“I GOT THE BASTARD, but I wasn’t fast enough,” she told Stevie as he came through the double doors.
Then the main entrance to the street exploded in a shower of glass and wood, and a dozen skinheads came running in, waving assault rifles. Mick strode into the centre of the room, swinging his baton.
I thought I would just lie there quietly and die as this new battle took place around me. I remembered watching movies in the Chelsea on Sunday nights, winding down after yet another wild weekend, lying on the floor like this, using our colours as pillows. In fact, I was remembering many scenes, faces and places flitting through my mind in a bewildering kaleidoscope of This is Your Life moments. Twenty years compressed into a split second. Because time is an illusion. So is space. And matter.
