He shuts his eyes, opens them again, and runs his fingers round his eye sockets.

Scared of getting hep C?

Probably already got it.

Your liver’s fucked either way.

Yeah.

What then?

He breathes in. Out. Dunno.

I’m gonna light some candles. She takes a stack of tealights from the top of the television.

He follows her into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bathtub. The bath still pink (course it is). Do you want a line?

She takes the mirror off the wall. Toothpaste-spattered. I forgot how out of it you need to be.

No, I just feel like a line.

How often do you do it?

I dunno. But I’ve got 10p in my bank account. So not that often.

Still working at the old place? She tips a bottle of essential oil into the water.

Yeah.

Same job?

Yep. He unbuttons his cuffs.

They ever give you that pay rise?

Nope.

He takes his shirt off. She stops talking.

He has a sudden urge to vomit. He blinks it away, breathes in, breathes out. He takes out the bag and looks around him for a blade.

On the windowsill, she says. What was that for then – the private view?

You never know, do you.

Got my own straws, she says, and takes two out of a box.

He cuts two thin lines, does one. Ria does the other. She stands for a moment dabbing her nose. The water is boiling now, the bathroom steaming up.

She takes another bottle of oil and drips it in. This is for calming thoughts, she says: lavender. Frankincense: apotropaic. And this is rosemary: comfort for the living, peace for the dead.

She undresses and climbs into the bath.

*

The room is sunny, curtains and windows open. Ria isn’t there. He wanders through to the living room and opens the balcony door. He goes into the kitchen. There’s something stinking in a jar lying sideways on a tray – some kind of mouldy plant-experiment – but it looks purposeful, so he leaves it. Maybe she’s starting a cannabis farm. He puts the kettle on and goes through the cupboards. Green fucking tea leaves in a tin. Chamomile and honey. What look like dried jasmine flowers in another. After a search he finds some normal tea. In the fridge: Interferon. Ribavirin. A takeaway carton of chow mein, almost full. He sniffs it and prods it, peering at the edges for signs of mould, then begins to eat.

The front door goes and Ria comes in, arms laden with plain white carrier bags.

Oh Christ, don’t eat that, that’s been in there a week.

She grabs it out of his hand and chucks it in the bin. She piles her groceries onto the worktop – paper bags warm with breadstuffs, avocados, bananas, milk, coffee, cigarettes, biscuits, The Mirror.