I'm lying with my head pressed to the pavement. The pavement is ice-cold. A policeman is sitting on me. A knee dug into my back, my arm twisted behind me so I can't move. The other one shouts at him to watch my left arm. That it's very strong. That I might break free.

I don't break free. They're both holding me down and I have nothing left to move with.

One thing remains that can't be held down. I begin, out loud.

My Father, who art within me. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.

It's dark. Behind me I hear cars. They drive down the street, they don't stop. The middle of winter. Broken glass lies around me. Somewhere further off, my wife's voice. She's saying something to them. Probably not to be so rough. I don't hear the words. I hear her tone.

I finish the Our Father and start a Hail Mary. Then a second. It keeps time better than a watch. I don't know how long I've been lying on this pavement. I know how many prayers I've managed to say.

An ambulance arrives, siren going. A paramedic gets out. I'm halfway through the next Hail Mary.

— Well, well. This one's ours.

I'm relieved. So it's hospital after all.

A moment earlier I heard one policeman telling the other that they'd been called to a husband causing a disturbance.

— But did he do anything to her? Did he hurt her?

I don't know what answer he gets. That's as much as I manage to hear. I also don't know how much they know and how much they've had to fill in for themselves. For instance, that I have a knife.

I fall silent.

The one who was choking me eases off a little. He's probably turned his head, he's chatting about something with the paramedic. I hear them open the ambulance doors. They pull out the stretcher. The legs unfold, the wheels knock against the tarmac. I know it by the sound, not by the picture. I have almost no picture.

It hurts. The policeman is pressing down on me harder than he needs to. With his other hand he pushes my head into the pavement. But I can breathe now. Maybe there are three of them. One with the knee, the second holding my arm, the third choking me. Something like that. Two are milling about. I can't count them and I don't try.

I can see part of the bus shelter. The light of a street lamp. Glass. Flashing lights. In the distance my wife and some people. Maybe my parents are there. I don't know. A kaleidoscope.

I have no shoes. A moment ago I still had one Croc on. I threw it at a passing car. I wanted to stop it so I could continue my escape. I hit it. The car slowed down. It didn't stop.

I'm wearing a suit. A jacket, a bow tie, a white shirt, suit trousers. One sock.

I'm very cold. The cold I could take. Not my foot. My foot is going numb. I wonder if it's frostbitten already. If they'll amputate. Or not yet.

It's the only fear of the night. Not the police. Not the ambulance. Not where I'm going. My foot.

I feel hands. They lift me by the arms and legs and put me on the stretcher. They strap me in, very efficiently. They pull the straps tight. One leg is left loose. I could pull it out. I could try once more to escape.

I don't need to. My head isn't afraid, because my head has a script.

It is finished. This was foretold. I'm going to hospital. The master gave me a choice: hospital or prison. I chose hospital.