Marek was – is – Drama Soc chairman, and therefore also was – is – a massive show-off. Not content with writing and directing, he’s also playing the main part: Vinny Scrooge (seriously), a meth dealer who is near-fatally shot by a hitman and then guided through his past experiences by a mysterious ghost.

I’m playing the hitman, I remember that much. And the ghost—

‘Ben, dude, they want us backstage.’

I turn around to see a stark-naked man standing in front of me, a stoner’s grin smeared across his face.

Bloody hell. Clem Matthews. Third-year, I think. Not what you’d call a natural actor, but apparently the only student on campus willing to get his knob out in public. I suddenly wonder what he’s doing nowadays. Porn, presumably.

Quite why Marek insisted on the ghost being fully nude, I can’t remember now. Something to do with spiritual realism and shocking the ‘boring old farts’ in the drama department, I think.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ Clem says.

The costume girl stops me. ‘Hang on, are you keeping that watch on? You weren’t wearing it in rehearsals.’

I stare down at my watch, still stuck firmly at a minute to twelve. I forgot I had it on. Why do I have it on? How the hell is it still here when everything else has disappeared?

‘It’s fine,’ Clem breezes. ‘Hitmen obviously wear watches. They don’t want to be late for their murders, do they?’

He grabs my arm, and I follow his bare arse cheeks out behind the wobbly set. We both stand in silence, waiting to go on.

‘How you feeling?’ he whispers. ‘Nervous?’

I suddenly recall how awkward this always was in rehearsals, having to make small talk as I tried very hard to ignore Clem’s dangling penis.

‘Bit nervous, yeah,’ I whisper.

He shrugs. ‘You’ve only got, like, three lines. You’ll nail it.’

Three lines. Why is everyone so obsessed with this three-lines thing? Then it hits me: I have no idea what these three lines are. It’s been fifteen years since I looked at this script. I’m about to walk out on stage with no clue what to say when I get there.

I’ve just decided to make a run for it when I feel a light tap on my shoulder.

‘Hey, are you Ben? This is yours, right?’

Daphne smiles brightly as she holds out a plastic fake revolver.

Chapter Eight

I was expecting to see her, but still.

For a second, I am caught so completely off guard that I can’t even move. Daphne has to lift my hand up and press the gun into it.

‘They told me: “Ben’s the one who’s not naked”,’ she whispers. ‘So I’m guessing that’s you?’

I nod, dumbly. I can’t believe it’s really her. My heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.