I looked up just as the figure came through the falling shards, bursting through the glass and the curtains and tumbling into the room in a storm of gunfire, hitting the ground hard and rolling like a barrel into the centre of the room.

The figure that stood was barely recognizable. It was all mud and blood, sweat and gore-caked skin. It blocked out the view of the men behind; the figures pointing their guns at one another, screaming, bellowing, ordering each other to drop their weapons, to hold, to hold …

The eyes locked on mine. Filled with tears. Filled with rage.

‘Cordelia …?’

She moved quicker than anybody else. Crossed the space between herself and Walt before I could get a word out, pulling a knife from her belt and spinning to her left as he raised his gun, fury gripping his features, words of hate dying in his mouth as the bullet nicked her shoulder.

Then she was behind him and the knife was at his throat; her bloodied hands in his hair.

And suddenly there were two moons in the sky and the sound of helicopters and a loudspeaker and everybody was laying down their weapons and getting down on the floor.

Cordelia didn’t move. Just held Walt with the blade against his throat, weighing up the cost of his life.

Then he smiled. Bit down. Started to shake; froth and blood on his tongue, tears and snot pouring from his eyes and nose; his body shaking as if he were being electrocuted.

Cordelia dropped him. Pelletier looked up from the floor and his face twisted with grief. Then he closed his eyes. Bit down. Started to shake and bleed. Started to die.

And then she was beside me, holding me tight, stinking like the devil and slick with so much blood I couldn’t tell if she was a victim or a killer.

She cried first. When I started, she stopped and called me soft.

And for a while, I reckon, we were just two old friends, laughing and bleeding and hugging in the dark.

I won’t call them good times, but I swear I can’t think about it without a smile on my face.

CORDELIA