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master chopsticks.
    ‘When they tell me the police take you away this morning, I think I lose good customer,’ she said.
    ‘Like I said, it was just a misunderstanding.’
    Mrs Chan reached over and grabbed his wrist, her nails biting into his flesh so hard that he winced. He tried to pull his hand away but her grip was unbreakable. She stared at him, her face a blank mask. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she said, though her thin lips barely moved.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she repeated, her voice robotic, her eyes staring through him.
    ‘Mrs Chan, what’s wrong?’ Her grip tightened and the nail of her index finger pierced his skin. Blood dribbled down his wrist.
    Mrs Chan’s jaw was clamped shut and she was breathing through her nose so hard that her nostrils flared with each breath.
    ‘Mrs Chan, are you all right? You’re hurting me.’
    ‘Please help me, Jack.’ The hand tightened and now all the nails were deep in Nightingale’s flesh and a drop of blood plopped onto the table. Nightingale stood up and tried to twist out of her grasp. Mrs Chan held on and he dragged her across the table. Her left arm sent the bowl of noodles and his bottle of beer crashing to the floor.
    Sue-lee came running and one of the cooks appeared at the kitchen door, a cleaver in his hand. He was wearing baggy grey shorts and a stained vest and he stared open-mouthed at Mrs Chan, who was sprawled across the table, still gripping Nightingale’s wrist.
    ‘Jack, what are you doing?’ shouted Sue-lee, grabbing her mother around the waist. Mrs Chan released her grip on Nightingale’s arm and staggered backwards. Her daughter held her and then Mrs Chan turned and sobbed into Sue-lee’s shoulder.
    ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘Your mum grabbed me.’ He held up his hand and showed her the wounds on his wrist. ‘Look what she did.’
    ‘Just go,’ said Sue-lee, stroking her mother’s hair.
    ‘Sue-lee, I was just sitting here.’ The cook stepped towards Nightingale, the cleaver held high. Nightingale raised his hands and backed towards the door. There were only a few customers in the restaurant but they had all stopped eating and were watching Nightingale in horror. ‘Okay, I’m going,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘And don’t come back,’ said Sue-lee emphatically as her mother continued to sob.

9

    She was wearing a white sweatshirt, a blue cotton skirt and silver trainers with blue stars on them. She was sitting on the wall of the balcony, her legs under the metal rail, her arms on top of it. Her name was Sophie Underwood, she was nine years old, and Jack Nightingale was the only person in the world who could stop her falling to her death.
    He took his pack of Marlboro and lighter from his pocket. He was on the balcony of the adjoining flat and there was a gap of about six feet between the terrace where he was standing and the one where Sophie was sitting, whispering to her Barbie doll.
    Nightingale lit a cigarette and inhaled as he tried to work out what he should say to the little girl. There had to be something, some combination of words said in the right way that would change her mind. He blew smoke and tried not to look at her. The words that would save her were just out of reach, at the edge of his consciousness. If he could just focus he’d come up with the right words and then everything would be okay.
    He was alone on the balcony and he knew that was wrong. Negotiators always worked in threes. Always. So why was he alone? He couldn’t remember how he’d got onto the balcony or why he didn’t have any back-up, all he knew was that he needed to find the right words to say to stop Sophie Underwood from falling to her death. Nightingale was on the balcony which meant that he was the Primary. Number One. It was the Primary’s job to communicate with the subject. That was what Sophie was. The subject. The person in crisis. The little girl who was about to fall thirteen storeys