As Mathew hugged his aching ribs, a third blow from a boot struck him in the backside. The men laughed, which, again, Mathew couldn’t understand. He even said as much: ‘Not funny!’ The giggling stopped and the beating began. Boots and weapons rained down on his body, all the time Mathew shouting, ‘I’m sorry! You can laugh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You can laugh if you want to!’ The man holding the crowbar then stood back and watched the others continue the beating. When this man finally stepped towards Mathew, all of the others immediately stopped hurting him, and Mathew was grateful. This man was in charge; he could tell. ‘Thank you,’ Mathew whimpered, and blood spilt from his mouth. The man’s head cocked to one side, his part-hidden mouth smirked, and he raised the crowbar. Mathew cried out in fear, screwed his eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around his head waiting for the blow to land. Nothing. Mathew opened his eyes to see what the man in charge was doing. He was standing, arm frozen in the air, crowbar poised. ‘I promise to only hit you once more,’ the man whispered. ‘But where? Where shall I hit you?’ He shifted the position of the crowbar, as though he was going to strike Mathew on the legs. As Mathew flung his arms low, the man seemed to change his mind and instead aimed for Mathew’s head, then his chest, then his legs again. And so it went on, with the man pretending to strike Mathew, and Mathew desperately trying to follow his movements and defend himself against the one final blow that never came. As Mathew writhed about like a dying fish, the gang laughed at him and called him the most terrible names. Finally, when the man was bored with his game, he sharply brought the crowbar down in a fake blow towards Mathew’s legs, then quickly diverted upwards and cracked him round the back of his skull. Mathew stopped moving, his eyes open, but expressionless. Shock had taken over. Mathew’s brain refused to acknowledge the pain and made his body play dead, whilst it worked out what to do next.

Through blurry eyes, Mathew focussed on the pizza box lying about five feet in front of him. It made him feel happy. He didn’t take his eyes off it. Not for one second. Not until the man who had hurt him so badly bent down and picked it up. Mathew stared at the empty spot on the floor and imagined his pizza.

*

Within the hour, all of Gifford’s team was back in the squad room, having been stood down from pointlessly searching for the weapon or weapons used to assault Mathew. The atmosphere was electric. Gifford stood in his doorway, leaving the floor to Jack, as had become the norm. Gifford couldn’t help feeling jealous: he’d never before seen his team so together and so pumped. Jack saw it. It was the same look he’d seen on Ridley’s face in the past, so Jack went and stood firmly by Gifford’s side before addressing the room.