‘It’s ungodly!’

‘Ungodly?’

When I chuckle sourly he glares at me. ‘That’s right. Ungodly. It’s an abomination!’

‘An abomination? If God didn’t want me to be gay, why did he make me this way?’

‘He didn’t make you that way. You choose to be that way. God doesn’t approve of this.’

When he gestures between us, I lean forward. ‘My relationship with God is between us. It’s nothing to do with you or anyone else. Don’t you have anything better to worry about?’

‘Your relationship with God.’ He scoffs. ‘What relationship?’

‘I’ve been going church every Sunday morning my whole life.’

He leans forward, so close that I can see the dot of spit that has settled on his bottom lip. ‘Well, you should know better then, shouldn’t you? The Bible – if you’d read it – clearly says, You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. Leviticus, chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two. I suggest you look it up.’

‘And I suggest you read a bit further. The next chapter of Leviticus – chapter nineteen, verse twenty-eight, to be precise – says, Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourself.’ I point at the tattoo that spells out Casey in calligraphy on the side of his neck. ‘If you had, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Get out of my cab!’ he says again and he looks so mad, I’m sure his head’s going to explode.

It’s enough to make my anger dissolve as I laugh. ‘OK, mate.’

‘I’m not your mate,’ he tells me as I reach for the door handle. ‘Just get out of my cab!’

‘Fine. But we’re not paying you.’ I tell him, one leg already out of the open car door.

‘I don’t want your money! It’s filthy.’

That makes me laugh harder. ‘You should. You’re gonna need it. You’re not going to get much work around here, with that attitude. It’s Brighton. There’s a lot of us here,’ I remind him with a proud smile.

‘And you’re all going to hell!’ he tells me as I climb out of the cab.

‘See you there,’ I tell him, before slamming it shut.

He speeds off, wheels spinning, and Poppy and I look at each other, then burst out laughing.

Luckily, we’re only by Eaton Place, so we can’t be that far from Poppy’s house.

‘Oh, Miss Persaud,’ she says, hand on her chest, putting on a posh accent – or an even posher one, I should say – as we start walking towards Chichester Terrace. ‘You’re ungodly!’

She does it so well that I can’t help but wonder how many people at her school talk like that.

I do the same, even if it isn’t as convincing. ‘And your money is filthy, Miss Morgan.’