He senses it. A rush in the air that reminds him of tinfoil, of the bite of sulphur, of the scent of freshly mown grass, of blood, of crisp cotton and mint toothpaste. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and he hesitates, mind racing, pulse racing, on the cusp of turning on his heel and heading for the fire exit. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need.

Then the crowd parts and Justin is there. And Brian knows that he needs more than ever