When both stopped, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by the choking sounds from Dreyfuss, the squeaking noise his shoes made as he sought purchase on the floor, and the shrill breath of the small man who was slowly but steadily murdering him. Dreyfuss’ whole head felt aflame, his eyes watering, ear canals singing like the sea. His chest felt tight as a drum skin. The thought of dying in this antiseptic place was appalling.

A picture flashed in his mind: Hes Adams’ fingers around his throat. The picture gave him strength, and he lashed out again, but with his left foot this time, sending it backwards with a donkey kick into the small man’s knee. The man gasped in pain but did not release his grip on the wire. Dreyfuss tried again, his eyes blurrily fixed to the mirror, hypnotised by the blood that was now dripping from his hand onto his shirt. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, the grin of a monkey. Monkeys grinned when they were terrified. This time the kick landed high on the man’s soft thigh, causing no reaction. Dreyfuss tried to cry out but couldn’t. He was losing strength, his whole body tingling with electricity. Movement was becoming difficult. Inside his head, someone opened the door of the furnace. He was on fire, and hell-bound. But he’d take the little bastard with him. He threw himself backwards, slamming the killer against the hard partition edge between two cubicles. Then he reached a hand around again. The hand was becoming numb, and it scrabbled over the man’s clothes like a tiny blind animal, finding the crotch. He used the last of his strength to squeeze. The killer howled.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the door swing open and Parfit enter. From then it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. Parfit approached the man from the side and gripped him by his furthest shoulder, pinning him against his own body sideways on. Then he brought his arm back in a straight line and sent it thudding towards the man, heel of palm connecting with ear. The man’s head whipped to one side and there was a horrifying snap, as though a dog had bitten into a bone. The hold on Dreyfuss tightened further still, then relaxed.

He realised that Parfit was holding the small man – now a dead man – upright while he attempted to ease the cord away from Dreyfuss’ throat. He did his best to help, then, suddenly released, staggered to the basin, gripping its edge with his left hand while he stared at his crippled and bloodied right hand. He ran more water and held the fingers beneath the cold spray. As he stared in the mirror at his purple face, the colour of a newborn baby, he felt his stomach wrench, sending a spume of vomit into the basin.