‘I’m not a junkie, Tara is in trouble, we were here last Friday night. Do you not remember me?’ The young man is ignoring me. He might not even be the same guy who was working on Friday because they all look the same to me. Even the women. In my head they’re all blended into the one person. The person in black who serves alcohol.

‘I didn’t look like this. I was in disguise,’ I say, realising the more I speak, the madder I sound. I walk through the door out onto the street.

The barman shouts after me: ‘And don’t come back.’

I look up at the apartment block and think, what can I do now? My stomach is swirling and I feel like throwing up. I’ll have to knock up one of the neighbours but first I have to get into the building. My head is aching from worry when I notice a police car coming around the corner. Is it here for me? Shit. Will they believe me? The clinic must have discovered my escape. But how would they know I was here? Unless there’s a find-my-phone app on Aoife’s mobile. Whatever it is, I don’t care anymore. My mouth tastes like acid. I’m dragging air into my lungs with no rhythm whatsoever. Just dragging and holding and breathing out and in and… I have never been this scared but I have to do this.

I jump out onto the street in front of the police car, waving my hands to force it to stop. The car pulls up an inch from my body.

‘What the hell?’ the policeman says, opening the door and jumping out.

I rush over and beg him to help me. ‘My friend is in danger. She lives up there.’ And then, as I glance up to where I’m pointing, I see two bodies on a balcony. The man is pushing up against the woman, forcing her to the edge. It’s them. It’s Tara. I recognise her hair, the bob hanging over the glass balcony wall. He’s squeezing her neck, pushing her backwards over the balcony.

‘There, there,’ I shout. ‘Look!’ I’m pointing up to where Tara is fighting for her life.

The second policeman is out of the car now and both of them race towards the building. They push on every button and immediately the door is released. I run after them.

‘It’s the fourth floor, number 431,’ I tell them, then return to where I can see the balcony.

‘Tara,’ I scream ‘Tara!’ I want her to hear my voice. I want her to know help is coming. But she’s slipping, I can see it. ‘Fight, Tara, fight.’ A few people have gathered now; they must have seen the police car from the pub window. What’s keeping those policemen getting to her? ‘Tara!’