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lesson, too. Times change, Mr Bailey. Ask your father.”
    I was frozen to the spot, watching this unfold before me. Now I managed to look left and then right. Cars passed by at the end of the street, but nobody was nearby – carefully avoiding this exchange, perhaps.
    I couldn’t believe I was witnessing this. Out in broad daylight on a London street. Two thugs, at least one of them openly pointing a gun. I remembered the burnt-out pub – Dean had blamed the Eastern Europeans for that, too.
    What had I walked into?
    Dean glanced across the car at me, then, and said, “Cuppa? I’m treating you.”
    Then he casually walked around the car, brushing past the silent Russian with the gun, pressing the button on his key-fob to lock the BMW.
    Looking back from the front of the car, he said, “I’ll be seeing you tonight, Putin.”
    Then he was at my side, taking my arm, hissing into my ear, “Walk like you own it, darling. Just walk like you fucking own it.”
    §
    I stood straight, held my head up high, and did my best to walk like I fucking owned it, whatever ‘it’ was.
    I fought every temptation to look back, to see if the two Russian gangsters were following us.
    “He had a gun!” I kept my voice low, as Dean had done. “He had a fucking gun , Dean.”
    “Believe me, I noticed.”
    He put a hand on my elbow, slowing me, steering me. We’d come to the front door of an ordinary-looking terraced house; as far as I could see, there was nothing to mark it out as special – as the home of someone whose East End crimelord credentials I was suddenly starting to take very seriously indeed.
    He opened the door, guided me inside, pushed the door to behind him, and I collapsed into his arms.
    “He had a gun ...”
    It took me a short time to pull myself together, to stop shaking and gibbering and repeating those words, and all that time he held me, arms strong around me. I realized I was aware of the rise and fall of his ribcage against me, of his aftershave, of his chin resting on the crown of my head as he stroked my hair with one hand and pressed between my shoulder-blades with the other.
    That firm pressure on my spine, and the gentle stroking of the hair on the back of my head, did their thing.
    My breathing slowed, and eventually my heart stopped trying to escape from my chest.
    He moved the hand from the back of my head, and tipped my chin up so that I was looking at him.
    His face was close, his breath hot.
    His tongue darted across his lips and I thought he was going to...
    He pulled away, stepped back, further into the building.
    “You fancy that cuppa?” he said.
    I nodded, mumbled a thanks . My mind raced – with what had happened in the street outside, with what had nearly happened here, just now.
    Had I been waiting for him to kiss me? Had I been wanting it?
    And then he’d pulled away, putting a halt on whatever might have been about to happen.
    A proper gentleman, of all things.
    I followed him along a dark passageway into a kitchen at the back. The interior of the house was crisp and modern, in complete contrast to the slightly shabby Victorian exterior. The kitchen was stainless steel and granite, concealed handles and smooth surfaces, everything in its place. It was either the kitchen of a remarkably tidy person, or someone who never did more than make the occasional cup of tea.
    “It’s the adrenaline,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The fear, the fight or flight response, and then, immediately afterwards, your body’s flooded with adrenaline and endorphins and you just want to have sex like wild animals. Nature red in tooth and claw, and all that. You don’t really fancy me – your body just wants to reproduce because it’s been exposed to danger.”
    I stared. He was being serious. “You’re right,” I told him. “I don’t fancy you. And I’m certainly not going to shag you just because some Neanderthal’s pointed a gun at me and I’m grateful you rescued my pretty little ass.”
    He