When I lean over the man, his hand instinctively reaches out to grip my wrist. He is dying in a narrow alleyway, but he is a fighter. There is still surprising strength in his grip.

‘Who are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m a doctor.’

He lets go of my hand and grips my shirt. ‘Don’t let them hurt her,’ he whispers urgently.

Then his eyes dim and he starts to lose consciousness. I rip his blood soaked shirt open and see the gash. It’s pretty bad. Blood is seeping out like a hot water spring. I also don’t miss all the tattoos that immediately identify him as someone from the Russian mafia. As I press my hand to the wound, I see a man dragging himself along the ground towards us. His face is contorted with pain and his leg is broken. Behind him I see more bodies on the floor, but they are not moving.

‘It’s not what you think it is,’ he says. He has a lisp that makes him sound like he is hissing. ‘Don’t get involved. It is dangerous for you. My people are on their way. You better run, pretty boy, and quick if you want to stay pretty.’

I look at the unconscious man. He took them all down on his own. That means he’s lethal, but if I don’t do something to stop his wound from bleeding out he will die. I look at the creature dragging himself along the ground. The last thing I need in my life is to get involved in some Russian Mafia gang fight. My car is parked less than a few feet away. I can be identified by it, and they will come after me. I glance again at the man’s wound. First rule of medicine: Do no harm.

Oh, fuck it.

I look at the guy slithering towards me. ‘I suggest you stop right there. Don’t come an inch closer.’

He stops and makes a strange sound. Presumably, he is cursing me in Russian. ‘Are you stupid, boy? A whole team of men with knives and guns are on their way here. I have seen you and even if you kill me there is a security camera at the top of this street. They will identify you. They will come after you. You are a dead man walking. He is almost dead anyway.’

‘Whatever. Stay right where you are, or I will have to kill you myself.’

His eyes bulge with incredulity. ‘This man is nothing to you. You don’t know him at all. Do you know he is a contract killer? He has killed many people. He is not a good man. You want to kill for him? Or worse, give up your life for his?’

I look down at the wounded man. He does look dangerous, and I can well believe that he could be a contract killer. He has the eyes and physique for it, but even at the moment he believed himself to be dying, his only concern was for saving a woman. I’ll take my chances with him any day.

‘You’re making a big mistake,’ the other guy says.

‘Shut the fuck up.’ I take my jacket off and rip my shirt off quickly.

‘You are a fool. I promise you my men will arrive any moment now.’

‘Another word out of you and my boot’s going to end up in your mouth.’

I tear my shirt into wide strips and tie them together to make a long bandage. I look around at the walls of the alleyway. There is a black water pipe. I run to it. My guess was right. It is full of spider webs.

I take my credit card out of my wallet and as fast as I can, collect the spider’s web behind the pipe in my hand. Then I run the edge of the credit card along my palm so that all the white strands end up on the card.

Getting on my haunches, I press my credit card spider’s web side facing his wound. Spider silk helps stop bleeding and speeds healing. I learned this little gem from an old African healer. Holding the credit card tight against the wound, I tie the shirt-bandage firmly around his chest. I tear the ends and tie it up.

I feel his throat. His pulse is weak but steady.

I glance around. His mates have still not arrived. I might just make it. I cover the wounded man with my jacket and go and unlock my car. I open the passenger door and put the seat down. Running back to him I get behind him. Putting my hands under his armpits I carefully sit him upright. Then, using my body as a wall to help support his weight, I stand, lifting him up with me. Once standing I take a deep breath.

He’s a big guy and my next move has to be lightning fast.

Grasping his right hand and holding it at 90 degrees to his body, I duck under it, and pop up in front of him before he can collapse on me. Still holding his wrist, I bend my knees and use the fireman’s lift to get him on to my shoulders.

With him securely and mostly balanced over my right shoulder, I jog as fast as I can to my car. I’m conscious that any moment the other guy’s compatriots could turn up and I’m really not in the mood, or drunk enough, to take on a bunch of guys wielding knives and guns.

‘You won’t get away with this,’ the guy on the ground threatens. There is a tinge of desperation to his voice. The guy is shit scared of the reaction of whoever ordered the hit.

As I lay the man in the front seat, sweat is dripping off my body, even though it is a cold mid-October night. I close the door and jump into the front seat. As I am driving out of the street I see the thugs drive into the road in a blacked out black Merc.

I knew instantly it was them because one of them has his glass down and his elbow is resting on the edge of the window. A blind man couldn’t miss those tattoos. As our cars pass I look in and see them. You can tell they are thugs from a mile away – they have hard, mean faces and they look pissed as hell.

Well done, Jack. You just fucking missed them by seconds.