Then there was a door opening into the alley to his right, a figure emerging as he ran by. He did not slow, but he took the pistol out, and broke into a sprint instead, weaving from side to side. There were other footsteps running behind him now, almost matching his own. Turning to cast a quick glance over his shoulder he saw flashes, and he felt himself being punched over against a wall.

He was able to squeeze the trigger once but then his arm fell as did everything else, sideways and buckling. He heard his own knees hit the cement, and the skin tearing as his momentum carried him scraping along the laneway.

He came to a stop, and felt his chest rising and falling on the slimy, cold cement. This new sideways world was way too bright. He’d need to lie here a few moments only, until he could figure out if he had broken something. Slowly, he flexed his fingers. The pistol was gone somewhere.

There were footsteps on the cement nearby, soft shoes at a walk.

Mulhall wanted to shout, but the voice that came out was a whisper.

“Hey,” it said.

He wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken the words.

“Why did you do that?”

It was his own voice. His chin and his cheeks were scraping the cement.

“Who are you?”

Someone was breathing hard nearby.

“Ma?” Mulhall said then. “Jesus, Ma. I’m having a terrible dream.”

There was a ticklish movement around his cheek, and something red flowed by his chin. A car started nearby but the noise soon died away. This is a concussion, he decided. He must have slipped or something.

“Going to wake up now,” he said, or thought.

He was being rolled over. The sky was blinding him.

He couldn’t focus his eyes. A shape moved dimly not far above him. He heard the strained breathing again, breathing out the nose. A black spot appeared between him and the shape above, wavering slightly, and Mulhall had a moment to conclude that it was the barrel of a gun.