I turn on to Keizersgracht, past all the fancy houses, and then turn right into Leidsestraat. It’s busier here, two tramlines and people on bikes streaming in both directions, spray spinning off their tyres in elegant arcs. A man in work boots, hard hat and an orange hi-vis steps out of McDonald’s taking large bites out of a burger, and knocks into me. Further down a shop window is full of TVs, a jumble of different-sized screens. They’re all tuned to the same channel, a news programme; there’s a talking blonde head, and in the corner of the screen a small rectangle with a scene I recognize. The rectangle zooms out till it takes up the full screen. It’s shaky mobile-phone footage of my boat burning in the dark. From the angle I can work out roughly where it was taken from, a house across the canal in the opposite direction to Rashid’s. I watch it for a bit, the flames being tickled by the jets of water before it ends and the talking head appears with the next news item. I’m starting to think the electrician’s not answering my calls because he’s seen this and skipped town. I walk on quickly, my heart punching my ribcage. All of a sudden I know what’s coming. I can feel it, a presence behind me, gathering strength, a sense of darkness sucking at my back, sucking at my feet, sucking all the air out of the world.