Raven’s scar was like a physical manifestation of the anger he carried. It would never fade. He had been in many brawls, a good deal of which he had picked himself for no greater reason than a desire to unleash the turmoil within. He had felt pain after the fights he lost and shame after many of those he won – but no matter the outcome, he never bore a grudge against any opponent for the blows he dealt in combat. However, when a man was pinned and defenceless, defeated and posing no threat, to inflict pain and damage upon him was the act of a despicable coward. It was impossible to forgive, and the mere sight of Gargantua made him appreciate that his desire for vengeance upon the Weasel had not diminished – merely lain dormant.

After a singularly uncomfortable journey, seemingly hitting every pothole in Edinburgh, the Skeleton brought the vehicle to a halt outside a warehouse in a narrow alleyway off Lady Lawson’s Wynd. The air carried the stench of decay emanating from the many tanneries situated along the length of the West Port. Somehow this seemed appropriate.

Gargantua approached a door with peeling green paint, the sign above it having long since lost its lettering to the elements. He made a series of knocks, evidently a code of some kind. The door creaked open on rusty hinges and Raven was confronted with the visage he had come to hate most in this world. The Weasel greeted him with a sneer that combined simmering aggression with an undisguised smugness that Raven was effectively under his heel.

The intervening year had not been kind. The few teeth the whelp once possessed were gone, causing his face to collapse in on itself, and there was fresh bruising on the loose flesh of his right cheek. The hat he wore was tattered and his clothes hung loosely about his skinny frame.

‘Follow me,’ he grunted.

The interior was dusty and dark, but the smell was mercifully less appalling inside than out. Raven was led into an office, where the man who had summoned him was reclining on a chair, feet up on a desk, puffing on a fat cigar. The Weasel remained in the doorway, blocking his exit.

Callum Flint was another person he had been happy to put from his mind while he was abroad. Raven cursed himself for his naivety in thinking that his return to Edinburgh might have escaped Flint’s notice. In truth, he had sincerely hoped the man would be dead. He lived a dangerous life and was not short of enemies.