I thought I could turn the tables in my favour at the last second, but with one arm cold and stiff and another barely twitching I had to wonder what delusional corner of my brain that little mockery came from.

I thought the bullet wound was bad, that red-hot paralysing pain Dean's fingers pushed through my veins like hot irons. That was before my eye saw its last ever close-up, the shine of the sharp metal tip.

I thought of Hyde Park in winter, a blanket of snow and the dark city at night.

I thought of nothing whatsoever.