‘You and that brother of yours, the whole goddamn rabble of you. You’re up and out of our streets, you understand? You Cohens was always the worst of it. When you weren’t out thieving and grifting, you were still taking the work from the rest of us. Well, time’s up, Ray. Dance yourself out of this one. There’s ten thousand of us going to march on Sunday. There’s nothing your lot can do to stop it. The Home Secretary his self is sending guards to protect us. You and that thieving, filthy Jewish brother of yours are finished . . .’

The thug had brought his arm back for one final punch. Beneath him, Raymond was lying dazed on the floor. Nancy sprang forward – and, in the same moment she did, Hélène reached out and grappled with the thug’s arm. The motion took Raymond’s attacker by surprise. He flailed backwards, his fist caught Hélène Marchmont’s face, and she too plunged to the floor.

From the crowd, Nancy heard an aghast cry. ‘This has gone too far!’ somebody growled. Two men – who until now had spent the night ostentatiously dancing, like peacocks trying to attract a mate – waded out of the huddles on the edges of the room. By the time they reached the man, who still straddled Raymond, Louis Kildare too had extricated himself from the crush. He picked Hélène up, wrapped his arms around her.

‘Get off him!’ one of the men cried out.

The thug just shrugged. ‘You friends of his?’

‘Not friends. Just good people. This is a dance club. You want to brawl, you—’

‘Oh,’ the man said, with the barest flicker of a smile, ‘a brawl is it?’ He stood up, leaving Raymond on the floor, and called out to the alcove where he’d been sitting. ‘Boys, we got some heroes sticking up for this sewer rat. This Yid. Want to show ’em a thing or two, or should I have all the fun myself?’

Nancy saw Raymond try and pick himself up. His face was a mask of scarlet and black. He was coughing up blood; one of his teeth had been knocked out. She took a step, as if to go towards him – but, too late, for already more men were kicking their way down to the dance floor. They looked so unmistakably like the brute who had just pulverised Raymond that she could only assume they were his brothers – and every bit as degenerate.

‘Stop!’ she cried out as they brushed past, trailing the odours of whisky and sweat and smoke. ‘Somebody, stop them!’