Arms around her, I walk back along the shoreline towards the brick hut. I can’t see anything on the beach, but I’d like to go back to the shelter, to check. The tide’s going out now, exposing mudflats. There’s the pool Mirosława talked about, peeling itself away from the sea.

‌Lurve

Vernissage: Look

Oh god, he’s here, Jeanie is wailing. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Lottie feels a scrambling for her elbow, Jeanie dragging her over to the white-tiled wall of the old butcher’s, into the cutting room.

Jeanie sinks onto a stainless-steel work surface. I can’t see him, I just can’t.

Lottie hoists herself up onto the counter. She takes a roll-up from her cigarette case and pats it down on the lid.

Jeanie is up again, pressing her forehead to the tiles of the wall, keening and swaying from side to side in her fur coat.

We’re not staying in here all night, says Lottie, as she watches Jeanie roll her head against the tiles. They are artfully streaked with blood, Lottie notices. Or perhaps not artfully. Meat hooks dangle from an iron bar: it may be her imagination, but she thinks she sees bristles on them. Lottie lights the cigarette and smokes it.

This is my patch, says Jeanie. What’s he playing at? What’s he… (sobbing).

Lottie tunes it out.

Jeanie’s perma-tangled hair has a slightly tacky gloss to it, of hairspray. Or something.

Are we all set then? says Lottie. Are we going in? Are we going to have a fag and pull ourselves together?

The crying subsides and Jeanie, still with her head pressed against the wall, gives something that could be construed as a nod. Or a convulsion.

Good. Lottie hops off the counter. She notices the sawdust on the floor, slightly bloodied: clev-er. (And is that a piece of offal? Some kind of entrail? Very good.) She turns Jeanie round by the shoulders, sticks a cigarette in her mouth and lights it.

Jeanie coughs. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Do I look alright?

She has snot on her cheekbones and mascara runs on the sides of both eyes. (And, when you look closely, telltale sores around the nostril.)

Yes.

Jeanie nods, and they leave the cutting room, just as someone else glances in.

How do you want to play this? says Lottie, drawing her friend into the main meat market, where the body of Look is installed.

Johann’s head and shoulders can be seen across the room, navy fisherman’s jumper rolled at the neck, arms folded, fair head nodding down at someone, unimpressed.

Jeanie turns round, keeping her back to Johann and fixing her eyes on Lottie’s. I want him to see me first.