You don't get used to dying. Every time it happens it's worse than the time before. Most people are scared of dying because they don't know what happens after, not for sure. If you knew for certain there was a heaven then why would you fight the journey there? Lazarus Men are different. We know what's waiting. Oh, don't ask, I can't explain it, not in words. It's like asking what the smell yellow sounds like. Language only encompasses experiences of the living. There are no words for what's on the other side, but it's bad. It doesn't matter your faith or the life you've lived, it's the same for all of us. A Lazarus Man would do anything rather than go through that again.

So don't think I answered the call gung-ho, bare-chested and daring them to shoot me. Far from it. There's no one more cautious than a Lazarus Man. The street had been cordoned off, houses evacuated, the police a safe distance. Because ordinary Joes aren't expendable. No, when it comes to life-threatening situations, call for a Lazarus Man. Never mind I'm more scared shitless than they ever will be. Never mind I don't cross the road unless there's a gap in the traffic of a hundred yards or more. No, let the Lazarus Man do it, because it doesn't matter if he dies. Well, let me tell you, it matters to me. It matters more than your own death will ever matter to you.

I ducked under the tape and made my way to the command truck. No one challenged me. I bear the mark of Cain. You can always tell a Lazarus Man, just like you can always tell a plain clothes copper. The incident commander was a new face to me: middle-aged, old school, shiny shoes and by the book. He glanced up as I entered and I caught the look.

There are two types of people in this world. There's the sort that look at you like you're God. You can see them itching to ask all the stupid questions. How many times have you died? What was the worst? Does it hurt? And the most unanswerable one of them all; what's it like? Then there's this guy's type. The type that can hardly disguise their disgust, as though you're a month-old cadaver that's just lurched into their presence with the stink of hell assaulting their senses.

"What's the sit rep?" I said. Pleasantries would be wasted on him.

He stared, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to send me home. I crossed my fingers, but I was never that lucky.

"One man, as far as we can tell," he said at last. "Suspect in three local murders. No name. Three hostages, a couple and their ten-year-old kid. Holed up in this terrace." He pointed to a house the clone of every other house on the street. "No rear egress. Four dead, two of them officers. Two civilians who just happened to get in the way. Shotgun. Siege started --" he glanced at his watch, " -- two hours and thirty-three minutes ago."

"Demands?"

"That we let him go. Just that. He won't talk to a negotiator, he won't exchange hostages, he won't even let the kid go."

"So...?"

"So you're bloody Superman. Go in, negotiate, get the hostages out and take him down. Or just shoot the bastard. Whatever."

Whatever. Because I'm Superman. His sort will never understand. Immortality is not the same thing as invincibility.

Nevertheless I nodded as though it were a reasonable thing to ask of me. "Is there an ambulance on standby?"

"Yes."

"Good. So if he does shoot me, you need to get me in the meat wagon and into Saint Giles ASAP, blues and twos all the way, police escort."

"Why? You'll come back again anyway."

"Because for every wasted second I'm in hell, I shall come back and break a bone. Ten seconds, that's all ten fingers of yours I'll break."

He drew himself up. "You can't talk to me like that."

"You're right. I apologise. For every second you waste, I'll break one of your bones... Sir. If you don't like it, feel free to sack me or send me home. You might want to talk to the chief first, but I'm easy. Send one of your boys in instead."

I cannot express the satisfaction I got watching the conflicting emotions crossing his bigoted face, but eventually he nodded. "Do it then, but don't screw it up, or Lazarus or not, I'll make sure it's your last screw up."

"I'll need a radio and a flak jacket."

He nodded to a junior and affected to study the papers on the desk in front of him.

The Inspector he'd delegated me to was of the other type, just as infuriating in his way. He leapt up, eagerly offering me a radio as though it were a sacrificial offering to the gods. Then he insisted on helping me into the vest, as though I'd never worn one before.

"Why do you need a vest?" he said. "I mean, it's not like you need one."

"The same reason you think you need a brain to ask questions," I growled. I could see the question at the forefront of his mind, desperate to erupt.

"What's it --"

"Now I need a SWAT shield and a loudhailer." There's no polite way to answer the what's-it-like question, so I just prefer not to allow them to ask.

It was a pleasant spring morning. Sunny but bracing, a promise of summer to come. The deserted street was silent except for the birds and the occasional crackle of a police radio. I crouched behind the heavy shield and edged up the road towards the house. Ten yards shy of the garden gate I saw the blood, streaked across the pavement where they'd dragged the bodies away. Two coppers, two civilians. Whoever it was had no compunction about killing. That didn't put me at ease.

At the gate I paused and peered through the eye slit. Nothing moved. Maybe he'd escaped in the mayhem. Maybe he'd broken through to a neighbour's attic and slipped out that way. The net curtain in the downstairs window twitched and I knew I couldn't be that lucky.

I poked the loudhailer over the shield.

"I'm not armed," I said. "I'm just here to check on the hostages. Will you let me in?"

I waited. Even the birds stopped singing, either startled by the harsh scream of the bullhorn or holding their breath for an answer just like me. Nothing.

"Look, I'm not armed." I hesitated, then laid the shield aside and stood up straight. I felt as though my body wanted to fold itself inside out to avoid the shot I was certain would explode from the window. I held my arms wide and executed a slow turn, bracing myself. "I just want to talk, okay?"

I opened the garden gate, looking for the twitch of the curtain, and walked the hundred miles of exposed garden path to the front door. Out of sight of the window I leant on the door jamb, pressing my forehead against the cool wood and concentrated on not throwing up whilst my knees shook and my guts turned to water.

After a moment I tried the door. Locked. The tall slit of glass above the door handle was frosted, giving no clue to who might be inside. I rang the bell, as if the target hadn't watched me stagger up the path.

"Please," I yelled. "I just need to verify the hostages are okay."

I saw movement behind the glass, too vague to make out any detail.

"He says to go away." The voice was male, tension and fear audible, muffled as it was by the intervening door. 'He says.' So just one suspect, then.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

"Yes, we're okay, but you need to let him go."

"I understand, but I have to check for myself. I need to see you and your family. Can you unlock the door?"

"Wait."

The shadow retreated. As if we would let him go. What sort of person thought that, especially after four bodies and potentially the three he was being investigated for? He had to see reason. Nothing made a copper trigger-happy like a dead colleague or two. He would be lucky to make it to the wagon in handcuffs.

A shadow behind the frosted glass again. I couldn't be sure, but it looked a different person.

"Hello?" I called. Please don't shoot me, my brain screamed.

A rattle of chain and the door opened an inch, a mugger chain preventing it from opening further.

"Hi," I said. "Will you let me in? I need to check on the hostages before anything else happens." He held himself behind the door so I couldn't see his face. You can read a lot from someone's expression and body language. You can read sod all from a door.

"I want you to let me go."

"Yeah, I understand that, but we need to see the hostages first." I leant closer to the door and dropped my voice a notch. "Look, this is a mess, yeah? We've got bodies, and we really don't want any more. Not anyone else, please God not me and not even you. If there's a way we can sort out this crap without anyone else getting hurt, then I promise you I will move heaven and earth to do it. But it has to start with me seeing the people in this house are all okay. Trust me, I'd rather be anywhere else just at this moment, but now I'm here, work with me. If you don't then it's over to the boys in body armour, and how they'd love to use their guns in anger."

"No! No weapons, or I'll kill these people."

"Okay, okay." Shit, I was screwing up any effort to keep him calm. "Look, I'm not armed. You can search me. Just let me in and let me see they're okay, then we can start moving this situation on."

I stepped back, leaving the ball in his court. For a few moments nothing happened, then the door shut, the chain rattled and then it opened a couple of inches. I stepped forward again and gently pushed open the door.

The hallway was dark compared to the sunshine outside. The suspect had retreated to the other end of the hall, a baseball cap hiding much of his face in shadow, a double-barrelled shotgun pointed straight at my chest. He motioned me into the living room on the left with a twitch of the gun.

It was a reasonable sized room, the clone of most in the street, I guessed. A three-piece suite arced around a TV mounted on the wall. A knot of hostages huddled together on the couch, the middle-aged couple clutching a ten-year-old girl to their chests.

"Hi, I'm John," I said, trying to sound confident and reassuring. Scared people do stupid things. "Are you all okay?"

The woman snorted, as if anyone could be okay in this situation.

"We're not hurt," said the husband.

"Good. We want it to stay that way. No one wants anybody to get hurt. Right?" I turned, directing my question at their captor.

Shocked, I took a step back. He stood in the doorway, his features clearer in the light from the wide window. I'd never seen him before, but in that instant I knew him for exactly who he was. He looked nothing like me, but I could have been looking in a mirror. The pain etched in his face, the fear behind his eyes, the resolution that it would never happen again.

"Shit!" I breathed, eliciting a tut from the mother. I bet a ten-year-old used worse than that.

He nodded and I returned it. Some communication transcends mere words. That nod acknowledged our brotherhood better than a lifetime of conversation.

"It was self-defence," he said. I waited, but that was it.

"And the coppers outside? The civvies? Them?" I cocked my head at the family hunched together on the couch.

"They tried to rob me. One of them had a knife."

"A knife?" I tried to catch up. Not the collateral damage, not the coppers. So one of the suspected murder victims they were investigating?

"They were trying to rob me, and one of them pulled a knife. You know."

Yeah, I knew. Someone threatened to stab him, and a Lazarus Man really doesn't want to die. I mean, he really doesn't.

"So you killed them?"

"It was self-defence."

"And them?" I jerked my head towards the window to indicate the blood still wet on the pavement.

"They caught me off guard. They ran at me and I just reacted." He hefted the shotgun. "I'm not bluffing. If I see a gun, I'll kill them." He swung the shotgun towards the terrified family, then back to me again. "They're not going to kill me."

I sighed and dropped into an armchair. My job had suddenly become easier, and for once that didn't please me.

"You know who I am," I said. "Just like I know you. So let me tell it like it is. You shot two coppers, and the block is full of their mates who are just itching to find an excuse to avenge them. You're not a copper."

"Special forces. Sort of. Was."

That figured. Only certain people warranted the hideous expense the Lazarus treatment cost. Elite soldiers, the odd copper, and if the rumours were true, certain politicians and their bankrollers. And if you were a public servant you were in hock to your masters for the rest of your useful life. 'Was' meant he was playing hooky.

"Okay, then it's simple. There's two ways this is going to end. You're going to go out in a blaze of glory, bullets from every which way. And we both know what that means. They'll revive you, I think, but there'll be a delay. A long delay while the moralists wring their hands and the accountants argue for a return for their investment. Days, weeks, even years. Who knows? And if they don't revive you..." I let it hang. We knew what a short time was like. What would an eternity be like?

"Or you give up. Take the rap. Spend some time in jail. Again, the bean counters won't want you wasting their investment, so I expect you can cut some sort of a deal. I'll get you out safely, but there's no way on God's earth you'll get away."

I rose. "Of course, there's a third way." I stepped closer, until the end of the barrel was inches from my chest. "You can shoot me and try to get away on your own."

I looked into his eyes and saw him debating his options. Oh God, he was actually considering the third option. My heart beat so loud he must have heard it. Hell, half the city probably could. My body betrayed me and I started to shake.

He whimpered and adjusted his grip on the shotgun and I knew at that moment I was going to die. Again. I only hoped my bowels would stay closed.

And then he cried out, a cry of absolute pain and misery, and he lifted the gun and wept. I took the gun from his unresisting hand and reached for the radio. A Lazarus Man really didn't want to die, and you'll never know how strong that feels. But another Lazarus Man does.