I have just one chance. Now. Without warning, I lunge forward and vault over the glass swing door that’s next to the turnstiles, right hand on the stanchion. Ange gapes as one of the heavies lunges at me and I almost fall. But he misses, and I charge for the exit. I can’t afford to look back: I just run, faster than I’ve ever run before. I hear Streatham shout, ‘Shut the fucking door!’ but too late. The night watchman clearly does not want to be bashed by a mad hack and actually gets out of the way as I career through the exit, head down, like a wounded rhino.

There’s a nip in the night air of this late April, which only spurs me on. No time to think. Just run. As fast as I can. North on to Tooley Street – where, thank you, God, a night bus is clanking and clunking along. I get ahead of it and frantically wave at the driver, but we’re nowhere near a stop and it’s obviously more than the driver’s job is worth to do me a favour and save my life. Fuck him! As for black cabs, not a single one has its light on.

My lungs hurt with the effort of sprinting. Ahead, I spy the towering cylindrical vats of the Sarson’s Vinegar factory. The acidic cloud blowing from it permeates my skin and makes my eyes water. I’m now on a narrow Victorian side street, all alone, as far as I can tell. Somewhere behind me I can hear the clatter of the leather soles of Streatham’s minders as they try to find me. Are they armed? It doesn’t really matter. I don’t stand a chance if they get themselves close enough to make contact. I never took the hands-as-lethal-weapons option at Oxford. All I can do is keep running and not look back.

I go through the darkness of a wide railway bridge. Why is there no one around? I fumble in my pocket for the Nokia. I need to call Jess, warn her, get help, but I can’t stop long enough. I try to work out where I might find people I could plead with to call the police, or act as potential witnesses to whatever Streatham’s men have in mind for me. The railway lines mean London Bridge station can’t be far. But where?

I’m suddenly boxed in. On one side of the street, the railway arches make an unbroken rampart, gleaming with the rusting metal signs nailed above them. HAND CAR WASH. SERVICE AND MOT. Opposite, there’s just a long wall of builder’s hoardings, plywood boards covered in graffiti, topped with razor wire.

Light strobes the broken ground from a train passing overhead. I glance back and feel a brief moment of hope. My pursuers haven’t rounded the corner yet. Do they know I’m here?