‘Does sir have an appointment?’ she says, and I would guess California by the way she wobbles her head on appointment.

Tommy nods equably. ‘Yep, sir does. Fully loaded with another few clips in his bag.’

The nurse waves a pink nail towards the waiting room. ‘We’re all armed here, sir. I got a Colt pointed at your privates right now. So take a seat, cos if this thing goes off, even the doc can’t do much about it.’

It’s strange, all this melodrama in one afternoon. But it doesn’t seem real or wrong in the heat. My brain sizzles inside the gourd of its skull and the walls sizzle and crack.

Bloody flies are huge.

Two women in floral head wraps argue over a Madonna article.

‘Sorry, miss,’ says Tommy. ‘We’re on a schedule.’

Things happen quickly then, and when I try to piece it together, images jump and flicker like an old VHS that’s been taped over one too many times.

The nurse comes out of her seat and she does indeed have a large handgun in her tiny fingers. Suddenly the gun is in my hands. I must have twisted it away from her. Don’t recall really. Training took over. Tommy’s gone down the corridor and I remember thinking: Okay, enough is enough. I don’t know what this is, but I need to extricate myself. Hell, I could bash my way out into the street through one of these walls.

But I don’t go anywhere except after my sergeant.

The corridor is lined with posters, faded in the sun. I remember seeing ET and one of the Connery Bonds, then we’re at a door. Someone has written DOCTOR in thick marker.

‘Oh Jaysus,’ says Tommy. ‘Isn’t that handy now?’

And in he goes, with me at his elbow and the nurse close behind cursing us both for sons of bitches. Inside the door we see a rudimentary surgery with plastic on the floor and a man in a white coat sticking a large needle of reddish gunk into another man’s dick.