It takes about fifteen minutes to run from the station to Death’s office. The place is part of a block of terraced shops and apartments that straddle a dilapidated park. The air carries the stench of the traffic jam a couple of roads down.

Walking in, it’s not the most scary office – it doesn’t do its name justice (The Execution Room). The walls are white, with a patch of wet paint behind the reception desk, underneath which I can see a couple of splotches of red.

“Nice trainers!” Dave’s blonde and largely oblivious girlfriend, Tessa, yells at me from the desk.
“Thanks,” I grunt, not bothering to say ’They’re spats’. Honestly, I’m not in the mood to be making idle chit-chat, and nor would she if she had any braincells. Instead she chirps into her headpiece “Sam’s here!” then nods a couple of times, blue eyes (I was sure they were grey last time) staring vacantly at the wall behind me, then presses a few buttons (individually, like a child) and says, “He says sit and wait.”

Damn, he knows I hate waiting.