I loosen my arm, allowing him some air. But he’s quick, one step ahead of me, and he stamps down hard. My left foot explodes with pain as he slithers out of my hold, grabs a bottle off one of the zinc-topped tables and smashes it on the edge. I try to duck as he spins round but the bite of jagged glass lights up my arm. The black wolf shudders. I stagger left and he takes advantage, charging me like a bull. I’ve no time to dodge and he rams his shoulder into my stomach. It knocks the wind out of me and still he keeps on coming, feet slipping and skidding until my heel catches a ridge at the top of the steps. Then there’s weightlessness and pit-of-the-stomach fear as I’m launched backwards into space. He starts to run away as I fall, gritty footsteps receding fast as I hit the ground hard. My hip and shoulder take the brunt of it. My head whiplashes down.

By the time I scramble up, the shock of the impact still reverberating through my body, the wound in my arm pulsing and the rush of blood loud in my ears, I can see he’s long gone.

I’m sat in one of the bar’s semicircular booths staring at the shard of glass in my arm when two uniforms finally saunter onto the scene, closely followed by a paramedic. A muted trumpet melody haunts the space and the air is warm with exhaled alcohol. I move and light flashes across the surface of the glass. It’s got an elegant shape, curved like a sail catching the wind. Or a fang. I reach out to grasp it.

‘Don’t,’ calls the paramedic, striding towards me with a kitbag. He’s young, sleeves rolled up, and has the air of a man who can deal with a situation. He snaps on some gloves, does a quick visual.

‘Nasty,’ he says. ‘Looks like it’s gone deep. Should probably get you to a hospital.’

It’s that soft time between afternoon and evening, and I’m pretty sure the wound isn’t life-threatening. Meaning I’ll be back of the queue at A & E, most likely oversubscribed because it’s Halloween and people have started drinking early, despite the fact it’s a Wednesday. Do I want to spend hours under fluorescent lights waiting for my name to be called, surrounded by sick people and relatives desperately hoping for the surgeon to stride out and tell them everything’s going to be okay? Or by drunk people sobering up after their friend got so roaringly drunk they’d put their head through a shop window and were right now being stitched up so their face will be a permanent reminder of Halloween?

‘Can’t you just pull it?’ I ask as he’s about to make the call.