‘Ricky, what the fuck is happening here?’ says Francisco.

I stand up slowly, feeling things crack in my knees, and step back to admire the result of my labours.

Then I turn away, and wave a hand towards Murdah. I have rehearsed this speech a few times, and I think I’ve got most of it down.

‘This man,’ I tell them, used to be an arms dealer.’ I move a little closer to the fire-escape, because I want everyone to be able to hear me clearly. ‘His name is Naimh Murdah, he is the chief executive officer of seven separate companies, and the majority shareholder in a further forty-one. He has homes in London, New York, California, the south of France, the west of Scotland, the north of anywhere with a swimming pool. He has a total net worth of just over a billion dollars,’ which makes me turn to look at Murdah, ‘and that must have been an exciting moment, Naimh. Big cake on that day, I would imagine.’ I look back at my audience. ‘More importantly, from our point of view, he is the sole signatory to over ninety separate bank accounts, one of which has been paying our wages for the last six months.’

Nobody seems ready to jump in here, so I press on for the coup.

‘This is the man who conceived, organised, supplied and financed The Sword Of Justice.’

There is a pause.

Only Latifa makes a sound; a little snort of disbelief, or fear, or anger. Otherwise, they are silent.

They stare at Murdah for a long time, and so do I. I notice now that he also has some blood on his neck - perhaps I was a little rough getting him up the stairs - but apart from that, he looks well. And why wouldn’t he?

‘Bullshit,’ says Latifa eventually.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Bullshit. Mr Murdah, it’s bullshit. Would you go along with that?’

Murdahstares back, trying desperately to judge which of us is the least mad.

‘Would you go along with that?’ I say again.

‘We are a revolutionary movement,’ says Cyrus suddenly, which makes me look at Francisco - because really it was his job to say that. But Francisco is frowning, and looking around, and I know he’s thinking about the difference between planned action and real action. It was nothing like this in the brochure, is Francisco’s complaint.

‘Of course we are,’ I say. ‘We are a revolutionary movement, with a commercial sponsor. That’s all. This man,’ and I point at Murdah as dramatically as I can, ‘has set you up, has set all of us up, has set the world up, to buy his guns.’ They shift about a little. ‘It’s called marketing. Aggressive marketing. Creating a demand for a product, in a place where once only daffodils grew. That’s what this man does.’

I turn and look at this man, hoping that he’s going to chip in and say yes, it’s all true, every word of it. But Murdah doesn’t seem to want to talk, and instead we have a long pause. A lot of Brownian thoughts rushing about, colliding with each other.

‘Guns,’ says Francisco eventually. His voice is low and soft, and he might be calling from miles away. ‘What guns?’

This is it. The moment when I have to make them understand. And believe.

‘A helicopter,’ I say, and they all look at me now. Murdah too. ‘They are sending a helicopter here to kill us.’

Murdahclears his throat.

‘It will not come,’ he says, and I can’t really tell whether he’s trying to persuade me or himself. ‘I am here, and it will not come.’

I turn back to the others.

‘Any time now,’ I say, ‘a helicopter is going to appear, from that direction.’ I point into the sun, and notice that Bernhard is the only one who turns. The rest of them keep on watching me. ‘A helicopter that is smaller, faster, and better-armed than anything you have ever seen in your lives. It is going to come here, very soon, and take us all off the roof of this building. It is probably going to take the roof as well, and the next two floors, because this is a machine of unbelievable power.’

There is a pause, and some of them look down at their feet. Benjamin opens his mouth to say something, or, more probably, shout something, but Francisco stretches out a hand and rests it on Benjamin’s shoulder. Then looks at me. ‘We know they are sending a helicopter, Rick,’ he says. Whoa.

That doesn’t sound right. That doesn’t sound remotely right. I look around the other faces, and when I make contact with Benjamin, he can’t control himself any longer.

‘Can’t you see, you fucking shit?’ he screams, and he’s almost laughing, he hates me so much. ‘We’ve done it.’ He starts to jump up and down on the spot, and I can see that his nose has started to bleed again. ‘We’ve done it, and your treachery has been for nothing.’

I look back to Francisco.

‘They called us, Rick,’ he says, his voice still soft and distant. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

‘Yes?’ I say.

They’re all watching me now, as Francisco speaks. ‘They’re sending a helicopter,’ he says. ‘To take us to the airport.’ He lets out a sigh, and his shoulders drop a little. ‘We’ve won.’

Oh for fuck’s sake, I think to myself.

So here we stand, in a desert of gritty asphalt, with a few air-conditioning vents standing in as palm trees, while we wait for life or death. A place in the sun, or a place in the dark.

I have to speak now. I’ve tried a couple of times already to get myself heard, but there was some loose, foolish talk among the comrades of throwing me off the roof, so I held back. But now, the sun is perfect. God has reached down, placed the sun on the tee, and is, at this moment, rummaging in his bag for the driver. This is the perfect time, and I have to speak.

‘So what happens?’ I say.

Nobody answers, for the simple reason that nobody can. We all know what we want to happen, of course, but wanting is not enough any more. Between the idea and the reality falls the shadow, and all that. I take some loos from all quarters. Absorb them.

‘We’re just going to hang about here, is that it?’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Benjamin.

I ignore him. I have to.

‘We wait here, on the roof, for a helicopter. That’s what they said?’ Still nobody answers. ‘Did they by any chance suggest we stand in a line, with bright orange circles round us?’ Silence. ‘I mean, I’m just wondering how we could make this any easier for them.’

I direct most of this towards Bernhard, because I have the feeling that he’s the only one who isn’t sure. The rest of them have clutched at the straw. They’re excited, hopeful, busy deciding whether or not they’re going to sit by the window, and if there’ll be time to get duty frees - but, like me, Bernhard has been turning every now and then, squinting into the sun, and perhaps he’s also thinking that this would be a good time to attack someone. This is the perfect time, and Bernhard is feeling vulnerable up here on the roof.