‘Everyone struggles, Tim. That’s medicine. If you’d talked to me, if you’d tried to get help then, none of this . . .’ I stop, realizing how futile it is. ‘OK. You’ve got to tell me everything.’

He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Right. Number one, why did this kick off on my sister’s wedding of all days? That’s the first date in your bloody green book.’

Tim sighs. ‘Because of Joel.’

That kiss. Or worse, what went before it? Joel’s cardiac arrest, my actions, Tim’s failure. How dare he!

‘You’re blaming ancient history for ruining your career, my career, our entire future?’

‘No.’ He looks up at the sky. ‘I’m blaming Joel because he was the first person to sell me drugs.’

Chapter 30: Joel

28 May 2004

This time, I don’t want to be saved.

Or even found.

I’ve been in a squat since I started using again and my parents threw me out.

‘Joel! Joel, someone’s here for you.’

People coming to see me is always bad news, but I can’t move. I don’t remember what I’ve taken and I close my eyes, hoping like a little kid that if I can’t see anything, no one can see me.

‘Joel?’

A wave of self-loathing spreads through me when I recognize her voice. ‘Go away.’ I still don’t open my eyes.

‘What the hell have you done?’ She reaches out to grab my arm and I flinch. It’s been days since anybody has touched me.

I open my eyes now. Kerry’s rounded face and clean hair make her seem like an angel sent down on a mission to hell.

‘Go away. I don’t want your help.’

And I definitely don’t want her to see me like this: face bloated, limbs wasted, my skin permanently sore from not washing properly. My hair’s been proving too much hassle, so I’ve shaved it off, badly.

‘I didn’t come to help you. I came to ask why the fuck you want to ruin my life as well as your own.’

‘What are you talking about?’ But I already know.

‘I get that you’re not happy with how your life turned out, but that’s not our fault. So why are you so determined to drag us down with you?’

When I don’t answer, she looks around her for the first time and I see the disgust on her face. This is no hippy squat, with sunflowers painted on the wall and a rota for cooking nut roast. It’s a secret slum, hidden inside a sturdy red-brick house. I’ve got used to the smell, and to the obstacle course on the floor: sharps and bottles, takeaway trays, and coils of stained bedding, sometimes cocooning people, but mostly impossible to tell.