She seems to be pleading for some sort of forgiveness. She’s an intermediary between their world and ours, belonging to neither, and that must be shit lonely. Me, on the other hand, I could just get up and walk right out of here, but not until I get paid. Triple pay for that fucking fiasco, thank you very much. I hope the memories don’t come crashing in days later like that time I took shrooms with Brian and a week later shards of what happened pierced through me. Technicolor memories, accompanied by loud techno music; harsh, strobing memories that assailed me for months after. I couldn’t know if any of it was real.

True, false, or imagined, I don’t ever want to think of this night.

‘You must all get some rest now,’ Irina says. ‘What happened was not meant to happen. You will not have to service so many men again.’

I can see the other girls shift and squirm. Not one face looks into hers. I wonder what she heard about last night. Is she speaking to the dark girls as much as to us? Were they sent to a similar party? I can feel her gaze burning into me. Fuck Irina, this isn’t going to help, so I get up and walk out, slamming the door behind me, although why I do that is anyone’s guess. It’s not going to provoke a reaction, it’s not going to re-charge or re-energise or re-anything at all. Is there a re-wind after tonight? Is there a re-framing that can happen? Is there a re-workable title to the thing that took place? Re-re-re-re-re-reeeeeeeee – one of the school counsellor’s favourite prefixes.

I get into bed, putting on the long-sleeved, long-legged PJs that smell of fresh lavender, and burrow into the quilt, inhaling a field of perfumed purples and blues, and I fall into a deep bruise of a sleep.

When I wake, I see Nico sitting in her bed with a notebook on her knees and pen in her mouth, which she’s biting down on and rolling between her teeth. I watch her for some time before I can think of a way to lighten the mood.

‘Writing a bestseller?’ I ask.