the urge to giggle. There is nothing to giggle at but thinking of the word ‘giggle’ makes her giggle again, which sets Harry off, which makes Ben snort again.

‘So.’ Ben looks at them both in turn. ‘Did we win?’

That sets them off again. All three giggling and desperately trying not to as it hurts so much.

A grunt of a pig comes from Safa, who freezes at her own sound as Harry and Ben both stare then start laughing again.

‘What was that?’ Ben asks.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Stop . . . it hurts . . .’

‘Your fault,’ Ben gasps, looking at Harry.

The tension, the fear, the confusion, the pain, the utter incomprehension of where they are or why they are there. Drugged twice, beaten up once and it’s enough for that tension to need a release and so it does, with tears rolling down bruised faces as they all try not to look at each other.

They don’t speak. They can’t. Any word spoken comes out wrong, which sets them off. So instead they sit and chuckle until the mist clears from their eyes.

‘I’ll get the water,’ Harry says, rising up slowly and holding the wall in expectation of the dizziness.

‘You should,’ Safa says after him.

‘Don’t make me laugh again,’ Ben says. They wait while he goes in, pours the water and comes out with three cups held together in a triangle within his huge mitts. They take the cups and start drinking as Harry lowers back down into his chair. He downs his water and looks over at Safa.

‘Thank you. I didn’t expect your help.’

‘Said we’d stick together,’ Safa says, looking back at him.

‘Who taught you to fight?’

‘Metropolitan Police,’ she says.

‘Did well,’ he says, tilting his head with a show of respect.

‘Me?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You were amazing, Harry. Like . . . you had so many.’

‘Aye,’ he says as though it was nothing.

‘You think we killed any?’ she asks.

Harry nods. His face impassive. ‘Two at least,’ he tilts his head, ‘maybe one or two more.’

Safa tuts and winces with a dark look before glancing at Ben. ‘You okay?’

‘Huh?’ Ben asks, blinking at her. ‘You killed some of them?’

‘Aye,’ Harry says, still as though it was nothing.

‘What, like, dead?’ Ben asks, still feeling like he’s drunk.

‘Aye.’

‘Fuck,’ Ben mutters, staring down at the cup in his hands.

‘Who taught you to fight?’ Harry asks.

‘Me? I’ve never learnt anything about fighting,’ Ben says as Safa watches him closely.

‘It shows,’ he says. ‘Natural ability.’

‘Natural ability,’ Safa mutters. She doesn’t look away when Ben glances at her but studies him closely. ‘Ben Ryder killed five men once,’ she says softly as though talking just to Harry. ‘He was seventeen,’ she says, ‘walking home on a country lane . . .’

‘Seventeen?’ Harry asks.