‘Don’t be stupid,’ Mark scoffs, but Stew’s claim ruffles him. Because he can’t really remember hitting his old work colleague. He remembers Stew stumbling after too many beers, then falling heavily on Mark’s Apple Mac computer, plus the sound of it crashing to the floor. And he remembers a tidal wave of fury raging through him. But the rest is a blur, until the next morning when he woke up on the floor. Surrounded by bloodstains, spilt booze and glass from his smashed screen. ‘My mate died last night,’ he tries. ‘I was arrested and spent the night in a cell. I’ve got nowhere else to go.’ He tries to keep his voice steady, not show how badly Jon’s death has knocked him, but it’s hard.

‘I think you’re confusing me for someone who cares. Listen, we hardly know each other. We worked together for, what, four months? We got pissed together a couple of times on those wanky company bonding nights; I thought you were all right and took pity on you when you had nowhere to stay. But that’s it, and then you fucked it up. Goodbye, Mark.’ Stew unfolds his arms and pushes the front door closed.

Mark stares at the wooden panels. He can’t believe the guy isn’t showing any remorse for smashing up his computer, or taking an ounce of responsibility for his role in their skirmish. It’s like that woman last night. She didn’t give a shit about Jon dying, even though she treated him like vermin when he was alive. Maybe that’s why. Mark wonders how long it took for her to call the ambulance. Whether she hesitated. The man’s a junkie – no wonder he’s out of it. Is he really worth helping?

The anger is still racing through him, but he can’t stare at a grimy front door all day. He eyes the VW Golf parked outside the flat. Dark grey and recently washed. Stew’s car, but easy to imagine her face in its gleaming panels. Mark kicks out with his right foot, connecting with the driver’s door. An alarm bursts into life and he laughs. The wailing suits his mood.

‘Oi!’ Stew’s voice flies out of the front door. ‘Get off my fucking car!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ Mark says, grinning. It’s the best he’s felt all day.

‘You’re a fucking lunatic.’

Mark ignores the insult and turns right out of Stew’s road. But the satisfaction he got from vexing his ex-housemate quickly evaporates as he realises that he’s still got nowhere to sleep tonight. Stew was his only chance for finding a safe place to bed down, and it took him about three minutes to completely screw that up. What the hell is wrong with him? Why does his stupid temper always get in the way of him making a good decision?