When we get to the house everyone is asleep. I open the door to the bedroom and see that my roomie has arrived. She’s out cold so I don’t turn on the light, just throw myself on my bed, fully clothed, facing her. She has thick blonde hair, looks natural, and seems very small bundled under the quilt. I close my eyes and let her sleep drift into me as I breathe with her. I wonder how much I’ll get paid. I hope it’s by the millisecond.

The next morning Roomie’s up and left, and I wake to the sound of a chirpy little fella tweeting away outside the window. I lie on my back staring at the freshly painted ceiling. No cracks here. Any time any thought of Mother, or Luce, or that woman on her knees, or Jerk from the canal, or Matinee-idol-Mark, or anything shitty pops into my head, I’ll smash it down, like Punch does to Judy’s head. I could never understand the drips that cried every time Punch threw one. I credit those shows with developing my advanced sense of humour. When other girls were crying with sadness I was crying with something else, something giddy and harsh. I can feel it rising in me now.

I go into the kitchen and Ling is there, and the new girl, sitting in silence. They both look up. My stomach is cranky this morning, loud and bloated. Sugar-coated flakes of golden corn; this is what I’m thinking as I take in the nubie. Her skin is creamy, the sunlight catches in her hair, and her body is small and compact, like a gymnast. She looks like one of those Eastern European Olympians that twist and tumble high in the air and make the crowd gasp.

‘Hi,’ I say, pouring myself a bowl of cornflakes. ‘I’m your new roomie.’

‘Neekoh,’ she says, extending her hand formally. Her accent is Russian or something, her voice slurred.

I doubt she’s one of those Natashas – she looks way too good. Then again, I doubt she’d have chosen to be here. She looks very young. And dazed. I look at Ling for a moment, she’s also younger than me, but she’s tough, she’s seen things, and I bet she knows, like me, what it is to be steam-rolled in her sleep. Stories rush into my head, stories I don’t want to be told. The girl in the back of the Garda car opens her eyes and stares at me, opening her mouth to speak. I shake my head.