Inside, the front bar was unexpectedly dim—one of those places with dark panelling and windows shuttered against the day outside. Coming straight in from the bright sunlight, Paula took a moment to adjust her eyes to the gloomy interior. The pub was almost empty, with a woman serving behind the bar and two patrons, one standing at the counter, the other on his phone in the corner.

She took a few steps further into the room and saw that the man at the bar was mid-forties, short, solid, with a shaved, bullety head. Another step closer and she saw the neck tattoo. It was Curtis Wigney.

Paula’s heart rate hadn’t slowed to normal since the hospital call, and the blood pounding in her head didn’t allow for doubt or hesitation. She lifted one of the pub chairs. The chair—metal frame with a chunky wooden back and seat—was heavier than it looked, but she knew she had enough power in her arms. Whatever metabolic process had happened in her body, it was giving her the strength she needed.

‘Wigney!’ she shouted and hoisted the chair up to shoulder height.

Just as she swung it at him, he half turned towards her, so it collected him on the side of his face. Paula felt the jarring through the metal frame and felt the crunch of his jaw breaking.

As Wigney crumpled to the floor, the guy in the corner dropped his phone and dashed across the room.

‘What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?’ he yelled.

Paula went to swing at Wigney again. The other guy reached out his arm to stop her and the chair smashed into his hand. Paula felt the juddering sensations of bones breaking, in the guy’s wrist or hand or both.

She dropped the chair, heaving for breath. She scrunched her eyes shut for a moment to squeeze out the sweat and when she opened them again, she saw the face of the man on the floor. It wasn’t Curtis Wigney. This guy’s neck tattoo was an eagle, with no flames, no fist. She’d got it wrong.

Paula took a step back. ‘I’m sorry.’

By now the bartender had run around to help the injured man. Paula could hear all three of them firing questions at her but she couldn’t decipher anything they said. She couldn’t trust her eyes or her ears or her judgement about anything.

She backed out of the pub. ‘I got it wrong. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

Paula had almost no awareness of the drive back to town and to the medical practice. The whole journey happened in one of her blank fogs, a dissociative state that made it possible for her to function, but by the time she pulled up in the side parking area, her mind was sharply clear about what she had to do.