The back exit of the Royal Opera House emerges under the colonnade in the north-east corner of the Piazza. The Paperchase on the left had been gutted, and shreds of coloured paper were blowing across the stone flags and into the square. On the right the Disney Store was being enthusiastically looted, but the Build-a-Bear shop was bizarrely untouched – an oasis of brightly coloured twee and peace. Most of the actual fighting seemed to be down by the church on the west side – that’s where I reckoned Lesley would be. I headed for the covered market, reckoning that I could use it as cover to get close to the church. I was halfway there when somebody wolf-whistled at me. It was a proper two-fingers-in-the mouth whistle and cut right through the noise of the riot.

I zeroed in on the second whistle. It was Beverley, staring down at me from the pub balcony on the first floor – she waved when she saw me looking and ran for the stairs. I met her at the bottom.

‘They burned out my car,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘My lovely brand new car,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said, and grabbed her arm. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ I tried to drag her back towards the Opera House.

‘We can’t go back that way,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Because I think there’s some people following you,’ she said.

I turned. The principal cast were back, followed by what I recognised as the orchestra and some people dressed mostly in t-shirts and jeans who I took to be the backstage crew. The Royal Opera Company is a world-class institution dedicated to staging some of the biggest operas on an epic scale – they have a very large backstage crew.

‘Oh my God,’ said Beverley. ‘Is that Lesley?’

Lesley had pushed to the front of the crowd, still wearing her Punch face. She held up her hand and the company paused.

‘Run,’ I said to Beverley.

‘Good idea,’ she said and, grabbing my arm, pulled me backwards so hard I almost fell over. Beverley darted down one of the dim brick corridors that led into the heart of the covered market. With evening drawing in, most of the actual shops were closed but stalls serving drinks and generic ethnic food should have been doing a roaring trade fleecing tourists. But there was nobody in sight, and I was hoping this meant punters and stall holders had already run for safety.

Behind us I heard the company give a great howl, in good harmony, and above that, the high-pitched squeaking laugh of the avatar of riot and rebellion. There was a sudden ominous silence, and then the first of the firebombs hit the roof. Lesley had said she didn’t want me dead, but I was beginning to suspect that she may have been lying.