But now… now it was right there at my side.

I felt dizzy as we were taken across Maxwell's small but well-kept lawn. I started to fall, but the barrel of the Irishman's gun pressed tighter into my spine, forcing me forward. I straightened up, desperate to delay the inevitable as long as possible, and kept moving.

Maxwell's vegetable patch was as big as the lawn itself and was bisected by a path that ran up to where his land ended and the woods began. We walked in dead silence up the path and then on to the soft soil so that we were standing side by side, facing the tree line. The night was warm and silent, and I was conscious of drops of light rain beginning to fall on my head. I swallowed and stood stock-still, staring blankly into the pines, ignoring Maxwell. Ignoring everything.

The Irishman stood on the soil behind us, while Shaven Head remained on the path and produced a torch from his pocket. He shone it on the side of my face and I thought I heard him snigger. My bowels felt like they were going to open and I clenched my buttocks together, not wishing to humiliate myself completely in my final moments.

'Time to dig, gentlemen,' said the Irishman, a genuine enjoyment in his voice.

I didn't hesitate, slamming my foot down on the shovel with more strength than I thought I was capable of, and hurling up a pile of dirt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Maxwell hadn't moved, and I felt a sudden slither of hope. Was he going to make some kind of move? Do something that might save us?

Then he spoke. 'Listen mate, please. I'm nothing to do with this. He's the one you want. I don't know anything. He just came here tonight for a drink, that's all.'

'You know you're going to die,' said the Irishman, addressing Maxwell. His tone was calm and even, almost reasonable. 'But there are different ways that you can meet death. It can be quick, and comparatively painless. Or it can be slow and agonizing.' He emphasized this last word, letting it slide almost playfully out of his mouth. 'It's your choice which way it is, but I can promise you that if you don't do exactly as you're told, then by the time I'm finished with you you'll be begging me to finish you off.'

Maxwell at last got the message, and began digging.

And so we dug together. Dug our own graves. The adrenalin coursed through me as I worked, and the rain grew steadily harder. I was terrified, but the act of thrusting the shovel into the soil gave me something to concentrate on, and even though I knew that the moment I finished it would spell the end, I kept on going, if anything increasing my pace, as I concentrated my fear and impotence on the task at hand. It was as if I wanted to make sure my final act in this world was done in the best way possible so that I could leave it with my head held high.

'What's your name, my friend?' the Irishman asked Maxwell when his hole was half dug and mine two-thirds done. Shallow, but almost long enough for me to fit in. I pictured myself lying face down in it, a bullet in the back of my head, the rain drumming down on my corpse. Never to be found, or properly mourned by the two people I cared about most in the world: Yvonne and Chloe.

'They call me Maxwell,' he answered listlessly.

'And is that your real name?'

This time he didn't hesitate. 'No,' he said. 'It's Harvey Hammond.'

I almost laughed out loud. Harvey Hammond. What sort of name was that? How could you have a gangster going by the name of Harvey? I was beginning to realize now that the man whose violent past I was meant to be chronicling might not be all he had cracked himself up to be.

'And what has Mr Fallon told you, Mr Hammond?'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maxwell, Harvey, whatever the hell his name was, stop digging and stand up straight, turning round so he faced the Irishman. 'Everything,' he said, figuring no doubt that there was no way he'd be believed if he tried to lie. 'But I promise you, there's no way I'd tell a fucking soul about it. I'm not that kind of bloke. I don't get myself involved in things that don't concern me. And I'd rather die than talk to the law. I've never said a word to them in my life. Honest.' He wiped the rain from his eyes and I could see that his shoulders were shaking. 'Please,' he whispered. 'He's the one you want. Not me. I'll keep shtum. Not a word. I promise.' And then, louder, almost wailing with desperation, 'I fucking promise!'

I realized he was crying. Sobbing softly. And I felt sorry for him. I couldn't help it, even though he was trying to get them to kill me rather than him.

I kept digging, staring now at the sodden hole in the ground I was standing in, trying to remain as anonymous as possible, letting Maxwell get all the attention. Knowing, even without seeing it, that the Irishman had lifted his gun and was preparing to kill him.

'Please!' begged Maxwell – Maxwell the growling hard man with the scar on his face; Maxwell who was never fazed by anything; Maxwell who was now shivering and shaking like a wet kitten. 'Please don't kill me. I won't say a word. I swear it. I fucking swear it!'

'Turn round,' said the Irishman. 'Face the trees.'

Maxwell made a weird moaning sound, and didn't move.

I gritted my teeth and dug furiously, ignoring the burning feeling in my biceps as I tried in vain to shut the world out.

There was a sound like a cork being popped from a champagne bottle, barely audible in the rain, and Maxwell's legs went from under him. He fell on to his behind and remained sitting upright, his grizzled face a mask of pain, both meaty hands clutching at his injured knee.

The Irishman took two steps forward, stopping in front of Maxwell, the smoking gun barrel pointed down at his head.

I stopped digging, stood up straight, eyes fixed on the scene in front of me.

Maxwell looked up at his executioner and just for an instant his expression became calm as he accepted the inevitable. Then the popping sound came again and a line of blood sprayed from the back of Maxwell's head as the bullet hit him in the face. He stayed stock still for an incredibly long moment, then tipped over backwards, his eyes still open. A spent shell landed in the mud beside me as the Irishman casually pumped two further rounds into his body. Maxwell juddered violently, threw one arm uselessly into the air, then, as his fist hit the sodden ground with a loud slap, he lay absolutely still.

The Irishman turned my way, grinning at me. He briefly glanced at the hole I'd dug and seemed satisfied that it was adequate. Then he lifted the gun so that the end of the smoking barrel was pointed directly between my eyes. 'So, my friend, your turn. Same as before. I can do it quick, or I can do it slow. Now, be honest with me. Aside from Miss Boyd, is there anyone you've told about Miss Brakspear?'

If I answered him, I died. If I didn't answer him, I'd get kneecapped like Maxwell, and possibly worse. Either way my life was completely over, and for several seconds I was utterly incapable of speaking. I simply stared at him, unable to avoid seeing Maxwell's body as it lay bleeding in its shallow grave, conscious of the warm trickle of urine running down my leg. I hunted desperately for any possible sign of mercy in the cold, staring eyes, knowing there would be none. But still you look, because in the end it is your only hope as you scrabble around for any chance of staying alive for a few moments longer.

A stark choice. Give up Dom and enjoy a few more precious seconds, even though the end result would be the same. Or say nothing and go to my grave right now.

'Tell me,' he said, lowering the gun so it was pointed at my kneecap.

I opened my mouth. It felt as dry as a bone. The urge to give up Dom and stay alive just one more moment was almost unstoppable.

But then he turned his head in the direction of the cottage.