‘The guy is about fourteen stone and has a face that looks like someone blasted him with a blowtorch, and his credentials, impressive, I’ve got to admit.’

Nothing, nothing in the world impressed Brant. He asked:

‘Impress me.’

The shooter entered the bar, the Browning Automatic in his jacket. He had racked the slide a moment before and was, so to speak, cocked. He saw the two cops at the bar. Got his stance in gear.

Porter said:

‘FBI Anti-Terrorist Squad, Special Ops, Homeland Security, and a whole batch of citations.’

Brant digested this and was about to make a smart-ass reply.

The shooter had the Browning out. He was about to squeeze the trigger when a woman pushed open the door, knocking him slightly off balance. He muttered:

‘Fuck.’

Tried to regain his balance, pulling on the trigger. Released a barrage of shots. Bottles exploded behind the counter, pieces of the counter flew in the air, and Porter pushed Brant to the floor, covering his body with his own. The gunman, seeing the cops down, hoped to fuck he’d hit something and legged it. People were screaming, a drunk, sozzled in the corner, came out of his stupor, asked:

‘Is it Christmas?’

Porter was on his radio, screaming:

‘Shooting, gunman heading from the King’s Arms on the Kennington Road.’ He stood up, the smell of cordite, mixed with the spilled booze, was heady. He looked down. Brant wasn’t moving and Porter bent, put out his arm, saw the hole in Brant’s back, he screamed:

‘Get a fucking ambulance.’

To his radio, he shouted:

‘Officer down, repeat, officer down.’

The drunk began to hum ‘Jingle Bells.’