‘Sleep it off.’ He grinned, following, large strides. ‘Yeah, maybe I should.’

Quick. Matty slipped, slid over the stones and ran towards Shifty, but the shock had slowed the bones, clothes weighed down. The frantic sound of him coming closer.

‘Where are you going?’ A glancing palm on the shoulder, with force. ‘You little cunt.’

Matty spun, fell back into the side of the van. A crunk of metal.

He almost tripped, too, before coming back fast. ‘I didn’t say you could go.’ His fist, meeting an eyebrow. A blotting, dumbing pain and then Matty’s face was against the glass of the window.

Away, a gap of air, a tug on the back of the hoodie. Face smashing against the window again. Cheekbone.

You don’t have to be big.

A black-blue, white-blue light and heat on Matty’s forehead.

It’s about guile. Know that word? It means wily and quick and clever.

His mouth, close. The stench of alcohol on his breath. ‘Bet you like a proper horsing, don’t you? Is that what you’re after?’

Joe, smashing the air as if he was Barry McGuigan, as if the air was a superheavyweight.

You are going to die.

‘Let’s see what set-up you got in here, then.’ He hauled Matty by the collar of the hoodie, tried to shove open the side door, cursed and tried again. A screech of metal. ‘Oh, very nice. Very cosy.’

The sweet copper tang of blood, on lip, on tongue. One eye wasn’t opening.

Joe, giving a wink before putting his fag back in the side of his mouth. Go on, tiger. Now or never.

Dale began to step up into the van, still holding onto the hoodie. At the same time, Matty leant down, half-strangled by the T-shirt collar, stretched and splayed fingers, fumbling by Shifty’s wheel. There. The beer bottle.

‘Nope, we’re going this way,’ said Dale, pulling harder, and Matty followed the momentum of his upwards hoist, and brought the beer bottle up, smashing it into his face.

It didn’t break. He gave a weird cry, small and outraged, went to grab it. Matty wriggled from his grasp and pushed him hard in the ribs, further into the van. Bashed the bottle against the edge of the side-door, a spray of sound and shards. Glass in his face, getting stuck, coming out. Glass in his face. Blood. His hands were in front of his head now, trying to get the bottle, bending, too tall for the van.

Matty jammed the glass into his side. Little shark-stabs into soft flesh. Into his arm.

He fell back against the front seats, holding his side, looking at his arm, which was beginning to spill. Gave a cough, surprised, and tried to say something. His eyes were child’s eyes. He staggered out of the side-door, slumped forward onto his knees, a hand on the ground. All of him on the ground.