The ambush failed. Victor Holovoko had been outfoxed by Lillian Peschura's erratic nature. She'd hitched a ride home with one of her research students instead of taking the train. Now Victor lurked outside her apartment building, uncertain of his next move. His jaw was ground tightly shut; air streaming in and out of flared nostrils. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up against the pelting rain, though by now his jeans and black hair were drenched. A sensation of light-headedness returned, as if he were drunk on a brew of bitterness that had been rotting in his guts for days. Nothing has been decided, he kept telling himself – nothing has been decided. Gripping the steel pipe in his inside pocket, he began whispering the mantra aloud; as if saying it could make it true. 'Nothing has been decided.'

Inside Lillian's apartment, the fug was cosy and warm, though she would have failed any good housekeeping test. Books lay strewn across the coffee table and floor, and a half-eaten chicken curry balanced precariously on the summit of a pile of scientific publications. The small television which she rarely used was covered in a layer of dust. "DONNA SAYS CLEAN ME," had been scrawled across the screen, weeks ago.

Lillian's face shone, illuminated by a laptop. A wisp of chestnut hair had fallen across her eye, and pursing her lips strategically, she blew it away with an updraft of air. She snuggled into her favourite jumper, the baggy offspring of a union between a zebra and a cheetah; the jumper's sleeves were frayed, the elbows holed.

On the screen, an ocean of minute letters were arranged neatly row after row, page after page, spelling out a genetic sequence that had been captivating her attention all night. A thought on the cusp of her mind was beginning to form. Whistling the first bars of a ditty, she picked up a ballpoint pen, suspending it in the air like an orchestral baton until finally, inspiration struck and she began scribbling notes in the journal at her side.

Nearly an hour passed before she paused and listened to the sound of drumming rain. Stay-awake juice, she thought, I need coffee.

Circumnavigating the mine field of the apartment floor, she found safe passage to the kitchen. Must tidy that tomorrow, she chided herself. She studied the rivulets of water running down the window pane and failed to spot the lonely figure on the other side of the road. Filling a battered kettle, she switched the gas on. Several seconds passed before she remembered to press the ignition. A whoosh of blue flame shot up, making her jump back.

'Cooking on gas,' she muttered aloud. The water began to heat up.

Victor zeroed in on Lillian immediately, staring at her. His legs vibrated, excitement pulsed through his loins. He bathed in the sight of her, rejoicing in the vision of his lover. Still teasing me, My Lady? Was there a chance she could still be his?

His trembling finger pressed the speed dial on his mobile, and he listened to the line ringing and ringing. No answer. His jaw hardened with each ring; each electronic pip of rejection. By the time it went to voicemail, he was grinding his molars together like a mortar and pestle.

'Why, hello there,' the message sang breezily. 'I am unreachable. The following is the correct protocol for the situation: a beep will sound then you will leave a verbal memorandum stating the purpose of your call.'

Victor spat and hung up without leaving a message. He clenched his fist around the mobile phone as anger surged through him. Screen my calls! He punched redial, letting it ring four times before hanging up.

A growl erupted from his chest and he experienced a moment of clarity: being here was futile. He should go home, lick his wounds. He stomped off down the road, moving in the opposite direction to Lillian's apartment. But a car's side mirror dared to get in his way, highlighting his rejection. He lashed out at the mirror with the steel pipe, leaving broken glass and dangling electronics. The car alarm shrieked and Victor's face turned crimson, burning with a shame that wouldn't go away.

Lillian doodled pictures of chromosomes on The Observer, waiting for the kettle to boil. Little squiggles next to little squiggles, followed by more little squiggles. The thought was forming on the cusp of her mind like a buzzing bee; a brainwave that could change everything.

'We're cooking on gas!' she said to herself, rushing to her laptop. She began whistling the ditty again, her fingers drumming at lightning speed on an email to her friend and mentor.

Too engrossed to hear the first few rings of the phone, the noise finally registered, and she eased herself up, carrying the laptop like a waitress handles dinner plates. The colour drained from her face as she recognised the number. Please go away, just leave me alone. She slumped back against the wall, sliding down until she could balance the laptop on her knees and began typing again. Her voicemail kicked in.

'Why, hello there. I am unreachable. The following is the correct protocol for the situation: a beep will sound then you will leave a verbal memorandum stating the purpose of your call.'

She shook her head. Time to change that message, no excuse for geektronics! She held her breath, waiting to hear Victor's hoarse tones but he hung up. She sighed deeply; experiment terminated!

The phone rang again and she groaned. Returning to the email, she kept typing until the sound of a car alarm made her jump. Unnerved, she put the laptop down and tiptoed back to the kitchen. Switching the light off, she peered out of the window – nothing. She checked the door was locked before returning to her email. No, surely a coincidence; nothing to worry about; that man just made her jumpy.

Victor's retreat ground to a halt at the junction. He glowered back down the road as the red traffic lights cast an eerie hue over his blunt features. He hurled his mobile against the asphalt; the phone cracked in two, spilling its contents. He stamped on the components as if he was killing a rodent while the car's mocking alarm reverberated in his ears.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

You pathetic moron – you make me sick! He cuffed his face in self-reproach as a battle raged inside him. Why should he be the one running away? She'd started it; led him on; chewed him up then spat him out! But she'd eluded him earlier – wasn't that fate giving her a second chance? No, she had to be his; she was his; there could be no other. He wouldn't stand for it. The traffic light turned green, illuminating his features in a goblin-like glow.

Somewhere in the apartment block, the architect Carl Rogers half stirred from a deep fuzzy sleep. He'd sunk three bottles of Pinot Noir that evening, celebrating with his ex-wife on their daughter's report card. Somehow that had led to a carnal collision before they passed out. Now, her elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

'Sounds like your car?' Claudine said.

He grunted.

'That your car?'

'What?'

'Go check.'

'I could do.' He snuggled up to her warm flesh, enticed by a lingering scent.

Her body tensed, making her bones jut out, inhospitable as a mountain ledge. 'Go check!'

He groaned, remembering that tone, and stood up unsteadily, swaying in the dark before staggering towards a chest of drawers. He grabbed his car keys, slipping on a dressing gown and a pair of trainers, then opened the balcony doors.

A driving wind slanted the rain under the balcony roof, so he wasted little time, holding the car keys in the vague direction of his car and pressing the unlock button – nothing. He leant his head against the door frame and shut his eyes and pressed the button again – nothing. He dozed against the door-frame and waited.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

'Shit!' Unlocking his apartment door, he began a slow trek down the stairs from the fifth floor, sliding against the wall. If he saw the light creeping out from Lillian's doorway, it didn't register. Stumbling across the lit lobby, he opened the security doors. The rain was still pouring down but he was at least sheltered by the overhang of the apartment block. Pressing on the unlock button, his eyes remained more closed than open.

The Mercedes chirruped at the key command. Carl pressed the lock button and the lights winked 'goodnight'.

His arm let go of the door frame, and he shuffled back towards the lift. The heavy security entrance began swinging shut but a violent gust of wind slowed its progress, causing the lock to rest against the latch. Back in bed, Carl stirred Claudine. As they kissed, a thought half registered – he hadn't heard the familiar click of the entrance shutting. But the heat of the moment consumed him as his fingers began to expertly work on a different sort of lock. Tomorrow, there would be much to regret.

The rain stopped, leaving a soggy blanket of stillness to the night. Breathing in deeply, Victor held his breath, as if waiting for something. In the distance a white car approached, slushing through the puddles. Police? He exhaled, striding to a phone box on the other side, his boots pounding against the wet concrete. One ID check was all it would take.

The stale smell of cigarette smoke assaulted him and he wrinkled his nostrils in distaste, remembering Elmore. The car whooshed by, ignoring him and he smiled as a bolt of realisation lit up his brain: fate was telling him to call Lillian one more time. He picked up the receiver, loading coins into the slot, and tapped the familiar number in. Of course she'd answer from another number. It was just a big misunderstanding. If she hadn't defiled herself, he could take her back. The line rang.

The whistle of the boiling kettle summoned Lillian back to the kitchen. She groaned when she saw the time: 2.32 AM. It had to be camomile tea; after all she had a morning lecture to give. Yawning, she squeezed the sweet-smelling teabag against the side of the cup, using the spoon as a catapult to propel it towards the bin. SPLAT – the bag slid down the bin onto the floor. Must pick that up tomorrow; manana, manana.

The phone shrilled again. She flung the teaspoon in the sink, stamping back to the hall. Would he never quit? She grabbed the receiver, her face flushed.

'Are you mentally un-fucking-stable?'

'Lil, we have to talk. We need —'

'Woah there, buddy boy! Less of the"Lil". You don't get to call me that anymore. Not after —'

'I don't understand. Why won't you see me? What did I do? I deserve a chance; some explanation. We're meant to be together. You're my soul —'

'Are you high?'

In the phone box, Victor swallowed, sensing this battle couldn't be won. Why did she have to ruin everything? She was too smart for her own good. Lowering his tone, a whine crept into his voice. 'I get a bit crazy sometimes. But it's only because I'm nuts about you. I adore you. You've got to learn not to press my buttons. You tease me way too much; you know you do. I worship the grou —'

Lillian pursed her lips. 'My fault, huh? Listen – one chance mister; you had it, you blew it! Adore me? I'm not some tart you pick up —'

'Lil, we're meant to be together. Why can't you see that? I've never introduced anyone to Vee before. You didn't know her before the accident. She wasn't nice, she wasn't —'

'I had to wear sunglasses to my lectures. Everybody knew; it was humiliating. Does Mummy know what darling Victor does —'

'Speak a word to Vee and I'll ...' He left the threat hissing down the copper wire before snivelling. 'Let me come round. Please. There's something important I want to show you.'

'No! Listen to me closely,' she began, hesitation creeping into a normally controlled voice. 'The thing is ... I've met someone else. His name is ... his name is ... John. John Fitz. He's here right now, standing next to me. He's cross, really cross. Do you want to speak to him?' Lillian rolled her eyes to the heavens, mouthing the words "John Fitz" silently. Her first ever boyfriend!

Victor gulped for air as if an invisible force had just punched him in the stomach. His face burned with humiliation. He began imagining her with this man, and white spittle flecks accumulated around the sides of his mouth. He saw her holding her hand over the phone, head thrown back in laughter as they mocked him; ridiculed him. He saw a man, cupping her breast, kissing her neck right now.

The line went dead.

Lillian breathed a sigh of relief. Good old John to the rescue!

In the phone box, Victor smashed the black handset against the steel box, shattering it within three blows. Snarling, he cursed unintelligibly. His vision became blurred and he was suddenly outside the phone box, bursting down the road in staccato spurts. Now he was outside the apartment building. Seeing the security door, a random thought fired into his brain. The code must be her birthday! He tapped it in and rejoiced as the door bent to his will. Fate had decided! Inside, he powered through the lobby, leaping up the stairs. You fucking whore!

BOOM!

His iron shoulder rocked the door to Lillian's flat, knocking the locking bolts out, splintering the wooden frame. He staggered a few steps into the hallway as the momentum carried him in. The door thudded against the wall. A scream came from the living room. He roared with pleasure, drunk on the power.

Lillian burst out, hurling hot liquid at his face. The camomile splashed against him but if he felt pain, it didn't register. Then something blurred through the air in front of his face.

CRACK!

The steel pipe landed flush on Lillian's skull. A look of shock passed between the two of them; the last thing they would ever share.

Stunned, Lillian's brain fired up its last conscious thought. Poor Dad.

A crimson trickle ran down her forehead and straight over her nose – sliding off the end like a tear drop. Paralysed, Victor watched the red droplet plummet through the air, holding back until he heard the tiniest of splashes as the blood hit the floor. Why had she lied to him?

CRACK! He struck again, swinging the pipe with brute force. The blood became a stream, soaking her hair. You never loved me!

CRACK! CRACK!

Blood sprayed through the air, soaking his face. Lillian staggered as her legs buckled.

CRACK! CRACK! She went down onto her knees. Another blow caught her on the shoulder, then on the back of her neck. Her body slumped onto the floor, limbs splayed unnaturally. Victor grunted and growled; his face and hands covered in bright red blood. He kept hitting the prone body again and again. He couldn't stop himself.

"ALL usage of the KASSI Machine must be guided by the fundamental principle of 'indisputable neutrality'. This fundamental principle is irrevocable and extends to any, and all, of the following areas: military, economic, social, political, geopolitical, and includes all cases of civil breakdown: riot, anarchy, rebellion, revolution ..."

'The Sixth KASSI Principle' according to Dr Dieter Griem and Major Ron Dexter, DSC

The flight touched down early, and enjoying the benefits of travelling light, I made it through Customs first. Unable to see a sign with my name on it, I headed outside to breathe some of the legendry Genevan air. But it was a disappointment, as I had wandered instead into a smoky cigarette pall on the concourse. Temptation gnawed at my weak resolve, so I drifted to find somewhere fresher.

It was then I saw the girl in a green ski jacket, wearing a pink princess rucksack, maybe six or seven years old, suddenly break free of her mother's grasp at the sight of her granddad on the other side of the road. With a surprising burst of speed, her little legs propelled her off the pavement.

A green speeding Audi zoomed into view, travelling too fast to stop. More by instinct than anything else, I stepped out into the road, yanking the little girl roughly by the handle on her rucksack as the green blur whizzed by.