‘What’s your book about?’ I asked.

‘You can read it if you like.’

‘Carral’s the literary one.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely. You should get her to read it. Right, Carral?’

I turned to her. Her chair was tipped backwards; she seemed to be getting sleepy and was humming a broken tune, making noises intermittently like a dripping tap. I poured milk in the tea and walked over to the table.

‘Maybe you’ll both want to read it?’ Pym leant towards me. A lock of his red hair fell over his face, dividing his eye in two. I hesitated.

‘I’m better at biology.’

‘This novel is different,’ Pym said.

‘Really?’

‘It’s full of nature, full of facts.’

‘Hm.’

‘I’ll let you read it.’

I poked Carral’s arm. No reaction.

‘Carral’s drunk.’

‘Sloshed, Carral giggled with stiff lips and without moving.

‘I think I should get her to bed.’

‘I’m fine, I’ll stay here,’ she said.

‘You sure?’

‘Of course! And I want to know more about the book … And about what you study.’

‘You know.’

Carral leant over the table towards Pym and whispered: ‘I think she studies me.’

Her hand was on my arm. I felt her pulse tick in her wrist. Feet arched under the chair. Up on the mezzanine the print of our bodies glowed.

‘Is she a fungus?’ Pym grinned at me.

‘Fungi don’t get wasted,’ I said. I spoke to Carral. He spoke to me. Carral spoke to the kitchen table:

‘Am I myco … myco … what did you call it?’

‘Mycology.’

‘My-co-lo-gi-cal?’ She forced every syllable, her lips stiff again, and her cheeks flushed.

Then she blinked a few times, and every time she closed her eyes she looked like she was drifting off, a lightbulb about to go out. Finally, she put her head on the table and fell asleep.

The light bulb dangled above our heads, rocking our shadows back and forth over the kitchen table. In the dim light I could see dark stripes in Pym’s hair, from the comb’s teeth. The walls were blurry and the brewery seemed open like a great hall. On the floor, crumbs sparkled.

‘Here, let me show you the beginning of the book,’ Pym said and started writing on a napkin. He held a pen between his thick fingers and arched his back over the thin paper. I pictured his back as he wrote, muscles braiding together as he moved the pen.

A few sips of whisky later the napkin was filled with slanted writing. Pym held the pen like a needle between thumb and index finger, concealing the paper with his free hand as he wrote. My hands cupped my tea. He handed me the napkin.

‘It’s the story of a girl, sort of, in rhyme.’

I accepted the napkin, smoothed it out, felt it stick to my palm.

‘It’s not finished, though.’