Back in the cab, Nico won’t tell me what happened but she looks pale and small, as if she’s been squashed and blood-sucked. Doc O’D, family man, top-notch consultant, top-notch, pure, high-grade asshole. This line of thinking is stopped dead by an image of Luce cuddling her dad, his arm around her, kissing the top of her head, his arm around me, supporting me, the way he scratches the back of his neck, his look of concern and worry. Maybe Mrs O’D knows something is up and that’s why she hates me so much. Maybe she knows her husband has a taste for young girls and me swanning around in there showing so much flesh really freaked her out. I feel sorry for the old bag and for a moment I can imagine what it is to be getting old, and no longer fancied by your husband. Does this give her the excuse to be such a bitch though? Is this what happens to all women? Mother too? From where I’m standing that doesn’t sound like too bad a situation to be in.

It is possible that my hyperactive imagination has kicked in and it wasn’t him at all – I’m cream-crackered and tanked up on pills and booze. Most of the time I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. Like Linda Bellaruse and the tomcat. Did that happen? Is any of it really happening? I do what I’ve seen Nico do. I pinch myself hard. She doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Do you know that man?’ she asks, after staring out the window for some time.

‘Yes, no, yes … I think so … Did he hurt you?’

She shakes her head and stares off into the distance.

‘Where have you gone to this time?’ I ask her.

‘Not any place different. I am here,’ she says, looking sadder than I have ever seen anyone look, even Mother, when the birds of worry were nesting. The other three all have their eyes closed and seem to be dozing, heads lolling. Irina has been increasing our doses of Mr Floaty, it seems he loses his potency as you build up tolerance. I don’t think Nico ever takes them, even though she pretends she does. I saw her spitting one into her hand one time when she thought no one was looking and I bet that wasn’t the only time; I bet she feeds them to the sick-looking plant in the hall, whose brown spotted leaves are drooping more every day. I really don’t know how she can do this without them.

‘What did he say?’ I ask.

‘I do not know,’ she says. ‘It was confused.’ She’s playing with the skin around her fingernails, which has become torn and red. Sometimes she rips it off with her teeth.

‘Hey,’ I say, even though my own nails are bitten to nubs.

‘… was strange,’ she continues.