‘My fucking spot,’ the man says. His voice is so deep that I can feel it vibrate in my chest. It curls at the edges in drink. He is perhaps forty but it is hard to tell – street years carve deeper into the skin. In any case he is shades younger than me for sure. I look through the gloom into his eyes for some sentience but I can tell that he’s half-soaked.

‘Not tonight,’ I say, looking him dead in the eyes. My head pounds but I hold his gaze, because I know I have to.

‘Yeah?’ he says, his voice lifting now. ‘I know you. You’re the weirdo.’

He steps towards me and I see something winking in his hand.

My brother once said that statistically speaking the difference between winners and losers is that, over the longer term, losers give up.

‘Put the knife down,’ I say.

His eyes are rimmed in watery fury. There are tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers. No, not tears, rain. It has started to rain. That kick to the head must have been hard. Adrenaline is in play, I can tell, because my focus is too tight. I need to see the wider picture, but the periphery is stepping back into shadow, further and further.

‘That’s my fucking spot,’ he says again and then lunges at me.

My heart starts to race as the chemicals brim. Everything around me slows down. The surge gives me a kick of energy, of life, so that my eyes pop open and I feel myself stepping into the warmth of a chemical power. He comes towards me but I step to the side, dodging the blade easily.

He stumbles so I take the advantage and use his weight to push him to the ground, and then I kick him. These boots are made for kicking. Steel toes behind thick leather. He grunts. I kick him again in the ribs and then, before he has a chance to catch his breath, I drop to my knees and rip the knife out of his hand. It is just a small lock knife, fancy, but the blade’s sharp. I hold it under his chin and poke just hard enough to let out some blood.

He freezes.

‘You had enough?’ I say, my heart loud in my head.

‘Yeah,’ he says, nodding.

I get to my feet, the knife still gripped in my hand.

‘I’m keeping this,’ I say, and fold the knife and put it in my pocket. My heart is still racing. I make an effort to breathe slowly so that the one, the breath, can regulate the other, the heart.

‘It’s my fucking spot,’ he says again but he is crying now, real tears not just rain. ‘You took my spot.’ He rubs under his chin at the spot the knife pricked and for a moment I wonder whether I should just leave and give him his place back.