His legs buckled, he fell to his knees. Blood poured down his face, blurring his vision. His fingers found one of the fallen photo frames on the floor and he swung it upwards with as much strength as he could muster. He heard the glass shatter beneath Carrington’s chin, and his attacker staggered back.

Craig was dimly aware he’d given himself a chance – maybe the last one he’d get – and knew he had to get up, he had to act, or he was finished. Carrington was strong, and the cruel rage inside of him was a terrible fuel, giving him strength and purpose.

But Craig didn’t, or couldn’t, move. Lolly would be coming soon, his muddled brain told him, she’d arrive with other police. They were in the lift, on the stairs, outside the door – they’d burst in at any moment. He wanted to slide to the floor.

‘I’m sorry you had to see this,’ cried Ian Carrington. ‘I really am.’

Craig didn’t know who he was talking to, but then saw Peter Carrington watching. The old man’s eyes were wide in terror, his mouth agape in a silent scream.

‘One of the things you always told me was to finish what I started.’ Trying to rise, Craig’s fingers scrabbled to find purchase on the thin carpet, but the room spun. ‘You told me, don’t let the bastards grind you down, boy, never let them win. This is my gift to you, Dad.’

Craig felt Ian lift him under the arms and saw the intense light of the window fill his vision. He was dragged past the old man, whose tongue bulged obscenely in his gaping mouth as he tried to talk.

Nnnnnnn, Peter Carrington moaned. Nnnnnn-nn!

And Craig heard something else as he was hoisted over the window sill two floors above the concrete car park. His mind struggled to make sense of the sound… alarmed voices from below.

As his shoulders were pushed out, Craig squinted at the harsh sun in his eyes. People below were pointing up and shouting, cars screeching to a halt. He heard doors slam, the rustle of the leaves in a tree. A breeze cooled his burning face.

He was about to be hurled out. Ian was shifting his body into position, pushing his torso ever further over the sill and into empty space.

Inside the room, the old man’s eyes goggled, his body shook. Craig saw the wisps of grey stubble on his neck, the drool bubbling on his chin. Nnnnnn. Nnn. Nnnnnn.

The old man was trying to say something – kill him or let him live? – as his son lifted Craig’s legs, causing his body to tip backwards into bright sunlight.

Someone below screamed.

His upper body dangled out of the window. He instinctively snatched at the window frame to stop himself falling out head first.