With way more effort than it should require, he pushes off the sofa and stands up straight. He can see the brightly coloured packets better from this angle. Maybe he should have a little smoke before he heads outside. To chill him out, stop him feeling so fucking angry. But the urge is strong enough to act as a danger siren as well. There’s just enough of the old him left to know it’s a stupid idea. That one smoke will lead to a second and third – like it has done since Tuesday night – and he’ll spend another day holed up in this cold room barely conscious.

And she’ll have another day to parade around like she’s done nothing wrong.

He drops his face into his hands, fingers splayed out, and scratches at his hairline. His head is crazy itchy, but he’s not sure if that’s down to spice withdrawal, or his hair needing a wash. Both are equally humiliating. ‘Come on, Mark,’ he hisses to himself. ‘You’re better than this.’ He scrunches his eyes closed and forces himself to think about his future. His design portfolio, floating on a cloud somewhere, begging him to give it some daylight. His dream to become a proper game designer one day. There was a text from his mum too, a few days ago. She’s expecting him home for Christmas. He thinks about the decades-old Christmas lights flashing a greeting from the tatty hedge in his family garden. He takes a big breath, and without looking back at the drugs on the floor, slowly makes his way out of the squat.

The weak winter sunshine isn’t bright, but the sun is low, and Mark hasn’t seen daylight since Monday, so he takes a moment to adjust. As he watches people wander up and down the street, carrying shopping bags or chatting in pairs, the day smelling morning fresh, he feels like a vampire, struggling outside his natural habitat. The passers-by seem to think so too because they look away, or veer off the pavement to avoid him. He wants to scream that it’s not contagious. That being a fucking loser takes practice. But they don’t deserve his reassurance, so he puts his head down and walks down the hill in the direction of Clapham Common.

He knows this new plan is risky, but he’s done with just following Beth like some pathetic stalker, feeling more and more impotent as she carries on with her life. Especially now she’s got that bodyguard fighting her corner; he needs to up his game too. He doesn’t have kids himself of course, but he knows how much his mum loves him and his sister. So if he can get to one of Beth’s daughters, preferably the younger, cuter one, then that has to spark something. Fear, upset, guilt. She deserves them all.