Beverley’s euphoria lasted long enough for us to get our German family to the nearest ambulance. As far as I could tell from looking around while we walked out, Beverley’s wave of water had started somewhere near the centre of the covered market and rolled outwards to flood the Piazza to a depth of ten centimetres. I reckoned that at a stroke Beverley had quadrupled the amount of property damage done that night, but I kept that thought to myself. She hadn’t managed to extinguish the fire on the roof, but even as we sidled away, the London Fire Brigade were moving in to finish it off.

Beverley got strangely agitated when she saw the firemen, and practically dragged me up James Street and away from the market. The riot seemed to be all over bar the media witch hunt, and TSG officers in full riot gear stood around in groups discussing baton technique and reattaching their ID numbers.

We sat down on the plinth of the sundial column at Seven Dials and watched the emergency vehicles roaring past, Beverley flinching every time a fire engine went by. Still soaking wet, we were beginning to chill despite the warm evening. Beverley took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m in so much trouble,’ she said.

I put my arm around her and she took the opportunity to slip one of her cold hands under my shirt and warm it against my ribs. ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said.

‘Just shut up and think warm thoughts,’ she said, as if that were hard with her breasts brushing up against my side.

‘So you burst a few pipes,’ I said. ‘How much trouble can you be in?’

‘Those were fire hydrants I messed with, which means the cult of Neptune’s going to be pissed,’ she said.

‘Cult of Neptune?’

‘London Fire Brigade,’ she said.

‘The London Fire Brigade are worshippers of the god Neptune?’

‘Not officially, no,’ she said. ‘But you know – sailors, Neptune, it’s a natural fit.’

‘The Fire Brigade are sailors?’

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘But in the old days when they were looking for disciplined guys who knew about water, ropes, ladders and didn’t freak out at altitude. On the other hand, you had a lot of sailors looking for a nice steady career on dry land – marriage made in heaven.’

‘Still, Neptune,’ I said. ‘Roman god of the sea?’

Beverley laid her head on my shoulder. Her hair was wet, but I wasn’t complaining. ‘Sailors are superstitious,’ she said. ‘Even the religious ones know you got to have a little respect for the King of the Deeps.’

‘Have you met Neptune?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘There’s no such person. Anyway, I feel bad about the hydrants, but it’s Thames Water I’m worried about.’

‘Don’t tell me,’I said. ‘Worshippers of dread Cthulhu.’