I know, I know. I did it. The one piece of advice everybody gives,!and I threw it out the window.

I brought a knife to a gunfight.

Now, it wasn’t a rash decision, mind you. I wasn’t told to be there at high noon, and scrambled for the first weapon I saw. No, I was logical about it, which is an achievement for me. I brought a knife to a gunfight, because I knew the other lady - Gardenia Dawson - had no bloody clue about how to use a gun. At best, the thing is decoration, at worst, an open admission of power, the fact she can wave the thing in a policeman’s face and walk away a free woman. But not a weapon.

So here I stand, little Naria Linell, in a shoplifted pair of trainers and an Oxfam jacket, holding onto my dad’s kitchen knife on a secluded London street. The moon left hours ago, and the rain kept pelting down, but GD said 11pm, and it’s 11pm. She wouldn’t be late to her own duel, would she?

"Well, well, well."

The voice doesn't startle me.

"You're half an hour late," I say, my grip on the knife tightening ever-so-slightly.

GD laughs, hand over her mouth in a mocking manner. "Oh, darling. You're foolish. You brought that old thing to a fight where I have a gun?"

I shrug. "I didn't say it was my only weapon."

She pulls the pistol from her waistband. "Well then. Let's get started, shall we?"

I take a breath, deep and lung-burning.

"Yeah," I say, and grin. "Let's get started."