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Sport has always been Innes’s thing. Before his accident, he was super active, the more competitive and extreme the sport, the better. Now he’s all about the statistics: leagues, rankings, results, that kind of thing. To me, it’s just a lot of numbers. I really don’t see the appeal.

“What’s the NMFC?” I ask.

“The No Mercy Fighting Championship.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It’s the big one. Dad, can you swing my tablet round? I want to get his picture up so Briony can confirm it really is him.”

“Must we have devices at the dinner table?” Mum says as Dad swings the tablet round from the side of Innes’s chair and into his eyeline. Her objection is half-hearted, like she’s saying it out of habit more than anything else.

“Oh, come on, Kathy,” Dad says. “It’s not every day a famous fighter moves in above your daughter.”

Mum gives him a look but makes no further complaint.

“Ryan Sloan,” Innes says clearly to his tablet. “N-M-F-C.”

Dad and I stand and move behind Innes, and Mum leans in to look too. His tablet throws up search results. He moves the cursor with a tilt of his head and rests it on the first link until it clicks and the page opens. “There. That him?”

It is, indeed, my new neighbour. He stands against a grey background in shorts and gloves, his arms folded, chin down, staring into the lens. The lighting picks out every muscle in his arms and shoulders.

“That’s him,” I confirm.

“No way.” Innes is delighted. “The Axe King lives in the same building as you. You introduced yourself to him in your pyjamas. This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to our family.”

“Hardly,” Mum says. “He looks…unsavoury.”

“He’s supposed to,” Innes points out. “He is literally paid to look intimidating and hit people.” He scrolls further down the page. “He’s ranked number two in his division. That’s really good.”

Clearly, I should be impressed. I’ve no idea how fighter rankings work, though, or what being number two really means. Before I can ask, Innes plays a video. It’s a sort of trailer for Ryan, set to pounding music. It’s intense.

Ryan walking out into a wall of light and noise, a Scottish flag around his shoulders and bagpipes blaring over the speakers. A cage door swinging shut. Ryan shirtless and gleaming, rolling his neck, his face empty.

Then a glove landing. A man’s head snapping sideways. The crowd roaring its approval.

There are a few more clips from various fights, then the video ends with Ryan lifting one leg impossibly high—almost vertical—before bringing his heel down onto the top of another fighter’s head. The man goes down and doesn’t move.

“Isn’t he great?” Innes says. “That last move, it’s called an axe kick. You hardly ever see someone land one that cleanly. The clip went viral, and after that he was the Axe King. It stuck because it also matches how he fights. He doesn’t blast you in ten seconds, he takes bits off you. Chops you down.”

“I’m not sure ‘great’ is the word I’d use,” I say.

“Nor me,” Mum adds.

At least he isn’t a gangster, I suppose. Although he does hurt people for a living, in front of paying customers, and then somebody edits the “best bits” together and puts them to music. I’m not sure that’s much better, to be honest.

Dad and I sit back down.

“I don’t really like the thought of Briony living so close to a man like that,” Mum says. “Do you, Neil?”

Dad, who’s already tucked straight back into his chilli, swallows. “He’s a professional athlete, Kathy. It’s a sport, with rules and referees and doctors. Being a thug in the cage doesn’t mean he’s a thug out of it.”

“Exactly!” Innes says, pleased to have someone on his side.

Mum still isn’t convinced. “Well, hopefully you’ll not have too many dealings with him, love. If you run into him on the stairs, a simple nod will do.”

Mum’s right. A nod is what I’ll give him and nothing more. I’m going to keep my distance from Ryan Sloan.

I just wish his “privileged” comment wasn’t still niggling at me.