My first coherent thought is that the ruined mess masquerading as my left leg is coated in treacle. I can feel the warm viscous liquid tracing its meandering course along the contours of my calf. The sensation isn’t unpleasant, it has a comforting; almost soothing quality to it.

My eyelids feel heavy and I allow myself the luxury of closing my eyes. It’s been a tedious car journey, I’ve still got to bank the store’s takings and…

‘You’re dying.’

Nonsense, I’m exhausted.

‘Can’t you smell it?’

I inhale deeply.

Immediately the coppery stench of blood permeates the air. I panic, dropping my hand onto the passenger seat. Instead of the familiar feel of the worn leather, my trembling fingers sink into a pile of coins.

I snatch up a handful of change, chuckling weakly.

I can’t feel my leg anymore, and it’s cold.

So cold.

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