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towards his elderly BMW estate, he stopped to light a final cigarette for the evening. Kjersti did not let him smoke indoors. A strong wind was blowing and he had
to cup his hands over his lighter to prevent the flame being blown out. He heard a car slowing down alongside him, but concentrating on the cigarette, he ignored it. He ignored the sound of the
door opening, too, as he clicked the lighter for the third time.
    Then he dropped the lighter and the cigarette fell from his mouth as an agonizing vice clamp gripped his arm so hard he cried out in pain.
    ‘Sorry,’ said the Apologist, yanking him into the rear of the car, across his knees, and slamming his head into the offside door, dazing him. Then he pulled the door shut.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, as the car shot forward.
    The interior of the car smelled of leather and stale cigar smoke.
    ‘What the—?’
    ‘I’m sorry. I truly am. You have to believe me. I don’t like hurting people.’ Then he gripped the man’s left thigh, trapping the nerve. Moore screamed and writhed
in so much agony he was unable to speak.
    ‘I’m sorry. Don’t know my own strength.’
    Moments later, Moore felt his phone being removed from his pocket.
    ‘Hey!’
    The Apologist was six foot seven inches tall and weighed three hundred and forty pounds, most of which was muscle, and not much of which was brain. The last time he had been in prison,
he’d thrown a full-size fridge up two flights of stairs. Because he was angry. It wasn’t good to be around him when he got angry.
    Moore was panting and sweating. In the glare of oncoming headlights, he saw the man’s face above him. He looked almost Neanderthal, his high forehead capped with a fringe like a
monk’s tonsure. ‘What do you want?’ he gasped. All he could see of the driver in front of them was shaggy hair beneath a chauffeur’s cap.
    ‘Nothing,’ the Apologist replied. ‘I’m just doing my job. It’s not a nice job. I need the code for your phone.’
    Moore screwed his eyes up in agony. The car was turning left. More streetlights flashed past. ‘You’ve made a mistake. I think you want someone else.’
    The Apologist squeezed his leg, making Moore scream again. ‘Please trust me, I haven’t. I haven’t made a mistake. You’ll have to trust me on that. I need the
code.’
    Now the car was turning left again. ‘Where – where are we going?’ Ricky Moore gasped, both in agony and terror.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said. ‘I can’t tell you. You have to believe me. I’m truly sorry.’
    He noticed for the first time music playing. A choral sound. ‘Ode To Joy’, although he didn’t know its name, nor did he appreciate the irony. Classical music wasn’t his
thing. It sounded sinister and creepy. He saw the tail lights of a vehicle ahead, through the windscreen. They seemed to be following it along a dark country lane.
    Then he felt the vice-like grip on his left thigh again.
    ‘Stop!’ he screamed.
    But the grip kept tightening.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said, ‘but I have to make sure you don’t try to run away. I’m sorry if I’m hurting you, I really am. The gentleman who wants
to see you won’t be nearly as gentle. Trust me. Now the code, please.’
    Moore gave him the four digits. He saw his captor tap them in and the display came alive.
    The vehicle in front, a Range Rover, halted and the Mercedes stopped behind it. A man walked up to the rear window, and Ricky Moore became increasingly afraid. He heard the window go down, felt
the cool breeze on his face, smelled freshly mown grass, heard the rumble of the Range Rover’s engine. He saw his iPhone being passed through the window, then it closed again.
    ‘Hey! I want that back,’ he said.
    His captor said nothing. Several minutes passed. The Range Rover remained static in front of them. Then, suddenly, it drove off. The Mercedes followed.
    ‘My phone!’ Ricky Moore said.
    The Apologist squeezed his thigh