Lewis came around in the Intensive Care Unit. He opened his eyes to the bright lights and squinted, listening for any sounds he recognised. All he could hear was the bleep-bleep of the monitor by his bed. Opening his eyes fully, he observed a policeman sitting by the bed reading the Daily Mirror. His throat was dry, his eyes gritty with sleep. He could smell the peculiar odour of anaesthetic.

Then it all came back to him. He felt the searing pain as the blade entered his back. He tried to move in the bed, feeling renewed pain as he did so.

He smiled.

He was alive then.

The policeman glanced at him and saw he was awake.

‘Mr Lewis, are you feeling all right? I’ll get you a nurse.’

The man had a gentle Yorkshire accent. As Lewis opened his mouth to answer him, nothing came out except a small croak. He needed a drink of water, his teeth cleaned, and to know what was going on, in that order. The policeman walked up the ward while Lewis moved first his hands and then his feet.

He wasn’t crippled.

The thought was like a balm to him. He knew his back had taken a good slice; if the knife had been slipped into his spine he would have been well and truly finished.

In his mind’s eye he saw Timmy, his face turned into a mask of grief, and Lewis smiled again.

Timmy would pay, and pay dearly, for his little temper tantrum. It would keep Lewis going. While he recovered he would set his mind to thinking up something elaborate for Timmy.

Lewis was renowned for paying his debts.

This one would be repaid one hundredfold.

Glasgow was a shock to Donna. The beautiful buildings were not at all as she had pictured them. When they came towards Govan Southside, though, her preconceptions were confirmed. The shops had thick, security wiring over the glass and the streets seemed to be full of women with pushchairs, men wandering aimlessly, and stray dogs. Alan had only spoken to her perfunctorily since their argument. It was now early afternoon and she wanted a drink, something to eat and a pee in that order.

They drove into a maze of low-rise flats, some with boarded-up windows, others with bright net curtains. Children played everywhere, their aggressive mien noticeable even from a passing car. Donna felt tension in the air.

‘Where are we?’

Alan smiled grimly. ‘This is a place called Govan.’

Donna faced him. ‘What does that word mean?’

Alan parked in front of a squalid block of flats and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I don’t know. It’s probably a Gaelic word for “arsehole of the world”. Come on, get everything out of the car. We ain’t leaving nothing. They’d smash your windscreen here for a packet of fags left on the dashboard.’