Kick.

Which comes first? They’re both ferocious.

And a current stops my useless heart. Electricity ricochets through every cell, followed by oxygen. Sweet, sweet oxygen.

I’m back.

I understand, suddenly, what happened. The doctors told me the ICD firing would feel like a kick from a donkey. That was a juggernaut.

‘Greenie, what’s up?’ Zoë’s shrill voice, from a long way away. I try to answer her but nothing comes out. ‘Greenie . . .’

Another shock. Just as painful. My eyes spring open but all I can see is the striped plastic bag from the off-licence, right next to my face, rustling in the breeze.

Is this going to be the last thing I see?

Darkness falls again and there is a big Staffie drooling onto my face and I don’t know if it’s trying to revive me or savage me and I close my eyes and picture Kerry. In my head, I apologize to her for wasting the chance she gave me.

Sorry for messing everything up . . .

How long do I die for? Three seconds? Less? But the ICD kicks in again in time to hear Ham begging some guy to call an ambulance.

I spend two days back in the cardiology ward on the seventh floor. My dad comes, eyes red, asks me why I stopped taking my pills. I can’t talk to him, or to the good-cop/bad-cop cardiologists, pacing team and physio. They even wheel in a shrink, who tries to talk me into trying antidepressants, but is too uptight to prescribe me the Valium I’d really like.

The minute I get out, I look for Ham, Spike and Zoë again. I find them in the puddles under the Palace Pier, smoking crack.

Until now, I’ve been playing at being an addict. But I’m sick of games. For the first time, I join in.

Oh, it’s perfect. Better than I could have imagined . . . Before it’s even worn off, I know I will want to do it again and again.

Weeks pass in a blur even though every single day lasts a lifetime. A few days stand out, like the night that Rooney became the youngest player ever to score for England during their match in Macedonia. I celebrate with heroin. My parents threaten to stop paying my allowance but don’t have the guts to cut me off completely.

When autumn comes, Tim slopes back, saying he needs a little pick-me-up to help him cope with uni, but I can’t feel smug because what’s the odd Ritalin compared to what I’m using?

On an icy November morning, Ham dies.