It's difficult to explain, but the brain and the body do extraordinary things when you shock them.

You know those stories of elderly grandmothers lifting wrecked cars from the bodies of their family members? That kind of thing. The display of super-human feats of courage or endurance that mark the very limits of this human machine and are only ever plumbed in times of crisis or adversity.

With me it was very different. When Sharp drew his pistol and shot Ty at close range, my eyes took a photograph of incredible detail which burned itself into my mind then and forever.

As Edge was lifted and thrown backwards through the air like a rag doll, I saw the flicker of every wind-swept leaf, the ripple of a hundred thousand raindrops merging with the river and the slate grey billow of cloud overhead. As his hands clawed in vain, I noticed a silver ring worn on Ty's right index finger that I had never before seen. After he hit, white-spumed geysers of disturbed water reached for the sky then fell back in a splayed spatter of green. Then I saw myriad tiny bubbles rising to the surface and passing around the spread limbs of my face-down friend.

Still limbs.

I saw every tree on the distant hillside as a bolt of lightning arced across the heavens. Even the feeling of wind and rain on my face was heightened. I felt the impact of every droplet and the ruffle of every sodden hair on my head. It was as if God had pressed pause on his movie playback and left me running just to make sure that I took it all in.

Ty's body lay face down and motionless as the current took him swiftly away from the boathouse pool. He was semi-submerged, going under for several yards before rising again. He was, very obviously, dead. His body trailed a faint smear of red water as it picked up speed and turned the bend in the river some ten metres away.

Sharp stood stock-still, his gun arm still raised for a second or two after the report of the shot had echoed around the valley, competing with the thunder for attention. His shoulders jumped slightly in an irritable gesture as if he were trying to shuffle some raindrops from running down his neck. His shaved head shone white like a beacon in the rainstorm-enforced gloaming.

The two men who stood behind Sharp watched Ty's body depart with detached interest, their hands moving away from their weapons. The loan shark had acted so impulsively, and without warning, that they had not been able to draw before the deed was done.

Martha seemed to be showing no reaction at all, her eyes were glazed over with fear, and she rocked forward and back in time to the tune of her own demons. After the briefest pause, the world caught up with me and I felt something in my chest move akin to an actual physical tearing of flesh.

Bright colours jumped in front of my eyes and my throat constricted as if it were trying to save Sharp the job of killing me. Part of my brain felt anger; that a great wrong had been done and a good man was gone. Another more animal corner of my subconscious wanted to scratch a hole in the swampy earth and crawl into it; curl tight in the foetal position and wait for the storm and this nightmare to pass.

Three seconds... Three seconds was all it had taken to change my world forever, and the next three seconds changed it irrevocably again.

Sharp barely flinched. He barked an order at his two men, who moved between himself and where I hid. They began to gather the far-flung coins from the bag.

Sharp himself swung his still-extended gun arm in a downward arc from the position where Ty had stood to the spot where Martha kneeled, her arms still tied behind her and rain-soaked hair smeared across her face like streaks of mud.

Sharp's eyes narrowed and I swear I saw the sinews in his hand and forearm tighten, squeezing the trigger home and bringing about the end of Dr. Martha Wimple, just as he had Ty.

Without any conscious thought or command to my body, I was up out of the filth in which I had been crouched. With no pause for breath, I stepped out from behind the tree, and, with no idea how it had got there, the Glock was in my hand. An unintelligible scream burned in my throat as I raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

Again and again the pistol spat and leaped in my hand as lumps of metal flew through the air. Gone was the combat stance Ty had taught me. Forgotten were the wise words on controlling my breath and the clinical efficiency of a double-tapped two shots per target. All that remained of his teaching was the definite policy of aiming to kill.

In moments, I had emptied the magazine; firing wildly in a desperate bid to save Martha from an execution at the hands of a murderer. The first bullets flew high and wild, helped by my rage and urgency. They did however cause Sharp to desist from pulling the trigger and emptying Martha's skull into the boathouse pool.

He turned towards me with a look of utter bemusement on his face, his gun arm moving slowly up to point at me. I had no idea where my shots had gone, but without pausing I aimed entirely from instinct and continued to fire the Glock without pause.

The noise of the discharge must have shocked Sharp's men, both of whom rose from being bent double, picking spilled coins from the path. They stood directly in line between Sharp and me.

My fourth and fifth shots were prevented from striking the loan shark when they met the upper back and neck of the nearer of the two men, just as he straightened up fully.

The man gave a brief spasm as the first bullet penetrated high on the left side of his chest and there was a fine spray of blood that misted the air as the second ripped through his neck and tore out much of his throat.

None of this really registered in my mind.

All that seemed important was that Martha was still in danger and that I must keep pulling the trigger. As the man I had shot fell forwards and lay face down in the mud, motionless, she and Sharp became visible once more. Some feral instinct in Sharp had caused him to throw himself down, and he was edging away towards the cover of the scrub, wriggling like a snake.

Martha slouched in the sludge with the rain thundering around her and the bullets from my gun whipping past. She was spattered in the blood of the man that I had shot, her mouth was locked open, and I was dimly aware of the sound of screaming above the roar in my ears, but I have no idea whether that was from her or me.

The impact of the rounds that I fired bit into the ground around Sharp but failed to hit home on his crawling form. The shots thudded and sprayed him with dirt, water, and slivers of shattered stone, but none of them sank deep within him to end the peril that he represented to Martha and me.

Just as my aim was adjusting for this low and difficult target, I became aware of a new threat manifesting itself right in front of me. The remaining henchman was recovering from the shock of seeing a gun-toting apparition and the death of his colleague. He had reached inside the folds of his jacket and was withdrawing his own weapon.

My adrenaline-blinded senses realized that this guy would not miss as I had been, and as his hand came free of the interior clutching a pistol, I rapidly shifted my aim to the centre of his chest.

The Glock boomed twice more and then clicked empty. My first shot missed the man by a long way, I saw bark fly from a tree far behind him. The second attempt clipped him high on the right shoulder, luckily the arm holding the pistol, which was jerked from his grasp with the impact and flew away and into the underbrush at the side of the path.

I levelled my pistol at him and pulled the trigger twice more, even though the clip was already empty, that realization had not yet registered. The man's left hand clutched at his wounded shoulder and blood ran between his fingers, only to be washed away by the pouring rain. He stared at me, rooted to the spot. The fact that the Glock's magazine was spent finally sunk home with me and I flew at him, screaming my lungs raw.

I sailed through the air and crashed into him; knocking us both to the ground with a spray of muddy water. With the advantage of surprise still on my side, I fortuitously found myself on top of him and, raising my gun high, I brought the stock down on his head with all my force. There was a loud crack, and he went limp, slumping back to the path and offering no further resistance.

Whether he was dead or unconscious I did not stop to check. Instead, I scrabbled to my feet and looked around frantically. Sharp had gone but Martha remained, shrieking over and over. I ran the few paces to her side and hauled her bodily to her feet. She was unsteady and her knees buckled beneath her. I held her up and shook her.

"Run! We have to run for it!" I shouted to her, but she didn't seem to hear. Instead, she looked at me blankly, as if seeing me for the first time. I thought no more about it but slapped her hard across the cheek. Her head snapped to the side with the force of the blow and a red mark rose instantly.

"Martha! For fuck's sake, we have to get out of here. Run!" light returned to her eyes, and she nodded.

I propelled her across the path and towards the scrubland behind the boathouse. She stumbled and then began to run, her gait made awkward by having her wrists tied behind her. Still, she ran in the direction of the fort, the farmhouse and safety.

I took one last desperate glance through the trees but could not see Sharp anywhere. I turned and bounded after Martha with everything I had.

Foliage slipped and snapped past my body as I crashed through the scrub behind the boathouse. The air burned in my lungs, and I simply couldn't draw it in fast enough to satisfy the thumping of my heart and the ache in my legs. Flailing branches whipped against my exposed flesh and cut me, but still I barrelled along. The pouring rain ran down my face and stung my eyes, but each clap of thunder spurred me on as I imagined it to be the noisy report of a gun aimed at my back.

I caught up with Martha when she stumbled and fell. She was struggling to right herself and when I laid a hand on her back, she screamed.

"It's OK, it's me, Satchmo," I tried to sound as calming as possible, but my words came out as more of a yelp.

"Let's get these ropes off." I fumbled at the cord tying her wrists, but the rain had swollen the fibres and her wriggling had only tightened the bonds. My fingers felt numb, and it took me several precious moments to make inroads into the knots.

Almost as soon as I had removed the bindings there was a thumping report from the tree trunk next to which we were resting, and I felt a sharp pain in my cheek like a wasp sting. I raised my hand to my face, and it came away dark and red. For a few seconds I stared at the russet smear across my fingers, unsure whether it was mine or from one of the men I had attacked.

My question was answered shortly after when there was another thump and out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a bullet hole appearing in the wood and a shower of splinters being released.

"Shit! He's found us. Go!" I shouted and leaped to my feet, temporarily disorientated and unsure in which direction we should run. It took hearing the now familiar sound of several loud bangs from a discharging pistol to spur me to action.

I grabbed Martha high on her arm and half dragged her as we sprinted from the scrub out into the open towards the mound of the fort and the farmhouse away in the distance.

Putting one foot in front of the other at speed is a simple matter, but when your life depends on it you find new reserves you never knew existed. So it was that Martha and I flew across the sodden meadow and up the slight incline as fast as the wind that blew at our backs. I had given no thought of to where we might be fleeing, only that to do so was preferable to standing and dying.

I turned and caught a glimpse of Sharp, fifty metres away, emerging from the undergrowth; his long trench coat blowing around him like the Devil's cape and the barrel of the gun in his hand flashing in the stormy gloom. I heard a bullet fizz past me, its breath hot on my face and I pushed Martha ahead of me, that I might shield her the better.

Sharp was not running after us, he knew that we had nowhere to go and that sooner or later we must stop. I was driving us towards the barn and the spare magazine for the Glock which I knew was in the hayloft, but which, in my haste and inexperience, I had forgotten to collect before following Ty and the others down to the boathouse.

As my feet sped over the sodden grass, the realization that this was a pointless goal hit me with the crushing blow of a hammer to the skull.

I became acutely aware of the fact that I was no longer carrying the Glock at all, and that a spare magazine would do me little good unless I ejected the bullets and threw them at Sharp.

Somewhere after clubbing the henchman and fleeing with Martha I had left the pistol behind. Both of the fists that pumped the air as I ran were empty, as was the waistband of my trousers.

A flicker of defeat crossed my mind as the hopelessness of our situation fully dawned on me. Preservation surmounted though, and I kept running; urging Martha onwards with shouts so that even though Sharp was now trotting up the meadow after us, we were increasing the distance between us.

Maybe we would make it. We could get into the village, get help.

Just as I was accepting this as a possibility, and we came to within thirty metres of the farmyard, I tripped and fell.

I went down hard, the impact jarring my shoulder and sending me sprawling. I tried to get up and immediately collapsed back to the wet grass of the meadow. Something was wrong, I couldn't feel my right leg; it had gone numb and was no longer supporting any weight. It felt as though I had been kicked by a solid brickie wearing size twelve steel-toed boots.

I felt gingerly around the area and my hand came to rest on a patch of wet warmth around the top of my thigh. Had I been shot? There was no pain, but my whole leg felt like a joint of meat; as if I were wearing someone else's limb.

By this time Martha had noticed that I was no longer urging her on, and she had returned to my side, casting furtive glances back down the meadow at the figure of Sharp who marched stoically up towards us.

With her help I hauled myself to my feet and leaned heavily on her for support as we half-ran, half-hopped the last few metres to the farmyard. Once there, we froze like a pair of deer in a spotlight, undecided as to where we should best seek sanctuary.

Eventually something drew me to the barn, and we staggered inside where I collapsed among the broken bales of hay that lined the back wall opposite the door. Once out of the wind and rain, my leg began to throb, sending rippling waves of nausea through my body that started small but grew until I couldn't stand it. Martha curled by my side on the straw and uttered the first words I had say throughout the whole ordeal.

"Satchmo. You've been shot. You're losing a lot of blood."

"I've got a few pints to spare," I tried to raise a smile, but my face must have been pale and the appearance ghoulish, because Martha whimpered and fussed at the leg of my trousers now nearly black with rainwater and the blood pumping from a wound now making its presence felt.

"What are we going to do?" she cried, her shoulders shaking again. I clenched her wrist in my hand and drew her away from my wound, where every touch felt like colonic irrigation with a red-hot poker.

"Martha, you have to go Go now. Get into the village and call for help. You have to do it," I insisted.

She looked at me with those big almond eyes, liquid with tears and confusion. Her pupils looked like the yawning mouths of tunnels that bored into her core, and as I stared at them my vision blurred a little and I felt light-headed.

I broke her eye contact and looked down to where blood was flowing through the fabric of my trousers in little rhythmic pulses like a novelty fountain. Squirt, squirt, squirt. I smiled at the unusual nature of it, not wholly aware that it was my blood, my life, draining away.

Martha did not go for help, and in the end it would have been a hopeless task if she had tried, for when I looked up there was a figure standing in the doorway, wreathed in pummelling rain and the swirling tails of a long grey trench coat.

There was a fiendish grin on his face as he stepped inside the barn to prevent the heavy drops from bouncing off his shaven head. In his left hand he held the chrome pistol that had torn a hole in my leg, in his right he displayed a fresh magazine. He clicked the release catch with his right thumb and the empty clip dropped from the gun and landed on the floor of the hayloft with a thud.

"Not such a joke now, am I eh, motherfucker?" Sharp said.

I opened my mouth but could say nothing in reply, even if my brain were not seized in a spasm of fear, my throat felt suddenly parched and arid.

"I told you not to fuck with me..." he slid home the fresh clip and drew the slide to chamber a round "...and you killed a good man who has been with me for a long time. That has really pissed me off." He raised the pistol and levelled it at where we lay against the rear wall of the barn.

Sharp was swimming in and out of focus now, his words indistinct above the drumming of rain on the roof and a low whistling noise in my ears.

"Well, it's too late for the gold now, shithead, I'm going to have to clean up this mess the way I did with the professor and those Edge bastards."

With one last summoning of my strength, I pushed off the ground with my good leg and rolled across Martha so that the bullets would strike me, and that she might live.

There was a pause before the gun fired. I held Martha tight as she tried to wriggle free and I felt her breath on my neck and the silken touch of her wet hair on my cheek. When the bark of the pistol finally echoed around the barn it was not a surprise to me, and I smiled despite it all.

Bang, Bang. Just like that.

Knock-knock, who's there?

Tap-tap.

There was no pain, no thumping impact. I saw no bright light or tunnel and heard no angelic host ushering me to the Pearly Gates and the last interview with St. Peter.

I lay, confused. I had not felt the bullet that struck me in the leg. Perhaps it was the same now.

Maybe I was dead, and the process of death was utterly painless. I wondered briefly what all the fuss was about; dying was easy, a piece of piss, let's do it again!

My vision was completely blurred, and I attributed that to some obscure side effect of passing on; the transitional phase from mortal senses to heavenly ones. That is, until a hand clapped me firmly on the shoulder and rolled me onto my back and away from Martha, my grasp on whom must have slackened with the stopping of my heart.

I lay there and gazed up into a face that was a pink smear topped with a dark brown smudge.

That wasn't right... Sharp was bald.

I blinked hard to clear my eyes and squinted tightly until the blurred pink shape developed the semblance of lines and features. I blinked again to make sure and there, looking down at me with a smile on his face, was Tyrone Edge.

"Fucking Ghost," I croaked before the darkness took me.