And then I spy it. A hole in a fence. Where two of the boards meet, someone has pried them apart to make a narrow, V-shaped gap. No time to think. I charge across the street, crouch down and squeeze myself in, praying that Breitner’s minders don’t see my shadow inching through.

I’ve come out into an open stretch of broken ground. Some kind of undeveloped wasteland, probably new desolation caused by developers, possibly one of the very last untouched bombsites from the war. I can’t afford to run too fast here: there are too many broken bricks, old prams, bags of rubbish, pieces of smashed glass. I make my way gingerly across it, breathing hard. I’ve got a stitch in my side and the blood is pounding hard in my ears.

I hear the syncopation of another throbbing beat, a resonant bass sound. For a moment I can’t locate it, but then I realise it’s coming from ahead, from a huge brick warehouse that rises up where the rubble ends. Lights flash and dance in filthy windows on the first floor. It must be a rave. And that means a sea of people. If I can only get inside, I’ll be surrounded. Safe.

I hear a shout behind me. Breitner’s thugs. I curse myself for not closing the gap in the fence. They must have seen it and followed me in.

‘Stop being an arsehole!’ one shouts. ‘We just want to talk. No need to run.’

He must be fucking joking. There’s some kind of door to the warehouse. If I can get to it, maybe it will be open, a passage to freedom. It’s only twenty yards. I try to sprint again, but the ground is treacherous and uneven. With every step I risk tumbling on a loose brick or gashing myself on the metal of an old bed or chair and I daren’t look back.

I’m closing in on the shed. Fifteen yards . . . Ten . . . I can see light through the door frame, hear the soaring of a synthesiser riff. I am desperate to be in there, in a state of MDMA induced bliss, oblivious to the existence of Breitner, or Streatham, or Ali, or Steve.

With a crunch, my foot lands heavily and my ankle bends. Pain knifes through it, so acutely I drop to my knee. I won’t surrender. I stand and struggle on, but every step sends agony shooting up through my leg. Broken? Sprained? It doesn’t matter. I can’t run any more. I’m hobbled, barely able to hop forward. And then my shoe bangs against a piece of rusted iron, catches, and pitches me onto the ground again. This time I bang my knee on a lump of concrete.

Footsteps crunch remorselessly on the rubble right behind me. I can hear laboured breathing, and the whip-whap of legs in suit trousers rubbing together.