I sit on the side of the bed, heavily. ‘What kind of fun?’

‘Just … and … he pretend to listen, he pretend to care …’ Her voice trails off.

‘Did he ask about me?’

She shakes her head. My stomach’s resident alien is kicking me to shit.

‘But he come back in room after, and he asked me questions about where we stay. I could not paint it him. I tried best. Perhaps he knew after he left what he did …’

She cannot articulate the exact phrase, and it’s not just because she’s not speaking in her own language. I know why. There is none. What the fuck? might do it, but not really her style. A respectable man, a family man, an upstanding member of our society, a man who makes the sick well, a man at the top of the food chain – what kind of lies could a man like that tell himself about such a transaction?

‘Hey,’ I say, changing the mood, as much for me as for her, ‘don’t think about it any more. Put it out of your mind. Have you finished that other shite novel?’

She nods. ‘Many times. It is badder than first one. More bad?’

‘Worse.’

She nods. ‘Worse.’

‘You’d better get writing your own stories then,’ I say.

‘I was first at essay competition in school for five years,’ she says with some pride.

‘I reckon between us we could write a bestseller. I wasn’t too shoddy at the ole essays either!’

She picks up her PJs and goes to the bathroom. She’s had enough chat for the evening. I pop another pill that I nicked out of Irina’s bag (although to be honest I reckon she knows – she makes it waaay too easy) and lie down under the duvet, trying to block all thoughts of Doc O’D and Luce. I count backwards from one hundred, and get to three when Nico comes back in. She gets into her bed silently and I count down again, and again, until I’m under and my mind is dark.

The next morning the house is much quieter, even with the new arrivals. Nico and I are having breakfast when Irina walks in.

‘Where’s Ling?’ I ask her.

‘Moved on,’ she says as she pours boiling water onto three teabags.

‘Where to?’

She shrugs. I look at Nico who is chewing her cereal slowly, over and over, as if she’s avoiding swallowing, her eyes staring and red.

‘Will we be next?’ I ask, my voice sounding like a nail dragging on metal, grating, even to my own ears.