I was not afraid. I laughed. The hard hand on my shoulder made me grin, and the shine on the blade – what was that, a craft knife? – was comic genius. The timing was absolutely faultless. Life was shit, why not get mugged? They were knocked off their script for a beat, as they considered the possibilities: crazy? Druggie? Off-duty police officer? Charles Bronson psychopath? But they quickly regained their equilibrium, and felt the urgent need to push me off mine. I was slammed against the brick wall and a fist connected with the arch of my eye, a blow I can still feel at times. A foot hammered me on the side of the knee, and I was struck again on the face, across cheekbone and nose. But I continued to laugh, even as I fumbled the contents of my pockets out onto the paving slabs, because I had that feeling. I was free.

I could drink again. I had my excuse – it was perfect. I was released. Elise, my own conscience, they would all be powerless to stop me. This was what I was waiting for, and every blow, every bruise, every visible injury, only helped.

I was delighted – giddy, and not just from the head trauma. The second mugging, the second attack, was the worst thing and the best thing that could have happened to me. I still remember the spreading red drop of blood in the pint I was served in the pub I managed to reach, as the landlord called an ambulance. As if it were being reunited with my body.

Elise couldn’t say no to me, and of course she couldn’t stay. She was gone before the leaves went from the trees. I had made my choice and we knew it. It was a relief for us both.

I took the Central Line to Liverpool Street and walked up Bishopsgate. Tamesis knew my destination. I had made sure to tell it. And it obliged, showing its birthplace as a spear of heat, an unbelievable concentration of T-plus potential. I would see someone I knew there.

The pubs were near closing, and multitudes spilled into the streets and alleys, despite the cold, to smoke and vape and whinny at each other. Suits rampaged towards the station, where the trains that would take them back to Chingford and Basildon were unloading excitable young people. In Shoreditch the clientele was beardier, more plaid, but the edge was the same. The night did not have long in it, but neither did winter.

Though it was painted in acid colours, in a fractured dazzle pattern, Bunk’s headquarters had a more sober air. It was a converted warehouse, and, despite the hour, light glowed behind its grid of large windows. The glass front door was unlocked, though the lobby space was illuminated only by the blue neon logo behind the unstaffed reception desk. I knew where to go – I had been here before. I walked up an echoing concrete stairwell to the fifth floor, aware of the winking red lights of cameras and other sensors in every corner above me. The only sound, other than my footsteps, was a ubiquitous low-intensity hum. At every floor, I could see people in darkened offices, faces floating in screenlight, intent on their tasks.