Two pieces of glass are sticking out of my red right hand. One, about the size of a two pound coin, is wedged into the place where my thumb meets my palm. The other, longer but thinner, sticks out from the knuckle of my middle finger. I take hold of this longer piece first and try to pull. The pain makes my head swim.

Transferring my attention to the other shard, I brace myself as I try to clasp its wet, sticky sides in my left hand. With the smallest possible movements, I ease it clear of my flesh and let it fall to the floor. I’m whimpering like an animal. Sweat is rapidly cooling under my arms and across the top of my back. I feel like I’m congealing in a feverish puddle.

It’s another five minutes before I can touch the other piece again; five minutes in which I cradle my hand as the bus lurches around corners and jolts over speed bumps. I grit my teeth, this time gripping the sharp edges of the glass to get a better hold. I feel the bulb of my thumb give way against the shard, and this new pain lessens the pain in my knuckle as I gently pull upwards. I yelp as the glass slips loose, tears filling my eyes. A fresh bloom of blood weeps from the deep gash as the second blade of glass falls to the floor. I wrap my hand tightly inside my coat sleeve again, and lean my forehead against the cool comfort of the window.

The bus journey takes almost an hour. Maybe some people get on and some people get off, but I spend most of the journey with my eyes closed.

It’s getting dark as we get to recognisable streets. When we’re within walking distance of home, I press the bell and lurch towards the front, my right hand gripped under my left arm. I step from the cold bus into the even colder evening, and am surprised at how quickly the pavement comes up to meet me.

It would be so much easier to lie here all night, but I force myself back to my feet. The bus driver is standing in the door of the bus, shouting something after me as I hobble and stagger down the road. After a while, I hear the bus pull away.

But it isn’t over. Not yet.

As I veer towards my driveway and my merciful front door, headlights flash at me from across the road.

‘In here. Now.’ It’s Carl’s voice.

It’s all I can do to lurch into the back seat. Alan is there, and takes my hand gingerly, unpeeling my fingers and flicking on the door light to get a better look.

‘You’ve really fucked yourself here Josh. You feeling OK?’

I mutter a response; my throat feels like it’s full of cotton wool.