He let go of me at once and I felt those same hands that had patted me down give me a gentle squeeze on the forearm and hip. He suddenly looked as if he couldn’t do enough for me and the transformation was so complete that I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. I looked past him to John. The other two men still had him, his arms behind his back. There was mud on his trousers. A big pee stain too, the poor sod. He was looking down at the floor, his features all grey and saggy.

‘Let him be,’ said the man who’d been holding me. I darted past him and grabbed for John as his legs buckled and he folded in on himself towards the floor.

‘John … John, I’m here, is it your stitches, have they hurt you …’

I wasn’t making sense, I know that. I just wanted him to be OK, to not be hurt, to not be embarrassed or feel like he’d done anything that he needed to be ashamed of. I tried to get his arm around my shoulder but I couldn’t get him up and even if I did, where was I going to take him? I couldn’t drive.

‘Call an ambulance,’ I said, and when it didn’t come out loud enough I said it again, letting my anger out, shouting and bawling until the nearest bloke lost his patience and told me to shut my mouth.

I didn’t even try to make sense of what was happening. There were bad men at Cordelia’s house. Cordy had asked me to come and grab a few personal items before her visitors turned up. Were these men who she was expecting? Were they early? Could they really be the sort of people Cordy would invite to stay in her little bolthole? And why had they suddenly let go of me? I needed to know what was going on but I couldn’t do a ruddy thing until I’d checked John over. I looked back to the one who’d been kinder to me. He was standing where I’d left him, leaning with both hands on the handle of the shovel. He looked like a golfer watching somebody else take their shot. He smiled that weird little smile again and then shot a glance to his companions.

‘I think this gentleman needs some assistance,’ he said, and this time there was no mistaking the accent. It was subtle, but there was a distinct American lilt there, the way British actors get in interviews when they’ve been too long in Hollywood. He turned his head to me. ‘You said he’d been in hospital?’

‘Kidney removal,’ I said, from under John’s armpit. ‘He’s still healing. Only drove me up here because I couldn’t get a bus at this time of night …’