‘Georgia! You’re really getting on my nerves tonight. What is WITH you?’

Georgia jumped off the bed and grabbed her bag. ‘You know what? I’m going. I’m sick of playing gooseberry to you two.’

Alice put a hand on her sleeve but she snatched it away. ‘Seriously, babe, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I’ll see you around, OK? I’ve got to go.’

Georgia felt as though Alice’s blood-red bedroom walls were beginning to close in on her. Her heart was beating faster than it had done that time she took speed, and she couldn’t breathe.

‘Alright. Maybe it’s best that you do, since you’re in such a foul mood. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Alice’s voice was cool and unfriendly, and she turned away without giving her a goodbye hug. Georgia knew that they would bitch about her the moment she left – but so what? She had more important things to worry about. Like trying to stay away from Jerome before he killed her.

She stomped down the top flight of stairs from Alice’s attic room, swinging joylessly around the banister and opening the stairgate. She felt so faint with fear that her bowels clenched and she realized she had to go to the bathroom, urgently. Her head was swimming too. How much hash had Larry put in those brownies? Swearing under her breath, she dashed into the Philipses’ bathroom, mindful even in her panic of closing the door quietly so as not to wake Frankie, asleep in her room next door.

Sitting on the toilet, she put her head in her hands, rocking back and forward. Why the hell had she eaten Larry’s fucking hash cakes? She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror opposite and was horrified. Her complexion was greenish instead of its usual, much-praised, English Rose peaches and cream. Her beautiful strawberry blonde hair was matted and dull. Her face looked puffy. She thought of what Jerome might do to it with the Stanley knife she’d seen him with, and moaned out loud. Oh god . . . The porno wasn’t going to save her. Nothing would. She was going to have to run away, leave the country. She had enough to get her to France, and maybe from there she could hitch south, head for Spain where she could get a job in a bar or a club. She imagined herself for a happy moment sunning herself on a beach – then the vision warped into one of her being forced to work as a stripper or a prostitute, shaking her tits for drunken British tourists and disgusting old men.