Pop goes another fly on the light overhead as they eyeball each other. I can’t help but flinch as Xenon takes half a slow step to one side, door opening behind him. And now there’s nowhere to look other than straight at her, they’ll know if we so much as blink.

I let my vision blur again, over the strands of hair bleached lank round her face, the still budding curves that give away her age, the jutting collarbones, the painted nails, the air of desperation and defeat already hanging like a cloak around her body. And the hands, pinning her in place, invisible to everyone but me.

‘Careful there,’ Dominic drawls. ‘If the merchandise gets damaged then no one will buy it—’

‘Ten thousand,’ a voice interrupts. One of the interlopers; Scottish, curt and sharp. I swallow my sigh of relief as the door to the corridor slams. At least I don’t have to look at her anymore. But Dominic, Dominic doesn’t skip a beat.

‘Eleven—’ 6

‘Twelve!’

I freeze as the heavies move in step, improbably lightly, towards the Scot and his lackey.

‘You said your maximum was eleven,’ Xenon barks at them. ‘Lying, were you? There’s no love for lies around here.’

I sneak a glance at Dominic, still staring straight ahead. If it wasn’t for the muscle twitching in his jaw, he could be made of stone.

‘Proof of funds, then. Come on…’ Xenon’s smile twists as he continues, and it was ugly enough to start with. ‘That’s if you’ve really got twelve to barter. And don’t you be moving too quickly now…’

My eyes sting with the effort of keeping them straight ahead instead of on the scuffle erupting to my left. One of the heavies lumbers back over to Xenon shaking out a crumpled piece of paper. There’s one dense, slow-motion second of squinting before an almost imperceptible nod back towards the muscle.

And then there’s a scream.

I don’t look, eyes burning into the blank wall. Howls become cries that become pleas as they fade down the corridor into sudden silence, door swinging shut.

I swallow again. The air feels solid, a mass in my throat, a sponge in my lungs. Xenon turns back to us, knuckles white around the ball of paper he’s crumpled back into his fist.

‘Eleven it is, as it turns out,’ he says, another smile spreading immaculate white teeth across his face. For a moment I think he’s going to hold out his hand as colour floods back into his fist, but Dominic does it first.