7.

He caught a taxi back to his apartment. Somehow managed to pay the driver, drag himself up the three flights of stairs.

‘… sliced him open …’

The light on the landing flicked off as he reached his door. Slow. Could usually do that with seconds to spare. He switched it back on, but it still took a few attempts to get the key in the lock.

‘Laid open like a carcass.’

He opened the door and dropped his wallet and keys on the hall table. Stopped. The flat was dark, but the air felt wrong: the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap deodorant.

Someone was there.

He turned to run. Hands grabbed him, dragging him back. An arm crushing his throat. Air. He needed air. Solid muscle behind him, another man in front, light from the landing throwing shadows across his thin, grey face. Mouth moving fast. Yelling. Questions? Orders? Just noise, too dark to read. The arm jerked tighter against his neck. He pulled uselessly at it: blood pounding in his skull. Another squeeze and the pressure eased. He sucked in a breath.

Grey-face spat more words at him.

‘Don’t. Understand.’

The man raised his arm, a flash of silver in his hand – a knife. Christ. Get a weapon, something sharp. Keys on the hall table. He flung out a hand and scrabbled blindly for them. Fuck, where were they? His fingertips touched something cold and smooth – the paint tin Frankie had given him. Ten litres, that’d do a bit of damage. Stinging pain as Grey-face smacked him. Blood in his mouth. Another blow. Now. He let himself sag towards the table, felt his captor’s weight shift. There, the tin’s handle. He grasped it and heaved it over his head. Jarring contact. A gush of cigarette breath and his throat was released. He sunk an elbow into the man’s groin and threw himself sideways as Grey-face lunged. Fuck, wrong direction, should have run for the door. He sprinted into the living room, towards the bathroom. A razor in there, scissors, a lock on the door.

The light on the landing flicked off.

Empty darkness, the stuff of childhood nightmares. Cold, clutching panic. He stumbled backwards and fell against the edge of the couch. A breeze as Grey-face swiped. Get away, crawl. Behind the couch. His chest was heaving. How loud was his breathing? Could Grey-face hear it? Was he creeping up behind him, following the sound of his gasping? He pressed himself against the floor and held his breath. A dull thud vibrated against his cheek, and another. Footsteps, but where? Moving closer? Further away? Be still, feel it. Another thud, fainter now; must be moving towards the bedroom. Not enough movement for two people; the guy he’d hit must still be down. What was in the room? Paper, chairs, coffee table, books. Table. A glass-topped thing; solid, but light enough for him to lift.

He got to his feet and felt for the light switch. Flicked it. A searing light flooded the room. A man doubled over by the front door, Grey-face running from the bedroom. Get to the table – heavier than he’d remembered. Grey-face was nearly on him. He heaved the table up and flipped it over. Shattering glass, flailing limbs. And Grey-face was down. He sprinted for the door, then skidded to a halt: the guy he’d hit was blocking it, hands clasped to his groin. A broad face, with a flattened nose like a boxer. Blood dripping down his forehead, looking a little groggy. A flick-knife on the floor by his knee. No way he could get past before Boxer reached it. A movement in the corner of his eye; Grey-face was getting to his feet. Fuck. Do something.

The light on the landing flicked on: someone coming up the stairs. Make a noise, scream. Couldn’t remember how. He tried again, got something out. A young man holding a six-pack of VB appeared in the doorway. Grey-face stepped back into the bedroom.

VB was looking at Boxer, his mouth moving. Jesus, asking if Boxer was all right.

‘Get the police,’ Caleb yelled.

The young man’s head jerked up. ‘What?’

‘Police. Get the police.’

VB shuffled backwards, but he was pulling out his phone.

Boxer still hadn’t gone for the knife. Maybe he didn’t want to commit murder in front of a witness. Maybe he was waiting for Caleb to get closer. Only one way to find out. He sprinted past. Out through the door, down the corridor, banging on doors. He should yell. Not enough breath, just run. Down the stairs, two at a time. Footsteps pounding behind him. Had to be Grey-face, Boxer couldn’t be up and running yet. Out onto the street. He needed people, a crowd. He turned the corner into Nicholson Street. Shit, where was everyone? Major thoroughfare – empty.

He ran south, pressing a hand to his side. A stitch, he had a fucking stitch. Unbelievable. A quick backwards glance. No sign of anyone. Down an alleyway. Dead end. Fuck. He slipped behind a bank of rubbish skips. Was Grey-face still following him? Creeping down the alley, knife in hand? Wouldn’t feel his footsteps on the concrete. Wouldn’t know anything until he appeared in front of him. A slow count to fifty, then he risked a look. No-one. He leaned against the wall and let out his breath. Thank God he’d learned to fight dirty as a kid.

‘Go for the nose and kidneys,’ his father had always said. ‘But never the privates. No-one will respect you for that.’

Something like a laugh in his throat. Or maybe a sob.

That knife. Was it the same one that slit Gary’s – no. No good could come from that line of thinking. The pain in his side was getting worse. He pressed his hand to it. Wet. How could it be wet? He lifted his fingers and peered at them in the dim light. Blood. A vision of Gary’s mutilated flesh swam before him. All right, get it together. He’d know if the knife had done any major damage. Wouldn’t he? Shit. He slowly lifted his top. The cut ran long and deep along his ribs, but his intestines seemed to be tucked safely away where they belonged. He lowered himself to the ground and concentrated on breathing for a while.

Cold now, a misting rain settling on his hair and clothes. He should get up and go to the cops. Another round of questioning, another round of accusations. McFarlane’s punchable smile. Go to a hotel, face it all in the morning. Except that his wallet was back at the flat with Grey-face and Boxer. Fucked. Just totally fucked. Where could he go? And the answer, when it finally came, was blindingly obvious: Kat. Kat would help him, no matter how much she hated him.

He was pretty sure.