Twenty pence left. Two goes, or one go and the walk home in the rain.

The screen resets. The moon rises again, greyer now, or maybe that's just your eyes. And down in the corner, where the score sits, a number you have never seen the machine show before begins to climb — past Ace, past the ladder, past everything.

You are one clean touchdown from the WORLD RECORD. Not the precinct's. Not Sale Moor's. The little black cabinet's own idea of a world, whatever world that is.

The ship falls. The fuel is almost gone — a sliver, a whisker, a rumour of fuel. There is exactly one more burn in her, and you have to time it against a landing you cannot take back.

Martin has stopped breathing entirely. Somewhere behind the counter a radio plays something with a saxophone in it.

This is the held-nerve moment — the one the whole night has been falling toward.