‘Leave what alone?’ I said. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re so fucking dense that you haven’t seen it, have you?’

‘Seen what?’

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘None so blind as those that refuse to see, eh Joe?’

With that, he pulled me forward so he could slam me back against the big Porsche again, and pain surged at the base of my skull. My hands bunched into fists but some long-lost playground code said I couldn’t hit someone smaller, shorter, lighter than me. There was no way it could be a fair fight. Instead I grabbed his hands and prised them away from my shirt, giving him a little shove to put some space between us.

He stumbled backwards, tripped over his briefcase, and fell.

Hemmed in between two parked cars, he couldn’t get his arms out to break his fall. There was a heavy wet smack as his head hit the concrete.

I stood over him for a moment.

He lay on his back, eyes closed, mouth open. One leg crossed under the other.

‘Ben?’

He didn’t move. Get up, I need to know what you meant. And why you’re so pissed off.

‘Ben?’

I prodded his shoe with the toe of my mine. Maybe he was faking.

‘Ben, are you all right?’ The world’s stupidest question. Always asked when we already know the answer.

No reaction.

Was he even breathing? I crouched down to look at him more closely.

Just move, Ben. Do something. Anything.

‘Ben, can you hear me? Wake up, mate.’

The first stab of panic in my stomach. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his ear.

Oh God. Oh no.

‘What’s wrong with that man?’ I started at the small voice behind me and turned to see William standing there, his white school shirt untucked and sticking out from under his jumper. He peered at Ben’s motionless body.

I stood up and moved to block William’s view.

‘He, uh, he fell down, matey.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘He’s fine. He’s just getting his breath back.’

The blood leaking from Ben’s ear was dripping onto the ground, making a small pool on the grey concrete.

Oh Jesus. What have you done?

‘Blood, Daddy.’

There was a little catch in his voice, a tightness that I knew all too well. My son tried to say something else but the breath caught in his throat with an asthmatic rattle.

I said: ‘The man’s going to be fine, Wills. Are you OK?’

His chest heaved again.

‘Can’t bre—’

I squatted down in front of my son, blocking his view. The colour was draining from his face. His first asthma attack, right out of the blue when he was barely a year old, had been the most terrifying experience of my life. A panicked 999 call, running paramedics and raw, helpless terror. The memory of that fear always returned when he had another episode.

Just like now.

He took a thin, jagged breath, like air whistling through dry reeds. Eyes wide and frightened.