Greta and Peggy saw the poster up in the record store. They spent a bit of time in there in between meetings. Flicking through the albums, reading liner notes, listening to everyone talking. They’d left all their records at the flat the night they left, so sometimes they tried to find all the records they used to own. Every now and then they found the actual records they used to own – their name in ballpoint. Sold by the other people in the flat. Which was fair enough, really. Maybe it would cover some of the rent they still owed. Probably not. They could never afford to buy the records back. They never had that kind of money, but it was funny sometimes and sometimes it was sad and sometimes it was infuriating – the way things had turned out. It all depended on the day. Like a rollercoaster, someone had said at coffee after a meeting the other day. People said it a lot. Peggy and Greta had never been on a rollercoaster but they nodded. ‘Yes,’ they said. ‘It was exactly like a rollercoaster.’

The guy in the record store was putting the poster up. He was sort of leaning over Greta and Peggy to do it. They all laughed. He was a nice guy. They saw him sometimes – at the supermarket, in the street. They always said hi, even though neither of them ever bought anything from the record store. Except, once, a sweatshirt. Years ago, when they’d missed a Henry Rollins concert because it was in the city they didn’t live in anymore and there was no way to get there, they’d gone to the store and bought a Henry Rollins sweatshirt. They paid using a lot of small coins and notes – ones, twos, fives – but the guy didn’t mention it. They’d stolen the money from a donation jar at the needle exchange, a little bit at a time. The sweatshirt was falling apart now. It had only been a year but they’d bleached their hair in it one night and now it had holes.