Lucy, who had clutched at either side of the doorframe to prevent herself hurtling after him, peered down. She could just about distinguish her assailant’s shape. At first, he lay unmoving, but then, slowly, began to twitch.

He was alive, at least. She supposed she ought to be glad about that – it was an odd thing that she’d barely considered his chances of survival when first luring him here. That was the fight or flight mechanism in full flood, she realised. But without any doubt, this was the best outcome.

Wiping away sweat, she lurched back down the corridor, spinning left at the first junction and hammering down the next passage, half-tripping on debris, but at last reaching another fire door. She rammed it with her shoulder and this too burst open. On this side of the building, there was a fire escape. She hurried down it, and ran along a narrow passage, finally, turning right into the alley where the skip was located.

From here, she advanced warily as a shaken, groaning wreck of a man now, rather than the walking embodiment of terror, eased himself over the edge of the skip, and slid down onto his feet, where he leant against the huge, cast-iron receptacle at an awkward, painful angle.

The alley was only dimly lit, the yellowish glow of the lights on Halpin Road filtering through the rabbit warren of encircling passageways. But it was sufficient to show fragments of the broken door scattered on the alley floor. Lucy even spotted a glint of metal where the bastard’s sabre had landed, though that too was now in pieces.

It also revealed more of the Creep.

Bits of the wax still clung to his face, though most of it had gone. His hood had fallen back and, as she approached, she could distinguish the features of what might be an everyday householder: a receding hairline, pudgy cheeks, a small mouth, a thin moustache. She put him somewhere in his early forties, and not even in good shape given the swell of flesh under his jaw.

Her own breathing drew his attention to her. He jerked upright when he saw her. Even though this brought a crease of pain to his face, he backed away towards the end of the alley.

‘You’re done, pal,’ she said, padding after him, but already she could see that his strength was resurging, the adrenaline kicking back in. As the grogginess subsided, he took longer, steadier steps. Any second now he’d turn and run. The foot chase would be on again. But before he had a chance, a third party appeared, a tall, strongly built silhouette stepping into the light at the alley’s far end.

Caught between the two of them, in the very act of turning to flee, the suspect froze.

His gloved hands flexed at his sides like jittery spiders.

‘You all right, Lucy?’ a voice called. It was Danny Tucker.