Everyone knew Barty had a tendency to be reckless. Dangerous.

He could switch in an instant, just like that. He’d get an idea and moments later, he’d do everything in his power to make it happen. If he wanted a bloody nose, he’d start a fight at a pub. If he wanted to steal, he’d rob someone in broad daylight. If he wanted to lay the pipe, he’d find someone – anyone.

Most people could see the signs when he started spiralling. You thought you were familiar with them. But when Barty had called you for a “quick bike ride,” you weren’t expecting this.

Him, tearing down the M25 on his motorbike, weaving between lanes, merging dangerously close to cars. The fluorescent lights from the post-lamps flickered past too fast to register. Night had already set in, the cold seeping into your skin – made worse by the fact that neither of you were wearing protective gear. Your arms were wrapped around his waist, holding on for dear life. And speeding was an understatement. His speedometer was maxed out.

You hadn’t seen the way Barty looked when he picked you up – his visor had been down. You hadn’t know he was having one of his ideas.

“Slow down,” you said sternly, gripping him tighter. You knew the closed visor muffled your words, but you tried anyway. “Please.”

“Don’t be a wimp,” he called back, swerving – this time dangerously close to the asphalt.

Barty wasn’t slowing down.

He never did.