Bates hit the broken and rather nasty pavement in front of the permanently open entrance to Hooligan’s. As he lay there amid splashes of used beer and squished wads of gum, in his mind he played back the stimulus that had triggered his flight response: Gunfire.

Single shots at intervals; so, from an individual shooter who couldn’t afford an automatic weapon. Glass tinkled somewhere overhead; so that was the target. Perhaps this would not be a good place to seek lodgings for the night. Not that he could afford them. He couldn’t even afford the tram ride here.

But now he had a moneymaking idea. Since that shooter was alone for the moment, and was looking up at his target, and probably had a wallet like most normal people, and nobody was likely to object if Bates interrupted him, probably for a very long time …

Bates stood, kicked off his shoes and padded into the gathering darkness, ears pricked for the source of the sound.