‘You go if you want to, I’ll follow you when I’m good and ready.’ I know she won’t leave me here. The guy is staring. I can hear the voices warring in his head. If he won’t sell it to me I’ll take it anyway. He knows it, I know it, Luce knows it. The boy crumbles, asks for my number. I smile and give him Luce’s.

‘Great. Now I’m going to have Creepo calling me all times of the day and night, obsessed.’ She knows what she’s talking about.

We walk out of the shop with a bottle of clear liquid in a brown paper bag, and I turn to her. ‘Now, let’s go get off our heads.’

‘I’m starving,’ she says.

‘Good, good. It’s better that way. Works faster, burns the fuck out of your stomach and swims into the blood stream directly.’ She’s probably wondering why I’d want to be like Mother. Sometimes I ask myself this question and it’s complicated, cos obviously I don’t want to be … but … sometimes … getting off your head is the only response: it’s like sleeping without the nightmares. I need to numb now, and quick.

‘I’m getting us some pizza first,’ she says.

‘Knock yourself out.’ She goes into a Spar that serves heated pizza slices. She must have some other money her dad gave her. He’s always giving her spondoolas. She comes back with two slices of margherita, another with mushrooms and ham, and a bottle of water. Go Luce. I’m sitting on a high wall opposite, swinging my legs, wedges dangling around my ankles.

‘Are you ok?’ she asks. ‘Your eyes look all bruised underneath.’

‘It’s only that shit new Maybelline mascara. It runs like hell,’ I tell her. ‘Come on, Luce, race ya,’ and I jump off the wall, wincing as one of my ankles turns sideways. I take off the shoes and leg it.

Her breath is close behind me, both of us running like loopers until we reach the gates of the convent garden. Heels dangling in one hand, the brown paper bag in the other, I scramble over the top of the spiked gate, landing in a tangled heap on the other side, screeching.

‘You sound like a demented baby hyena.’ That’s pretty original, coming from her. She hands the bag with the pizzas and the water through the bars and starts to climb. She’s terrified of falling on a spike, impaling herself there. I grab her on the other side and we roll, limbs entangled, breath shared and caught, hysterical. She falls onto her back and I sit on top of her, pinning her arms to the ground. ‘Now swallow,’ I say, pushing the bottle of vodka to her lips. She has no ability to say no to me, ever.