They were following us. I looked over my shoulder. Five of them. Polo shirts in the warm summer night. Kebab stains down the front. Three of them were holding bottles. One of the bottles exploded between my feet.

Glass and beer everywhere. Then they were in front of us.

‘Where you off to, pig?’ one of them said, stepping forward, right in my face. I could smell cigarettes and beer and junk food. Working himself up into a frenzy, the way they always do before the violence starts. ‘I think you know my mate, pig. I think you helped to send him down.’

I took a long step back, giving myself enough room, and I aimed a big right hand at his heart. That always slows them down and shuts them up. A hard punch in the heart. Nobody is expecting a big punch in the heart.

And I missed.

He swivelled to address his friends just as I threw the punch and I caught him high on his shoulder, a skimming shot that spun him around and kicked it all off.

Suddenly there were punches in my face, wild punches that scuffed against my ear, my forehead and high on my cheekbone. Nothing punches. Then one caught me flush on the jaw and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees. A foot slammed into my ribs. And another, the other side this time. I could not get up.

And then, through their legs as they continued to kick me, I saw Jackson.

The runt who had screamed in my face went down first. Jackson aimed one low, hard kick at his knee, the side of his foot connecting with bone and ligament, ripping them apart, sending him down with a scream that turned them all around.

Jackson wasted nothing.

These were not the same as the kicks that were pounding into me. These were expert, economical movements, shocking in their violence, his foot raising and turning and aimed at knees. And connecting. Another one hit the deck, his face twisted with agony. Two of them went for Jackson at once. He stepped forward, lifted his hands and inserted both his thumbs into their eye sockets. As they whirled away, howling, their hands clutching their faces, he kicked their knees. It wasn’t the kind of fighting you learn in a boxing gym. There was nothing fair about it. There was no respect for his opponent. He destroyed them. I wondered if they would ever walk again.

One man was left standing. Jackson moved swiftly towards him and swung his body, his right elbow connecting with the man’s mouth, showering front teeth across the pavement. He kicked both of the man’s knees before he hit the pavement.

Then he was helping me to my feet and we were running.