I turned back to him. ‘Please leave us alone . . . The police will be here any second.’ Words were difficult to form. I was devoid of saliva and didn’t have control over my mouth. Over any part of my body.

‘What you talking about, sexy? He’s helping the aged.’

I looked over again to Old Boy, wincing as I watched him try to scramble to his feet, crying, a trainered foot pushing against his back, and I could feel a monster forming inside me.

‘Samuel,’ I shouted. Loud, desperate. But you didn’t appear.

‘He’s dumped you, babe.’

‘Dr Stevens.’ Nothing. ‘Please, please . . . just leave us alone.’

His face moved closer. Too close. I smelt weed on his breath. He threw away the cigarette butt and with his tobacco-scented knuckles wiped the tears now tumbling over my cheeks.

‘Please just let me pass,’ I said, barely audible.

His yellow, sticky fingers slid down my face, down my neck. ‘Your tits are amazing.’ Past my collarbone, under my shirt. I froze. Stood there as his dirty, clammy hand slipped into my bra. ‘So, do you spit or swallow?’

I closed my eyes. Asked Mum to save me. And remembered. Spying on her and one of her strangers through the banister with the missing post. Laughter, dancing, Bob Dylan, ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’. His hand up her skirt. How she said no. And no. And no.

Then snap.

When I recall what happened next, it’s as if I’m describing a film, a violent film, not reality. Telling a story that happened to someone else, not me. Because I don’t remember punching Shit One in his face with such force he fell to the ground, bike on top of him, wheels spinning endlessly. But I did. I know it happened because I watched him down there, clutching his bloodied nose. Even the red drips didn’t affect me, break my fury.

‘You hit me . . . I can’t believe you hit me . . . you fucking little whore.’

And I don’t particularly recall running over to Old Boy either, though I must have done because I was somehow pulling Shit Two away from him by his hood. Kicking him, kicking him. ‘Leave him alone. Leave him alone.’ I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. It seems strange. That I did that. Me.

They were back on their bikes then. ‘You’re a crazy fucking bitch.’ And even when they were riding away, I was chasing them. No limp, no fear. The only thing stopping me, bringing me back, was the sound of the siren.

Two officers escorted me and Old Boy, whom I’d now learnt was called Edward, up to his flat. With the adrenaline drained from my body, I was juddering, crying. The policewoman comforted me. My legs, boned and filleted, my foot throbbing, she acted as a support to lean against.

‘I was doing national service at their age. Little bastards,’ said Edward.