Spha’s breath is cut off. At first, he tries to fight whoever has hold of him. Then some part of his brain realises that this is making things worse, so he lets himself go limp.

The pressure doesn’t ease, and panic floods him. He’s going to die–

“Careful, Kakaramba,” someone says. “You know what Fiki said. No need to put him in hospital yet.”

“Shut up, Knuckles.”

That second voice! It’s the man who threatened him on the phone.

“Just saying,” the one called Knuckles says.

He’s a shadow off to one side, wearing something blue. The one behind Spha – Kakaramba – he can’t see at all.

“You,” Kakaramba growls, his right arm still across Spha’s throat, and his left hand biting into Spha’s upper arm, keeping him in place. “You. Stupid boy. You don’t listen this time, we finish you. Last chance. You hear?”

Spha can’t answer or even nod. His heart is beating so painfully fast it feels like he might be sick.

Then Kakaramba lets him go, giving him another hard push so that he falls to the pavement – a hard fall, shocking him nearly senseless for several seconds.

He lies there, helpless, and when he can think again – in a fuzzy, broken-up way – the phrase ‘playing dead’ comes to him from somewhere. It’s the sensible thing to do, so that they’re not tempted to hurt him some more.

Then someone shouts from the other end of the side street.

“Let’s move!” Knuckles is urgent.

Spha dares to open his eyes a crack, and sees the two men rushing back towards the corner he had just turned when they attacked him. One man in blue: Knuckles, thin and average height. And Kakaramba: big and bulky, the man Spha nearly knocked into arriving at work that morning.

Had he been there to find out what Spha looked like? It’s hard to think. Someone at work would have needed to point Spha out to Kakaramba.

“You okay man?” The person who shouted from the other end of the block has arrived. “What did they take?”

Spha pushes himself up from the pavement, resting on his hands and knees, breathing hard.

“I …” He lifts himself further, so that he’s kneeling, patting his pockets, pretending to check; best to let the stranger think it was a simple mugging.

“Nothing. You scared them off, I think. Thanks for shouting.”

The man shakes his head. “Can I help you? The clinic?”

“I’ll be fine.” At last Spha manages to stand up. “They just … shocked and scared me.”

He hears how hoarse he sounds. His throat feels bruised, and the palms of his hands are stinging from hitting the pavement so hard when Kakaramba pushed him.

“I’ll walk with you to the other road where there are plenty people around,” the stranger offers, and Spha is grateful.

He’s not up to carrying out his plan to walk the length of the main road, not now anyway, he knows that. He also knows what could happen to him if he ignores Kakaramba’s warning.

It’s okay to be frightened; it’s sensible to be scared … but what is this anger rushing up in him, trying to drive out fear?

Tell us: Will Spha’s anger make him reckless, putting himself in danger?