I couldn’t look at what I’d done and removed my shoes for a quicker escape. With my bare feet on the cold concrete, I was diminished in every sense. I should have just walked away. And I would have done, had I not foolishly glanced up at your window one last time.

The lounge was now black. The bedroom shone with the familiar soft glow of your copper lamp. The images played stronger, more vividly. Your sweaty bodies. Stop. Smashing against each other. Please stop. Melding together in ways I knew. No. Her hair laced through your hand, your mouth on her mouth. I can’t bear it. On her tits, on that fucking belly. Please make it stop.

The shoes dropped to the ground. My hands felt for my head. Each finger grappled chunks of my hair, tangled in tight fists. As you’d be doing to her. I released the matted locks and bent down to retrieve the shoes. Rose again. The left one swung off my index finger. The right gripped by the middle of the arch. The metal-tipped spiked heel faced the side window of your car.

And I shattered it.

Like you’d shattered me.

By the time …

By the time I’d put my key in the door, I just needed to sleep. To wake on a different day. Shut it out. The unmistakable sound of breaking glass triggering windows to light up around me. Not yours. You were too busy. Me hiding under a monstrous Range Rover, inhaling dirt from the road, until prying eyes returned to bed and I could run to safety, barefoot, holding on to my shoes, my sanity.

As I entered the hall half dead, I was surprised, delighted, by the distorted sound of a TV coming from Dale’s bedsit. After the initial relief at his return, finally having my friend back, I once again removed the shoes from my grazed, soiled feet and tiptoed towards my room to ensure he didn’t see me in such a state. Filthy. Oil and dirt smeared on every visible part of my skin.

Despite my efforts, he opened his door.

‘Jesus. Good night?’ He soaked in the mess. ‘Where’ve you been? What the hell happened to you?’

‘It’s . . . it’s a long story . . . A party.’

‘A party? What was it? The annual Chimney Sweeps’ Ball? Why are you always bloody injured or in a total state whenever you go out?’

‘I . . . I fell.’

‘Down a chimney at the Chimney Sweeps’ Ball?’

I dropped my head. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

‘Oh, but I do. It’s fascinating.’ He raised his arm and leant against the door frame.

‘So you’re . . . Are you back now, then?’ But as I looked beyond him into his room, I noticed cardboard boxes in various states of construction scattered around the floor.

‘Actually, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you—’