‘Good shit, right?’ I take a drag and hand it back to Tim. ‘No, not Ant’s scene. Keep the rest of it if you want.’

He shrugs again and pinches the half-smoked joint out between his fingers and pockets it. ‘Cheers. But I was hoping you might know where to find other stuff.’

Seriously? ‘Like what?’

‘Speed? Ritalin at a push. Nothing heavy.’

‘Thought you guys got pills for free. Perk of the job.’

‘That’s higher up the food chain. I’d be lucky to score a free incontinence pad.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry. I don’t deal.’

‘No. Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—’ He stops. ‘It’s not a big thing for me. Just exam time or when the long hours are a struggle.’

Who are you, Tim Palmer? Because you’re not the bloke I thought you were.

‘All the other med students do it too,’ he adds. Now there’s fear in his eyes; he knows he’s revealed more than he meant to.

‘Sure,’ I say, but what I want to do is pin him against the wall and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, when he has a brain and a future and most of all when he has Kerry.

I watch his lips as he justifies himself, but I don’t hear a word he says because there’s this rushing in my ears, like I used to get in the months after I died, this big tsunami of noise and feelings: guilt, rage, hatred, sucking me under . . .

Is this really what Kerry deserves? Tim, with a secret habit? Or me, with nothing to offer except the way it feels when we kiss.

What if neither of us deserve her.

‘Stop!’ I say out loud.

Tim stares at me. I hate him and pity him. But if Kerry cares about him, maybe the one thing I can do is protect them both.

And there’s something else: I like the idea of having one over on him. Tim was the one who brought me back to a life I hate. This feels like turning the tables, regaining a tiny bit of control.

‘I’ll ask around,’ I’m saying, without planning to. ‘The chefs usually have something. Same problem. Late nights, long hours. You got a mobile? Let’s swap numbers and I’ll text you if I get lucky.’

When we meet in the same spot later and I hand over a little bag, he looks so relieved it almost feels like I’m doing something good.

I’m not a dealer.