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times I had to resist throwing in bitchy little jokes like my National Trust comment.
    But then, when he said, “You’d recognize that if you did come here as a kid,” I was thrown. What did he mean by that? Didn’t he even believe me?
    Just as I challenged him over that, he took a phone call and simply lifted a hand off the wheel and held it up to silence me.
    And I stopped talking.
    I don’t know how he packed so much casual command into that gesture. I don’t normally do what I’m told.
    Scrub that. I’m never likely to do what I’m told.
    After the call, he asked me if I remembered the house he’d pointed out. I stared, but wasn’t sure, but I was still thrown by his accusation. I nodded, said, “I guess,” and wondered if that was the right answer. Why was I suddenly second-guessing myself? It was as if I was just confirming his doubts, whatever I did.
    The burnt-out pub threw me a short time later. It suddenly seemed to make things real. If even half of what he said was the truth then I really shouldn’t be in the car with a gangster like Dean Bailey.
    Later, we drove past a small park and some more old memories came back: playing there, chasing in and out of some of the houses nearby. I said this out loud but he didn’t seem to care. I think he’d already made his mind up about me and I felt frustrated: angry to be judged, not to have any say in things.
    Then he pulled over to the side of the road, turned to stare at me, suddenly very intense, and said I should just walk away: I’d got my answers, I didn’t have any more reason to stay here.
    Again, he could have been a character from one of those films. The gentleman villain, simultaneously chivalrous and threatening.
    And just as I was trying to work out whether to crumple like a delicate flower before him, or tell him exactly where to stuff his patronizing bossiness, the window just past his shoulder frosted then collapsed inward and I saw a hand, the grip of a pistol pulling away and turning to aim at Dean.
    I froze, and for a moment that drew itself out Dean stared at me, as if searching my features.
    Then everything was a blur as he threw himself at me, covering me, shielding me. Stubble scraped against my cheek, and I was stupidly aware of the sunglasses flying away from their perch on top of his head. His body was hard, taut, forcing me back into my seat, and then he pulled away, turned and peered outside.
    When he spoke his voice was far more calm than I could have imagined possible.
    “Putin,” he said. “Ask your little playmate to put his toy gun away, would you?”
    And with that, he swung his door open, dislodging another shower of shattered glass, and forcing his big assailant to skip backwards out of the way.
    §
    Acting on autopilot, I climbed out, too, brushing fragments of glass off my leather jacket and jeans.
    I looked across the roof of Dean’s BMW and saw three of them standing there.
    Dean was by no means short – easily six foot, maybe a little more – but the guy with the gun had a good six inches on him. Close-cropped black hair and a long, skull-like face gave him an appearance that would have been intimidating in any circumstances, gun trained on you or not.
    Standing at his side was another tall man, and now I saw why Dean had called him ‘Putin’. Tall, with thinning hair and a wide mouth over a shallow chin, he could have passed for the Russian leader.
    “Good afternoon, Mr Bailey,” said this man, his English flawless but with a definite East European accent. “How unfortunate for you that a stone appears to have kicked up off the road and chipped your window.”
    “Yeah, funny that,” said Dean.
    “These things don’t tend to happen if you stick to your own territory,” Putin went on.
    “My own territory? I fucking live on this street.”
    The man shrugged. “Maybe you should reconsider that,” he said. “Borders move. We Russians know that better than anyone. You would be well advised to learn that