He should go and check. It might be nothing: a fox or cat or even the spice messing with his sanity. He’s always been a fighter; why isn’t he backing himself now? He shakes his body, tries to instil some resilience, then stands up. He picks up a hollow metal tube from the floor – dress shop entrails – and slips through into the back room.

But before he has chance to react, a hand grabs him around the neck and shoves him against the wall of the storeroom. It’s pitch-black without the glow from the streetlamps, and he blinks in the darkness, willing his night vision to kick in. The grip is powerful, cutting off his windpipe. It has to be Rudy, or one of his henchmen, but he can’t see anything but dark clothing. His eyes swim with tears and sweat forms under his armpits. Belatedly, he realises his hands are just dangling by his sides. What the hell is he waiting for?

He goes to grab his assailant’s hand, but it’s like his arms are travelling through treacle. They don’t even reach their destination before his neck is suddenly free again, but then he’s being spun round by his shoulders. He can breathe now, but his cheek is pushed hard against the cold plaster. His beanie is whipped off his head and fingernails bury deep into his scalp, pulling at his hair, keeping his head from moving.

‘You stay away from her, you fucking piece of shit.’

He screws his eyes together, trying to strip away the spice and confusion. The voice is deep, but it’s a woman hissing into his ear, not Jon’s dealer. He should push her away, twist out of her grasp, but he can’t move. Is she too strong for him? Or has the spice turned him to jelly? ‘You’re pathetic, you know that?’ the voice continues, swirling around his stoned head. ‘No match for me. Leave this street now, or I’ll come for you, hound you, just like you’re doing to her. Do you understand me, Mark?’