The Molotov cocktail catches, leaving the sting of spilled gas in the air. The white guy hurls it through the smashed window. Smoke, underlit by the flicker of flames, pours out the window frame.

‘No!’ Joseph shrieks. ‘Francine!’

Shit. I look back at the house, up at the top floor. A shadow flickers behind the window of that tiny bedroom, the one with the lock on the door.

‘Is she locked in?’ I ask.

‘I just wanted to keep her safe,’ Joseph stammers.

I shove him out of the way and push through the crowd towards the guy with the army jacket and the baseball bat. He’s watching the flames with fading delight, as though he didn’t expect things to go this far.

I grab the end of the bat. It feels like good quality, two or three pounds, mountain ash recently cleaned with rubbing alcohol.

The guy doesn’t let go of the rubber handle. ‘Hey, what the hell?’ he complains. ‘Fuck off, man.’

I look around. Thistle is nowhere to be seen. In the chaos, no one is watching. No phone cameras are facing me. So I yank the guy in and bite his wrist, severing the tendons that allow his fingers to clench.

He shrieks as he drops the bat. ‘Holy shit! Jesus!’ I’m already walking away with his bat. I force myself to spit out the blood, telling myself that I’m on a diet, and this time I’m gonna stick to it. Today is the first day of my new life.

I grab the lattice on the side of the house and start climbing. It’s slow going, with the baseball bat in one hand.

When I’m a few feet up, Thistle sees me. ‘Blake!’ she yells.

‘Francine is in there!’ I shout. There’s no time to explain further. I climb the ivy and creaking wood, the bat in one hand, splinters digging into the other. It’s a long way down and, if I fall, I’m likely to get trampled to death.

I reach the window and peer through the glass, but I can’t see anything. So I swing the bat one-handed.

The first swipe cracks the glass, but doesn’t shatter it. Strike one.

The second blow knocks out a chunk not big enough to crawl through. Strike two. My left arm trembles from the strain of holding me up.

On the third swing, the glass disintegrates. I wrap my hands in my sleeves as I climb through the gap, but one of them gets sliced anyway. A warm flush of blood turns my sleeve the colour of red wine. I clench my fist tightly, trying to staunch the flow.

Francine is facedown on the floor. It’s too soon for the smoke to have knocked her out—though I can smell it leaking through the bottom of the door—so she’s unconscious for some other reason.