It was sometime in Miranda’s dance that Fokker started to feel a bit funny and strange like the HEROINE was really pretty strong, maybe cut with something, maybe not. He had the impression (like the poets say) that he was drunk and ‘sinking and rising at the same time’ © and later he saw a vague hallucination of a zebra up amongst party decorations in the club roof. When he checked his watch (a really good one which seemed to have a M. Mouse face and everything) he found it had slowed and then, only moments later, stopped. The slow beats were indeed running very slow that nite, Lazarus well into his groove and all kids in the club creeping about like ther very feet were the royalty of whispering.

Fokker watched Miranda dance, her hands pulling colours from the air but when he felt too weird he looked round vaguely for the bloke what sold him the HEROINE to ask him (1) what the fuck it was and (2) how long it lasted and (3) if there were probably any dangerous side effects etc but he couldn’t see him. Too late. Even the footballers seemed wild and other-worldly now, just barely recognisable behind the large pyramid of beer glasses they had built, Bobby Moore and Arthur Ramsey laughing uproariously at David Platt who was sinking a third pint while a fourth (4th) one was balanced on his head.

Miranda danced – flat stomach, her arms snakes, eyes black of nothing, slow beats so slow that when Fokker checked his pulse, leaned against a pillar he could not find it at all, dark closing in at the edges of his vision.

For one moment he thought he saw the lights of the club swim, shift and combine to tell him a message, moving slowly into focus with Miranda in the centre but then Lazarus changed his groove again and the beats slowed even more, some track by Freud about the uncanny, with a riff on heimlich/unheimlich, heimlich/unheimlich, a chill of ice in the air and Fokker went falling to the floor in so very many pieces.

Three weeks later F woke up in a hospital going cold turkey from HEROINE. The girl missing and despite all enquires like no one knew her, no one saw her and no one even registered her name. Of the bloke what dealt him the drug no sign neither. Fokker wept on tabloid tv, did interviews from intensive care and like O.J. Simpson promising to catch the real killer of Nicole Brown he promised that he too (once better) would scour the real world only looking for Miranda.