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Jamie tried to pull his suede jacket tighter around him as the chill wind coursed through the dark street. The carrier bag containing his comfort-food shopping was cutting into his hands and the walk home seemed to stretch out longer and longer in front of him. He just wanted to be back in bed.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself as another gust of wind rushed past him, sending a chill across his whole body. The wind whipped away his words almost before they’d left his mouth, as though nature was trying to erase any evidence of his passage. It was at times like this that Jamie could quite easily believe that he was the last person on Earth.

The shopping bag pulled at his muscles and, without thinking, Jamie flexed his wrist. A hiss escaped from between clenched teeth and he stopped still as the acid sting lanced up his arm. He lowered the bag and brought his wrist up to look at the reopened cut. A scarlet tear leaked softly from the ugly slice and Jamie stared at it, as morbidly enthralled with the sight as he had been the first time he’d opened it. The world seeped away and he stood stupidly in the middle of an empty pavement, gazing at the blood rolling a languid trail down his arm.

Every time he looked at the cuts, he felt like he was being torn in two. The self-indulgent hurt disgusted him, yet he couldn’t see the slice in his skin without wondering what would happen if next time he went a little bit deeper, pushed the knife a little bit harder, forced his courage a little bit further. What if he could escape the hurt?

A wet drop landed squarely on top of his head and Jamie looked up just in time to get another neatly in his eye. Great, this was all he needed, he thought as he picked up the bag of shopping. If it started chucking it down then his new jacket would be…

The screech carried on the wind, cutting Jamie’s train of thought dead and he started, dropping the bag again. That had sounded almost human. He shuddered, trying not to let his imagination run wild. The wind distorted all sounds at this time of night; many was the time he’d heard banshee screams that’d turned out to be fighting cats, or wounded foxes.

Jamie shook his head and stepped out into the road. He had only taken one foot from the pavement when a sixth sense pulled him back and out of the way of the Vauxhall Nova that roared past, obnoxious music throbbing from the open windows.

He stood for a second watching it drive away and took several deep, ragged breaths. The wind had completely masked the noise of its approach and he hadn’t seen it at all. Half a second slower and he would’ve been under the wheels.

The very thought of an end was so tantalising; not so much a curtailing, but a panacea. Everything was harsh and cruel and cold and every turn he took led him deeper and darker. Jamie closed his eyes and tried to imagine it; being without the pain, the loneliness, even if that meant not being. It seemed a dream beyond price, not something that could be reached at the end of a blade. The cold air burned against the fresh opening on his wrist and Jamie clenched his fist, widening it a little further to revel in the pain. Just a little deeper, just a little darker. The temptation tore at him.

The long drawn out screech echoed down the narrow street again and Jamie shivered. Even though he knew that there was a perfectly mundane explanation, the sound was still chilling. He strained his ears, trying to hear where it had come from, but the only sound now was the howling of the gale. Jamie drew his coat tighter around him and started walking again, shifting the carrier bag from one hand to the other.

Suddenly the wind dropped and Jamie could hear voices. The words were impossible to make out, but he could tell their location; a dim dark alleyway to the right. A heart-rending scream cut through the night air again, unimpeded by the wind this time. It was a cry of pure fear and pain and it was coming from that alley.

Jamie listened for more. He didn’t want to go look. He wanted to go home. He wanted to curl up in bed and drink his vodka. There was nothing else though and Jamie took a step in the direction of home, wanting to forget the whole thing. Then he turned on his heel and walked towards the noise. He had to look, he had to know. He couldn’t walk past without knowing for certain. Even if it was just fighting cats, he had to know.

He reached the corner of the alley and looked around, only to pull back immediately and flatten himself against the wall. The rough brick scraped against the suede of his leather jacket with a rasp and Jamie held his breath, praying he hadn’t been seen. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited one second, then another, then another.

This wasn’t his problem. He didn’t have to be here, hell, he shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t his world. His world was sharp acts of desperation and long nights of pain, not what lay in that alleyway. Jamie counted to ten in his head and then peered around the corner again.

Two men loomed in the alleyway, their backs to him. They looked like nightclub bouncers or heavyweight boxers, except Jamie was fairly certain that bouncers weren’t allowed to carry 9” hunting knives.

The only thing that had stopped him running was the creature that cowered between them, penned into a corner. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. God only knew what she was doing out at eleven o’clock at night in this part of town. She was tiny and she was frail and she looked utterly petrified.

Jamie quietly laid the carrier bag down on the floor and fished in his pocket for his mobile. Of course, he didn’t have it with him. He had only been nipping out to the shops, why would he take his mobile?

What could he possibly do here? He couldn’t even think of trying to make a difference himself; it wasn’t what he did. He couldn’t do anything but go home and call the police. He couldn’t make a difference.

He took another glimpse around the corner. The girl looked up just as he did and he saw her face clearly. Her eyes were pleading, desperate and Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat. The police could take hours. He was the only person who could do anything.

Jamie reached down and very carefully removed a bottle of vodka from his carrier bag, lifting it out with the greatest care, trying not to rustle the bag. He wrapped his fingers around the neck and took a deep breath. He could walk away from this. He could go home, phone the police, give them all the information and then convince himself that he couldn’t have helped anyway. This wasn’t his business.

An iron band fastened around his chest and Jamie forced his feet to move, carefully moving into the alleyway, his vodka clutched in his white knuckled hand. His breath rasped too loudly and every footstep sounded like a thunderclap as he crept closer. The girl was sobbing now, her head buried in her knees and Jamie prayed, begging all gods that the men would keep their eyes on her just for a moment longer, just a couple more metres.

Another inch, another step, moving ever closer. The men were laughing and joking in front of him, one of them waving the knife casually about. Jamie could see the blade far too clearly. It was wickedly serrated and the glint of the edge was enough to make him pause. He shouldn’t be playing at hero; he should be fetching the real heroes. What did he think he was going to do?

Suddenly the knife-wielder turned. Jamie froze in a ridiculous Grandmother’s Steps parody, almost expecting the man to yell “Gotcha!” There was a second of absurd still as they stared at each other and Jamie could hear his pulse throbbing, heart beating a carioca against his ribs in the strange silence. Then the knife-wielder opened his mouth to yell.

The movement shook Jamie out of his lethargy. He raised the bottle and swung it down as hard as he could on the knifeman’s head. There was a dull crunch and something gave. A bolt of pain shot through Jamie’s arm, every muscle cramping with the sudden impact and the vodka fell from his suddenly numb fingers with a clink. The knifeman crumpled as his partner twisted to see what had happened.

The girl screamed and scrambled to her feet, slipping over in her haste to flee. The other man ignored her, turning on the intruder. Jamie straightened, trying to use the last of his element of surprise to throw his fist at the other man’s head, but before he could even connect, his arm was deflected and the counterpunch thudded into Jamie’s solar plexus.

He slumped as every molecule of air was expelled from his lungs. Colours swam across the inside of his eyelids and he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. His hands clutched at his stomach and any moment he expected the big man’s boot to come down on his head.

It never came. When he raised the strength to look up, the man had gone and so had the girl.

He rocked back to sit down, careful not to let his suede jacket touch the ground, and tried to gain his breath. The knifeman lay on the ground in front of him, open-eyed and unmoving and Jamie suddenly realised that he’d killed a man. He stared at the body for a second, fascinated with the way it looked exactly like the person it used to be, yet utterly and completely different.

The girl was gone though and Jamie felt a genuine smile cross his face. He’d saved her. He, Jamie Davidson, had saved someone’s life.

He put both hands on the floor and tried to lever himself to his feet, already wondering how he’d even start the 999 call. There was a sudden ache all across his midriff and all strength leaked instantly from his arms, dumping him back on the floor. His breathing hadn’t slowed at all and it felt like he was having to breath faster and faster just to draw in the same amount of oxygen. Nausea rushed over him and the world span. Jamie dropped his head as the pain grew, pressing his hand to his stomach. It came away wet.

Jamie opened his eyes and looked down at his palm. It was covered with something red and sticky and warm. He stared at it incredulously, suddenly very aware of the cold of the alleyway as he realised the same substance had formed an unruly blossom of colour on his t-shirt. A blossom that was growing. Jamie’s fingers fumbled helplessly with the tear in the material, his mind incredulous of what his eyes were telling him. This… this was impossible. He slumped back against the wall, careless of his jacket now, wheezing as his chest struggled to draw in oxygen. Somehow, his own blood didn’t seem so enthralling anymore and Jamie looked around the alleyway, frantically searching for something to save him. This couldn’t be happening, it was just… just wrong.

Phone. He needed his phone. He needed to call someone, anyone. This couldn’t be happening to him.

Across the alleyway, a small pink phone started to ring and Jamie stared at it. It must’ve been the girl’s. What a stroke of luck it was – all he had to do was to walk two metres and he could phone for help. All he had… to do…

The dizziness rushed over him again and Jamie felt sick. Why couldn’t he move? It was two metres away, just two goddamned metres and he couldn’t move. Darkness encroached on his vision, but Jamie still stared, watching that tacky, garish mobile phone purring its polyphonic ringtone on the tarmac of the filthy alley. He didn’t want to die. He’d cut his wrists and walked out in front of cars, but now it came down to the crux, he knew. He didn’t want to die. He had to get up, he had to move… this couldn’t… wasn’t happening… not to him… had to…

Then the darkness covered him and all was still.

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