Ever had had no gun with him – he hadn’t been carrying a gun – what had been his intention towards Mr Lorken? He was unable to think in straight coherent logic as Lomita was mixing her thoughts with his, he couldn’t work out which were his and which were hers, so long had the idea of this kill been in his mind. But he had been walking towards Mr Lorken in his car without his Glock 17. No gun.

She was now slumped, the hysterics had calmed but the emotion had the same power, it was just the machinery that pumped out the expression was weakening, stumbling, breaking down, running out of gas.

He got to 8th Street where the 110 appeared up on its stilts, took a right down South Union Street and then he remembered the left that should bring him to his haven; his piece of peace and solitude. The isolation patch. He stopped the car in an attempt to gather his bearings.

He could see the tower of the Ritz Carlton, it should be directly beneath, just this side of the 110; he started to move forward and there it was on his left behind the wire, he had turned down a street, but one street too early, unable to access the entrance.

He doubled back and went one beyond, there he was: there were the blue tarpaulins of the homeless camps and there was his gate to solitude. The same as it was on his last trip; minus the truck.

No one cared about this patch, no one looked after this patch, even the birds looked disillusioned, wandering with no real attempt at finding any sustenance, a bird boredom had taken wing. Flying seemed a waste, they hopped a few feet at a time in a vague attempt at escape, probably thinking death to be an acceptable alternative to this existence. Ever was transferring; he stopped.

He parked in the middle of the wasteland as accurately as he could assess. He blanked his mental process and breathed deep. Five times until he started to feel a dizziness.

Had he made Lomita do this?

Her sobs were now pathetic whimpers; he got her out of the car, found the alley at the side of the land, he knew that through to the other side was the Isis Adelphia and Milagro’s Market. He picked her up, one arm under her legs another round her back, cupping his hand under her arm, she struggled to keep her head up. She was aware of what was happening, making noises that he couldn’t determine as words.

‘We need to get Manita down here.’

Ever was saying on repeat, waiting for acknowledgement of reception of the message. Then she formulated words.

‘Where are we?’

‘Have you got your phone?’

‘No, I left it in the restaurant. I told him.’

What the fuck. Her bag was back in the car. Not in the restaurant, please.

‘I told him.’