She tensed, eyes screwed shut, crying with pain, waiting for the fatal blow.

It didn’t come.

After a couple of seconds, she opened her eyes and looked. Bruno Graves was standing right in front of her, inches away. She didn’t have the strength now to scramble back, away from him. He was massive and he was moving, his eyes dead of all emotion, his arms coming out toward her . . .

She shut her eyes again. Screwed them up tight. Then he leaned in on her. Oh God here it comes . . .

His weight seemed to crush her. Then she felt something warm and liquid trickle onto her arm, and she yelled out with revulsion. Christ, what . . . ?

She opened her eyes. Bruno was staring ahead, and . . . there was blood. A thin red line was being drawn across his throat by a knife. A black-gloved hand was holding it. As she stared, the black hand slashed fully across Bruno’s throat. Now blood gushed, soaking her.

Dora staggered back, shrieking, cloaked in blood. Bruno’s hands scrabbled at his throat as if he was trying somehow to hold it together, but he couldn’t. He fell heavily against her, crushing her with his weight. Then he collapsed to the ground.

‘Step away, Dora,’ said a male voice close beside her, and she became aware of the man with the black gloves on. In the hellish light cast from the fire, she saw the knife glinting and dripping in his hand, then her eyes lifted to his face. It was Donny Maguire.

‘You!’ she gasped out.

‘Christ, you’re a bit of a mess, Dora,’ said Donny, taking out a handkerchief and coolly wiping the blade.

‘You’ve killed him,’ said Dora, staggering back.

Behind her, the pub was fully alight. Even the snug was part of the inferno now, she could see flames roaring behind the windows. The fire lit Donny Maguire’s sharp, sober face with a demonic brilliance and Dora staggered, scared to death. He was just standing there holding the knife oh-so-casually, looking at her. The heat was incredible. Burning her skin, scorching her.

‘Better get back, those windows are going to blow out soon,’ said Donny, pushing her off down the path while he pocketed the knife, grabbed Bruno’s arm and started dragging him toward the snug door.

‘What are you . . . ?’ Dora asked weakly. Her stomach cramped again, hugely, nearly driving her to her knees. She limped to the gate and clung on to its wooden post. Then she turned to see what he was doing.

Donny was throwing open the door to the snug, then cringing back as an angry blast of flames and smoke poured out from the opening. He put a hand over his mouth and nose, peering in at the wreckage of the pub. Then he dropped his hands and grabbed Bruno Graves by both arms and bodily hauled him into the snug. Coughing and spluttering, Donny backed out, slamming the door closed behind him.