‘What do you mean, make it work? Make it work how? I can’t be involved in this kind of shit. I’m a copper.’ This last part is practically a whine. He hates himself for it. Wonders if his nose is broken, or just banged up.

Big Fella tuts, walking across and leaning over George where he sits. He blocks out the light like a solar eclipse. ‘That’s exactly why you’re going to do what we say, Georgie boy. If you want to stay a copper, that is. Mr Locke would prefer it if you did. Reckons you might come in handy.’

George listens as Big Fella talks. His eyes widen, head shaking slowly side to side as Big Fella tells him how the rest of the evening is going to run. Tries to block out sounds coming from somewhere out of sight. A bedroom? A bathroom?

Thunk … thunk.

The sounds are muffled but still solid and heavy enough to make him wince with each beat. He closes his eyes. Sees the snapshot of Natasha again. Eyes and mouth, concentric circles of alarm. Feels the swooping lurch of his stomach as if it’s about to happen again. Knows it won’t be the last time, and wonders how long he’ll pay for what has happened tonight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Locke’s knuckles blanched where he pressed the damp cloth to his left bicep. The bullet had passed straight through. His arm had gone numb pretty quickly after the initial sting, but that was wearing off now, throbbing in time with the engines. They had weaved their way through a small armada of boats, but Locke was fairly sure none of them had paid enough attention to be able to place them if asked. In hindsight, Bolton shooting him had worked in his favour. Granted, he wouldn’t have felt that way if he’d been hit anywhere more serious, but he’d been struggling to conjure up an end to the standoff that didn’t end up with him in a cell, at least in the short term.