It was only a couple of minutes to the car park. He had his sports kit on his lap, keys in one hand and was self-propelling with the other. It was dark, raining and the lighting wasn’t as good as it should have been. He checked the upper guttering of the sports centre, below which movement-triggered lighting usually made the access more useable. Two of the four lights weren’t working. The cause of that wasn’t immediately obvious until he reached a spot directly beneath one of them and found splinters of plastic and half a brick. Kids. Not that he didn’t understand the desire to break things during those testosterone-fuelled fury days when the world was a constantly rolling ball of hate and hilarity. The destruction of physical things served a purpose to teenagers, offering much-needed relief from societal structure. He just wished they didn’t have to practise it down already dim alleyways.

To his left was a dead end filled with the usual detritus of big cities. Skips for rubbish, recycling bins, a stack of wooden pallets, and darkened doorways into industrial buildings that were never used. He headed to the right, where in about fifty yards a left-hand turn would get him to his vehicle in a matter of seconds. The footsteps behind him were nothing unusual. It wasn’t only wheelchair users who took the back access, although the only parking spaces out here were reserved for disabled badge holders. Sometimes the odd staff member could be found sneaking out for an illicit cigarette, or to make a call they didn’t want overheard, which was why he didn’t turn round. Even when the footsteps got louder, he didn’t look to see who was coming. It had never occurred to him that he was at risk.

Xavier heard a rustling, no more suspicious than a hand rifling through a bag for keys. By the time he decided to look round to see if the nearby pedestrian was anyone he recognised, there was already a pair of hands and a vague black shape heading towards his face. He had time only to issue a garbled ‘whayygg’ combination of question and outcry before his head whipped backwards, his chair performed a sharp 180-degree turn, and everything went dark.

Engine oil assaulted his nose as he sped backwards, pulled along by the pressure of the material against his neck, and he fought to remove the bag that was blinding him. The thickness of the material made shouting futile, and he needed all the oxygen he could get to fuel his muscles. Two hours of exercise though, and he was all but done. His super-lightweight wheelchair, designed to make his movement around the basketball court speedy and fluid, offered no resistance to whatever lunatic had decided he was fair game.