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There was a flurry of shouting and pushing. People arguing with their friends, or gesturing at the other group. Then Luiz pulled himself free of Alberto’s grip and launched himself at the captain, jarring the table sideways. Fitz leapt back, grabbing his dead glass to stop it toppling. Three of the captain’s men put themselves in the way of Luiz but the huge man was roaring with anger, throwing punches hard. Fitz looked about, started trying to edge around the sudden melee. Then something got thrown, smashed into the wall above his head. Fitz ducked after the impact, cursing as splinters fell into his unkempt hair.

‘Bloody great.’ There was no way out of the bar now, the whole area was full of shoving and yelling. Customers near the door had already piled out and the barman had grabbed a broom and was swinging it at the mass of fighters, yelling for them to get out. Fitz started shoving along the wall, keeping his head low, still clutching the empty glass. ‘Excuse me, coming through, not involved, lemme out.’

The scrum heaved in his direction, knocking the wind out of his chest and crushing him up against the wall. An elbow dug into his ribs. ‘OK, that’s it.’

Fitz shoved back, lashing out with his arm. He didn’t even know who he was aiming for. All the sides had become tumbled into one giant mass of limbs and glimpses of faces, rolling around the room, crashing into things. But as soon as he lashed out, someone kicked back and he found himself entangled with the edge. He stopped looking at what he was doing, just pushed and shoved and shouldered and kicked. One hand curled the glass into his chest, almost like a talisman. He felt like he was running at a different speed, reacting faster, the adrenalin making his head rush. A broad back smashed into him, crushing his curled hand against his chest. Angry, he shoved back. A mechanical sound was crashing repeatedly over the brawling yells. Fitz heard the sound a few times before he recognised it for what it was: someone was firing a handgun.

Then hands were grabbing people, pulling them apart.

More uniforms. Fitz found himself hauled to his feet, roughly pulled forward. The new arrivals included two men in civvies who somehow didn’t look too civil. Secret police? Luiz was outside and running. Fitz couldn’t see what was going on outside the bar, his view blocked by the group. The officer that had arrived along with the reinforcements was shouting at them all in Spanish, Fitz was barely listening. With the rush of the fight gone, he was swaying on his feet and was more concerned with staying upright than trying to keep up with the haranguing they were getting. God, he was exhausted. He started to imagine crashing on to the tiny single bed in the Doctor’s room, the one that never got slept in anyway. The clean dry linen... the relative silence.

‘Hey!’

One of the guards was grabbing his bicep, hauling him upright again. He was aware of his arm being pulled forward, his hand turned palm upwards. Then he realised that the steady ache from it was because of the cuts. Long shallow gashes, all along the inside of his hand. Well done, Fitz, carry a glass during a bar fight and don’t use it as a weapon. He was being pulled forward, out into the street, his good arm firmly gripped. He noticed absently that the people who had gathered to watch the fight had scattered. On the other side of the narrow lane, one woman stood watching, holding her child against her legs. Fitz tried to grin at her but he could feel his legs buckling. The guards on either side of him kept him moving, his feet stumbling over the cobbles. Then he was being guided into the back of a battered Citroën.

‘Am I going to the hospital?’ he asked one of the men as the doors slammed. The guard laughed.

‘Oh, you’re going to get the treatment all right.’

* * *

The door was ajar, the lock smashed.

It had been surprisingly easy to gain access. The PSUC had been stuck besieging the anarchists within the building, unable to get