“Nearly there,” said Donald. “You ready, Ricky my boy?”

“Born fucking ready.”

“Here it comes. In five, four, three, two… ”

The table turned over; the sparkle of spilled ice and alcohol; the shriek of the girls; the gasps and shouts from the other punters; the music that, unlike in the movies, kept pounding over the sound system, slow and sultry, incongruous. It felt like he was watching himself through glass. The gleam of metal. He felt his mouth move, heard his voice produce the words he was supposed to say. Ricky quivering at his side. The words that would set things in motion, keep the dance going, the dance they were all here to do. The arrival of the doormen, sweaty and eager. Both of them wannabes who hadn’t made the grade. The blade at the girl’s throat. The boys bunched together, tense and eager, a tight circle of warriors. The demands for wallets, watches, cash; for recognition, status, ownership. The dance he’d been doing his whole adult life. He remembered the scent of Alicia’s hair as he kissed her goodnight and tucked Bad Bear in beside her. Daddy’s got to go and get some bad guys, sweetheart. No, of course they won’t get me, they never do. He had to concentrate, had to get in touch with this moment.

And then the dance exploded into life, and he was too busy to think about anything but getting his moves right.

They were racing through the streets, the boy leading, him following. Alleyways and passages, sudden corners and unexpected courtyards, all the secret ways of the city opening before them. He remembered Alicia sobbing into his shirt-front as they sat outside the school office the week before. Driving away that afternoon, he’d wanted to kill someone. A bad impulse, but a hard one to conquer. His chest tight and angry, breath burning his throat. Was he ever going to catch this kid or were they just going to run until one of them dropped? A stroke of luck as the kid glanced over his shoulder and, looking, slipped on a McDonald’s wrapper. A moment more, and they lay on the warm dry stone together, close as lovers. The heat of the boy’s body radiated through his tracksuit. His eyes were huge and liquid.

“All right,” said Donald. “Calm down now, it’s over. I’ve got you.”

The boy writhed frantically beneath him and gathered a hawk of phlegm in the back of his throat. Donald wriggled a hand free and slapped it over the boy’s mouth.

“Don’t spit at me, please,” he told the boy. “Have some respect for your elders. It’ll stand you in good stead later.”

The boy gazed defiantly up at him. Silenced and flattened like this, he looked very young. Perhaps only a few years older than Alicia. Thinking of his daughter should make him feel gentler, more paternal, but it didn’t. He had to move very carefully now, very slowly, so as not to do anything stupid.