I lean in closer to him and my boob rubs accidentally against his arm. I can feel Mrs O’D’s hyper-focused gaze on me.

‘It’s ok, love, you get some rest. The police might want to question you later, but first let’s get Sam sorted,’ Doc O’D says to his daughter in his professional medicine-man voice as he ushers me out the door. I wonder if he will be the one to stop the bleeding.

I realise I’m pretty pissed in the back of the speeding car. Wouldn’t do to dirty the pristine interior of his latest BMW. I imagine Mrs O’D staring sternly at me, warning me off causing any more ‘trouble’, so I swallow back the stuff that is threatening to erupt.

‘You all right back there?’

I mumble something, pretending to be further gone than I really am, deciding on a course of hazy unconsciousness to stave off the questions. Luce and I really need to get our story straight, and anyway, I’m way too traumatised by the events of the night to face any kind of interrogation.

‘Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll be right as rain in no time …’

Kind of disappointing, that response, under the circumstances. That’s the kind of platitude my ineffectual dad spews and it achieves precisely NOTHING. I lie back against the cream leather interior, inhaling the smell of wax and musky aftershave.

The vodka really kicks in when we get inside. Doc O’D switches into high-commanding mode, corralling me through the endless maze of corridors, greeting the nurses with their clipboards clutched tightly to their heaving bosoms. The intense bright lights pierce my eyelids and the stench of antiseptic gets stuck in my craw, tickling, threatening tears and a violent eruption. Hands steer me into a cubicle, and as soon as a nurse arrives with a kidney-shaped dish, I let it all out. I congratulate myself on my self-control until that point. Then Doc O’D’s voice, indistinct, blurry, ‘… check for the level of damage first before we go down that route … my daughter’s friend, might have been an accident … not sure what happened, fairly intoxicated …’ I think I’m being saved from some pretty bad shit. ‘She has hurt herself before …’

I’m wheeled on a trolley into an even brighter room, more voices mumble, ‘Local or general?’

Oh just knock me out, please …

‘Too much booze … risky … stitches.’

Then I hear a soft female voice say, ‘Open your legs. This won’t take long.’

It doesn’t hurt, just a sting, then a swab, then a tugging sensation. They did a good job of numbing me first. Ok, really. It’s ok. Worth it? Was it worth it, Mrs O’D? You seem to still think all of this is my own fault. I’m not to blame. I’m not the one to blame.