Giant number one struck first, followed by his shorter friend. They alternated their assault, keeping Knox off balance as they hit and grabbed at him. The attack was brutal but calculated. They wanted to do damage, but Knox could tell between blows that they were holding back. Instead of just one of them holding him down while the other laid into him, they kept switching roles and going after different parts of his body. Knox realised they wanted something more than just to hurt him. They were searching him. Not for his watch or wallet, but for the papers and passports he was carrying in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Knox twisted and squirmed, taking every hit while not letting them hold him still. Eventually the giants ran out of patience and the smaller one grabbed both of his arms and kicked his legs out from under him, pinning him down on the tiles as the larger giant started working his way through his pockets. He reached inside Knox’s jacket. His fingers brushed the papers, but before he could pull them out a voice shouted out behind them.

One of the station guards had finally noticed what was happening. He was ancient, small, and bent over under the weight of his uniform. The old man couldn’t have done much to help Knox, but just interrupting the beating he was taking was enough to spook the giants. The taller one let go of the papers as the smaller one let go of Knox. Then, after both giving him one last kick in the side, they ran past the guard and disappeared.

Knox used the tiled wall to help push himself back up onto his feet as the guard approached him.

‘Not fair that, two on one,’ the guard said.

‘A case of mistaken identity,’ Knox replied. ‘They thought I was a friend of theirs.’

He thanked the old man for his help, but declined his offer of calling the police. Instead, he straightened his jacket, patted himself down, and made his way up the staircase he’d been kicked down a minute before.

At the top he looked out across the square, just in case the giants were waiting for round two. They weren’t. He checked the papers and passports were still in his jacket pocket, held a hand to his side where it felt like the final kick had cracked a couple of his ribs, took a breath, and ran.

He sprinted across Trafalgar and Leicester Squares, then through Piccadilly Circus, weaving his way through the people bustling under the giant glowing adverts for Wrigley, BP, and Coca-Cola, and avoiding the policemen in their jet-black uniforms and bleached white gloves trying to control the traffic and early-evening crowds. His side throbbed as he ran, and the scar across his head that itched whenever he pushed himself too hard felt like it was on fire.