‘Poynter’s got guts.’

‘What?’

‘They say he was wearing make-up and women’s knickers.’

‘Oh.’

‘Fucking away with some other sod in the back of one of the old ambulances.’

‘Right.’

‘Perhaps you hadn’t heard.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t sound surprised.’

‘I’m not. He mentioned that he was going to try … something of that sort.’

‘Would you do it?’

‘What?’

‘To get out.’

I said nothing. I met his bloodshot eyes for a second, then looked down.

‘You should have been there last night, Mike.’ His voice was low. ‘It would have been good.’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘Still,’ he said, adjusting his beret, ‘thank God for good old Gladys. Speaking of which, chow time for me. Sure you won’t?’

‘Sure, thanks.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He was absorbed by a gaggle of admirers and swept into the warm, steamy fug of the NAAFI.

05

Remind me never to book a holiday when I’m on drugs again.

Everything about Sitges was horrible and I’m not even sure that I’m going out with Stuart any more, if ‘going out’ really describes the mixture of chemically enhanced sex and hours in nightclubs that have made up our relationship so far.

I get home this morning at ten o’clock after travelling for fourteen hours, the final disaster in a disastrous week. I’m so tired that I don’t even pick up the post, I just drop my bags and throw myself on to the sofa and groan very loudly and feel like crying. My eyes hurt, my stomach hurts, I haven’t had a proper shit for about three days after having had diarrhoea for four days, I feel like I’m starting a cold and to cap it all it hurts when I pee.

I drift into an uneasy sleep full of stupid dreams about flight announcements and security checks and when my phone beeps I wake up without the faintest idea of where I am. It takes me a good five seconds of looking around and blinking before I recognise this room as my own home, the sofa as my sofa and the phone as my phone.

It’s a text from Jonathan, and for the first time in ages I’m genuinely glad to hear from him, it’s really thoughtful of him to remember I’m coming home today, and I hope I can see him later. I open the text and it’s a joke about Madonna that I first heard about four years ago, it hasn’t got my name anywhere in it and I assume that Jonathan just sent it to everyone in his address book. He spends a lot of time and money doing things like this these days, he’s constantly hunched over his phone, his thumbs a blur, cackling and grunting. Jonathan used to be articulate to the point of being quite annoying, but this new withdrawn Jonathan is taking a bit of getting used to. Maybe it’s part of his new ‘urban’ phase. I hope it doesn’t last long. Jonathan’s phases seldom do. His wardrobe would tell quite a story, if he didn’t throw everything away. Currently he’s sporting hoodies with extremely loud geometric designs, and it actually hurts to look at him.