When he bumped into Beth on Friday, then found out where she lived, he’d thought he’d won. That if he hung around, reminded her what he thought of her, she’d start to feel trapped, too scared to leave her house. But he hadn’t considered her little army. A husband holding her hand, two prancing daughters asking mindless questions, countless friends waving adoringly from across the street. Constant distractions that meant she didn’t see him, or even sense his creeping footsteps behind her. That’s why he decided to write the note, go for a more in-your-face approach. But it’s him with the cracked ribs and a newly forming drug habit.

Not that it’s going to become a habit. It’s just medicinal, to get him through tonight.

He takes another draw. His head spins and he feels a faint urge to vomit. But then he takes a few breaths, and the nausea passes, so he sucks again. The joint is nearly finished, he notes, with a mix of disappointment and relief. He doesn’t want the warm sunshine to wear off, the pain to return, the realities of his life to come back into focus. But he needs a straight head so that he can plan his next move. Something that Beth can’t shake off. He thinks about her family’s excursions at the weekend. Beth with the younger kid on Saturday morning, up on Wandsworth Common with hundreds of other ants in football strips. Then a family walk on Clapham Common on Sunday morning with takeout lattes and hot chocolates. The girls chasing their cutesy dog and giggling. Especially the little one with her chubby cheeks and that gap between her teeth. All of them so happy, so fucking entitled.

Mark drops the end of the joint over the edge of the sofa and slides his heel across it. His head is still rammed full of nothingness, but an idea seems to be forming, nonetheless.

Mark opens his eyes, tries to clear the fug inside his brain. Did he hear something? Someone? The back door doesn’t have a working lock, largely down to him breaking it twice. He’s been shoving a few boxes in front of the door to deter any uninvited guests (and no, he doesn’t care if that’s ironic), but he can’t remember doing that tonight. A drug-fuelled paranoia starts to crawl over his skin. Has Rudy found out where he’s staying? Has he come for his drugs, or payback for Mark stealing them, like he promised? Dealers all have knives nowadays, or machetes. Is he about to die? The pain in his ribs flares and he eyes the window, but it’s a shopfront, not one that opens. Why the fuck didn’t he secure the place? Protect himself?