Dylan scanned the notes he’d typed up for his last client of the day. To his frazzled brain, they didn’t make much sense, but he was hoping that would change when he looked them over tomorrow.

With a weary sigh, he began the slow task of shutting down the ageing PC. It hummed and rattled like a dying helicopter, signalling that it would take a while to close all the open applications, so he turned his attention to his phone. Two messages from Angelo lit up the screen and his heart skipped a beat.

A: Are you nearly finished?

A: Fuck it. I’m gonna come meet you

Joy roared in Dylan’s ears. He spoke to Angelo every day, but it had been nearly a week since they’d last seen each other. Dylan’s extended working hours meant he’d get home too late to catch Angelo awake, and God, he missed him. His fingers flew across his screen as he tapped out a reply.

D: You sure? I’ll be done in half an hour

A: Perfect. I’ll be there

Dylan set his phone down, excitement battling an irritating rush of anxiety as he fought the urge to tell Angelo to stay put and wait for him. Trust him, remember? He wouldn’t come out if he didn’t feel up to it. Angelo seemed to have good and bad spells, but he’d been working hard with his physiotherapist and testing himself a little more each day. And even when his body wouldn’t play ball, the change in his personality was startling. His smile, his laugh⁠—even when he was tired⁠—were both so genuine that Dylan dreamed of them every night he wasn’t lucky enough to see Angelo in person.

“You’re grinning like a maniac again.”

Dylan jumped as Helen came up behind him and dumped a stack of files on his desk. “Huh?”

Helen laughed. “The grinning, Dylan. You’ve been at it all week.”

“Have I?” Dylan cringed. “Sorry. Just in a good mood, I guess.”

“That’s not something you need to apologise for. I take it you’re sleeping better?”

“A bit. I’m freaking out less about work too. We’ve cleared most of the backlog, right?”

“Most of it,” Helen agreed. “You know what it’s like, though. We’re bound to get⁠—⁠”

The office door opened, cutting Helen off. Tony, the volunteer who often manned the waiting room, poked his head in. “We’ve got an overflow.”

“How many?” Helen asked.

“Three. Shall I tell them to come back tomorrow?”

Helen glanced pointedly between the three of them⁠—one for each still waiting client⁠—and Dylan’s heart sank. Another client meant an hour of extra work, at least . . . an hour that Angelo might not have left in him after a long day of physical therapy.

He felt like crying as he composed the message to Angelo.

D: Last minute client. Gonna be another hour at least. Go home. I’ll find you x

He didn’t have time to wait for a reply.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed what he needed and trudged to the waiting room to retrieve a client. Tony had already taken one, so he nodded at the stocky man holding card number two. “If you’d like to come with me?”

He led the man to the room at the end of the corridor and waved him inside. “Take a seat. I’m Dylan, one of the advisors here. Can you tell me why you’re here today?”

The man sat down and unbuttoned his coat. He reached inside and withdrew a machete. “I’m here for my fucking money, mate. How about you?”

* * *

Fear did strange things to time. And time was a strange thing when fear didn’t manifest itself the way you might have expected it to. Dylan sat on the floor of the consultation room, his back to the corner, his hands on his knees, following the instructions of his apparent hostage taker to the letter.

“Does this phone come off the table?” the man asked gruffly.

“Depends what you want to use it for.” Dylan pictured his own phone lying useless in the next room. “Do you think you could put your knife away?”

“Nope. I’m not doing anything you say until you ring those bastards up and tell them to pay my missus her money.”

“What money?”

“Her family allowance, innit? Six months she’s been without it and you cunts have done nothing about it.”

Dylan eyed the grubby machete that was still on the desk within the man’s easy reach. “Family allowance doesn’t exist anymore. Do you mean child benefit? Or tax credits, maybe?”

“I don’t bloody know what it’s called, do I? All I know is we got a bunch of letters telling us we’d had too much money, then they stopped putting our money in the bank. Six times my missus has been down here and you cunts done nothing. Now the council want to take our house. Where the fuck are my kids gonna live?”

The man spoke lowly, but the flat tone in his voice frightened Dylan more than if he’d been shouting and throwing things around. This man wasn’t hysterical⁠—he had a plan . . . a plan that involved Dylan and a machete. “What do you want me to do?”

“Phone them up.”

“Who? I can’t resolve your situation if I don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. He banged his fist on the table, making the machete jump and slide closer to him. “Just call them!”

He threw the phone to Dylan and then stood⁠—grabbing the machete⁠—and moving across the room to stand over Dylan. “I’ve got the number right here, so don’t try any funny business.”

A scrap of paper drifted down towards Dylan as the door to the room opened. Tony stared in like a rabbit caught in headlights.

“Fuck off!” the man roared.

“Um . . .” Tony stuttered. “Dylan has a phone call in the next room. Could he step out for a minute?”

“No. He’s staying here until he’s sorted this mess. Don’t open that door again or I’m gonna hurt someone, I swear.”

Clearly lacking any better ideas, Tony disappeared, the door closing with a quiet click. Dylan eyed it and wondered if he was fast enough to scramble through the man’s legs and make a run for it, but a steel-capped boot connected with his shin before he could weigh it up.

“Dial,” the man growled.

Footsteps in the corridor spurred Dylan into action. He grabbed the piece of paper the man had tossed down to him and studied the number, recognising it immediately as the tax credits call centre. “If I call this number, we’ll be on hold for ages. There’s another one I can use that’s just for Citizens Advice centres and goes straight through.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No.” Dylan swallowed the fear bubbling up from his gut. “I think you’re in a hurry, and the quickest way I can help you is by calling a direct number. It’s on a clipboard in that drawer over there if you want to check it yourself.”

More footsteps and voices sounded from the corridor. Fabric brushed against the door and Dylan pictured Helen frantically trying to see through the tiny glass panel. Don’t open the door, woman. Dear God, don’t open the door.

The door remained closed. Dylan held eye contact with the man and nodded again at the desk drawer. “The number is in there.”

Keeping the machete trained on Dylan, the man backed up to the desk and opened the drawer. The clipboard with the telephone directory on it was right there, and he threw it at Dylan’s feet. “Don’t fuck about, mate. I’m not in the mood.”

Dylan inhaled a shaky breath and took the phone off the hook. “I’m going to need your name and national insurance number⁠—your wife’s too, if the claim is in her name.”

“What?”

“I need your information. I can’t negotiate a claim if I don’t know who it’s for.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No.” Dylan put the phone back in its cradle. “You’ve given me the number for a tax credits call centre. Who’s on the claim? You and your wife? Just her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you call her and find out?”

Dylan offered the man the phone and, for a split second, thought he’d take it, but then something changed in the man⁠—something snapped⁠—and the phone was kicked out of Dylan’s hands.

It sailed sideways and hit the wall, fracturing into three pieces. The man bellowed like an angry bull, then set about destroying the room while Dylan cowered in the corner. A chair flew past his head, scraping his knuckles, and the desk splintered as the man kicked and stamped at anything that crossed his path. The machete zipped through the air, slashing at the noticeboards, and Dylan covered his head with arms, waiting for the blade to bite into his flesh.

“I’m done with this,” the man shouted. “Someone’s gotta pay.”