‘No, but . . . There was an ad in the cadets newsletter, for ambulance control call-handlers. It’s not bad money once you’re trained up, plus my first aid training will be useful. Shift work, too, so I can be around a lot for Mum during the day. I’ve got an interview next week.’

‘How long have you been planning all this?’

‘A while.’

‘And this is the first time you mention it? The point of being best mates is you tell me everything.’ Although the moment the words are out of my mouth, I feel like a total hypocrite.

‘You’ve been preoccupied.’

Guilt consumes me. I should have realized he was in this mess. Should have done something to help. Instead, I was too busy feeling sad about Joel to see that my oldest friend was struggling.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why? It’s not your fault, Kerry. Or your responsibility.’ He pushes his hands onto the pebbles, trying to get up, but the alcohol has affected his balance and he keeps falling back down.

As I reach out to steady him, I try to imagine Tim dealing with 999 calls. He hates talking on the phone, and I know he’d struggle to process garbled or inconsistent information.

There must be another way round this, if only I can figure it out. Money shouldn’t stop Tim becoming a doctor if it’s what he wants.

Tim grabs my hand and we pull each other upright. ‘Tim, listen. I will find a way to fix this.’ Doubt crosses his face, so I punch his arm, hard, and he winces. ‘Don’t you dare give up.’

He’s smiling again. ‘You’re drunk, Kerry Smith. And I’ve been through it a thousand times already. But even so, I’d never put it past you to achieve the impossible.’

Chapter 18: Tim

31 December 2000

Nowhere throughout the application for medical school did they assess the liver’s ability to process alcohol. Tonight, more than ever, this seems a dangerous omission.

‘Come on, Palmer, get it down you!’

A blue flame dances on top of the sambuca, and even though I’ve seen the others drink it without sustaining burns, my instinct for self-preservation stops me following suit.

‘Oh sod that, if he’s not having it, I will!’ Harry Wilcox snatches the shot glass from me and I am no longer the centre of attention.

I estimate that my liver’s processing power is about average within my cohort. In the fourteen weeks since term began, five people have been incapacitated by booze, in various ways, mostly involving vomit. Perhaps we’re simply acclimatizing to the noxious bodily fluids we’re going to come across in the years to come.

‘Smart move with the sambuca,’ says Laura. ‘I had a friend in sixth form who breathed at the wrong time and ended up with singed nostrils and zero nasal hair.’