They saw Ian all the time. He was at most of the meetings they were at. Ian hadn’t drunk. Ian was still sober. They fucking hated Ian. But they needed to realise Ian was a sick person – they all were. How could you hate a sick man? Otherwise, Ian had the power to really fuck them. To ruin everything. No amount of hating Ian was worth dying or being raped for. That’s what they thought, as long as they went to lots of meetings and stuck together. If either of them was by themselves they hated Ian so much they dreamed about taking a large, strong swing with a softball bat at his face. They played it over and over and over and although there was some relief in it, it really just tied them to him. It just gave him power. That’s what Diane said. They doubted Diane knew what the fuck she was talking about, but they had nothing else. So they kept telling each other that if they hated Ian they’d drink and if they drank they’d die – or worse. But sometimes, when they were in the shower or walking home when it was cold, they rehearsed it again in their heads. One strong, even, beautiful swing breaking almost everything in his face.

‘We’re all just walking each other home,’ Greta said, and they laughed, disgusted at the bullshit of it all, and the soup arrived.

2

2