The light under the door reappeared, static this time. He thought he could hear breathing. Then the door burst open with such force it smashed into a glass splash-guard, which exploded into pieces over them.

The light was coming from a torch attached to something. He couldn’t see what or who was holding it. Someone stepped into the room and Ed ducked, but his pathetic attempt to hide was rendered useless by Jennifer’s whimpering.

He could see the shape of the gunman now, his profile contorted by something – a face mask, sound coming from it like Darth Vader. He prised Jennifer off him and stood up. What drove him he didn’t know: he was beyond scared, his pulse hammering in his temples, the taste of vomit in his mouth as he opened it to speak. ‘You want Rolt? He’s not here. Just us. We’re nothing, just – we don’t even officially work for him.’

His voice was hoarse. The saliva had vanished and his tongue felt like rubber.

The torch beam was now trained directly on him. The figure didn’t move. Above Jennifer’s whimpering he could hear hissing breaths coming from the mask. He could see more of the silhouette now, completely still, legs slightly apart. The torch was attached to something – a gun: a very big one. Ed thought of all the things he would promise to do in return for his life. All the clients he had ripped off whom he’d reimburse, all the teachers he’d apologize to . . . His life flashed before him – the fuck-all he’d achieved so far. If he could do one thing in the time left, like save Jennifer from this . . .

Behind the gunman, back in the bedroom, Ed thought he detected another movement. How many were there?

A tiny red dot danced above the gunman’s left ear. Then there were two thunk sounds, plus the short, sharp, metallic grinding sound of a top slide moving, and the gunman dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap, the weapon clattering on to the tiles beside him. Jennifer screamed, a high-pitched distress signal shockingly amplified by the tiles, then dissolved into convulsive coughs. Ed squeezed her to him as his bowels trembled. Were they safe? Were they next?

A second figure stepped into the room, holding a dripping towel up to his face. Ed raised his hands, but the man didn’t even look at him. All his attention was on the body twisted on the floor. He reached down, picked up the weapon and lifted the mask off the dead man’s face. Despite the fear raging through him, Ed heard his own voice pipe up: ‘Who is he?’