I’m on Seven Sisters, my face in a cold puddle. Someone is lying on top of me, their displaced hat obscuring my view of the lorry that has missed us by centimetres and crashed into a parked Peugeot instead.

‘You all right, love?’ the person pants, clambering off me. It’s the same voice as the woman in the evening gown in my dream. ‘Are you hurt?’

That’s when I realise that my saviour is Stack.

‘Stack, you sound just like your grandmother.’ My voice sounds blurry.

‘What’s wrong with you? You were riding half-asleep. I ran after you but I couldn’t get you out of the road.’

‘Soz, mate . . .’

He’s very annoyed. ‘You were riding that bike like a drunken sailor – are you high? Did you even look where you were going?’

My chin is quivering like I’m a little kid. I grab him in a bear hug. His body’s a wall of muscle.

‘Sorry about the rugby tackle,’ he adds.

‘Thank you, Stack,’ I say into his chest. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

‘No worries. You wait on the pavement, I’ll talk to this dude.’

The lorry driver is coming over, glowering and swaggering; Stack greets him with a big, white smile and outstretched hands. I watch him steer the driver away, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet at the same time. The lorry doesn’t look much damaged, but the same can’t be said for the Peugeot.

I try to go towards them but can’t seem to stay on my legs. I end up sitting on the pavement. Something’s wrong; I feel like I’ve been drugged. I’m not sure if my body even belongs to me or not. People stop and offer to help but I wave them away. I’m still groggy, annoyed and on the verge of tears.

Eventually, the lorry driver backs up with the aid of Stack directing traffic. After that’s sorted, he saunters over to me.

‘I can’t let you pay for this, Stack,’ I tell him. ‘You already saved my life.’

‘You’re covered,’ he tells me. ‘O is taking care of it. You can go home now. Should I call someone to come and get you?’

‘You talked to her already?’

‘She asked me to watch out for you. She says you’re accident-prone.’

Or attempted-murder prone? She didn’t say anything to me. I can feel myself lifting out of my shoes as I say, ‘She paid you to protect me? How many people has she got working for her?’

I’m swaying, not really in control of my body. Blood is springing up from the abrasions on my knees and forearms where they struck the pavement.

‘Nah, mate, relax. No main event, OK? It’s all discreet. Let’s not make a scene like a couple of tossers. People are recording us.’