But winners never give up.

I watch him roll on the woodchip and push himself to his feet. He holds the edge of the slide for support as he sways from booze or pain. Then he roots through his clothes and tugs out the familiar shape of a quarter bottle of whisky. He empties what little there is into his mouth as his eyes drench me in hate.

‘Cunt,’ he says. I turn away but then catch a glimpse of something spinning in the air. Instinctively I shield my eyes but then I feel the thick heel of the bottle crack into my skull. I yelp and drop to my knees, still clutching my head. The pain is dull and sickening and I try to breathe through it, but then out of the blackness, a knee crashes into my temple. I drop to the soft ground, the tang of wet earth filling my nose. And then his limbs are over me, searching for the knife.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’ he says.

‘I’m stronger than you, Rory!’ I scream. It escapes from me, that name. He’s always there, finding a way in, in these unguarded moments. Or, I wonder, is it the blow to my head that has derailed me?

‘Rory?’ He looks at me, confused. ‘Psycho bastard,’ he adds, backing away.

‘Rory!’ I shout and then I stagger away, unable to control my steps as I zigzag into the slicing rain.

2

Tuesday

The sound of sirens splits the night. I stop for a second. Triangulating, calculating. That Doppler effect – is it getting nearer or further? Who are those sirens for? Me? Are they coming to rescue me, or catch me? My logical brain takes over and calculates the variables. I have to get out of the park. Maybe you’d think he won, scared me off his pitch, saw me off. But in this world strength means more. I won. I have the physical strength and he knows I can return. These guys, they hunt in packs sometimes, and there could be another one not far behind.