SOMETIMES, IT WAS JUST BAD LUCK. Life was a lot of walking backwards into the future, so you could expect to fall into a muddy ditch every now and then. Brush yourself off. Do what you can. But Jack Susko was beginning to feel there was probably more to it than that. He had started to look for reasons. He was weighing up String Theory. Because bad luck was never just simple, even if on the surface right now it looked pretty straightforward and clear.

The lady with the .38 snubnose in her hand said: ‘Everybody against the back wall. But not you, Jack. You stay right there.’

Thunder and rain outside, camera flashes of lightning. Two hundred thousand dollars packed into a couple of suitcases in the corner. Ten grand stuffed down Jack’s pants. Dead guy on the sofa. And the Russian, like a statue of menace, refusing to do as he was told.

‘If you have a brain, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I suggest you use it.’

The .38 tilted up a little. ‘Don’t think I won’t do it, Mr K.’

A moment passed by, heavy as lead. The Russian waited, but then conceded and took a small step back. The gun swung around onto Jack. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘How about you hand that postal slip over?’

The lucky door prize that everybody wanted. It had come in the mail, all by itself, slipped under the door the other day while Jack was at work, minding his own lack of business. Sorry we missed you. Regular Parcel. Available after 4.30 p.m. Except that in the end there was nothing regular about it. Especially compared to the parcels that usually arrived at Susko Books. And now here he was, staring down the barrel like a big black hole.

She held out an impatient hand. ‘Don’t make me shoot you, Jack.’

He unbuckled the flap of his bag and reached in. Looked up from the gun into her rich brown eyes. A second slotted into place as though on the dial of a giant iron clock; then another. What the hell use was quantum physics now?