Some sort of noise was made in response to this – a cough, an ‘mm-hm’ – but the organism making that noise was very far away now. If I had not been sitting down, I knew I would have fallen by now. I knew that as a fact. As it was, I wanted to close my eyes again and slump sideways onto Pierce’s ancient sofa, to feel the cracked brown leather cool on my cheek, to let sleep come. The grey was closing in around my vision.

‘Not the first time, right?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve been sloppy,’ I said, the words slipping.

‘Jesus,’ Pierce said. ‘Are you OK? You look like you’re going to be sick.’

‘Could I have a glass of water?’

‘Sure.’ He rose at once and disappeared into the kitchen. A cupboard opened, a tap ran. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble. You can relax.’

He was wrong about that – I could in no way relax. Just try to relax, when the gathering shadow that’s been chasing you for months appears in front of you, its terrible face bared, and you know that all this time you have been running straight to it. And ‘relaxing’ suggested tension, tightly wound muscles, stiff sinews. That was not how I felt. I felt undone, as if I were unravelling, unspooling. Pierce returned with a tall glass of tap water, which he placed in front of me, but he did not sit. Instead he went back to the kitchen.

There was a single ice cube in the water, a tiny kindness that I found almost overwhelming, and which did more to convince me that Pierce meant me no harm than anything he said. In putting these truths to me, he had spoken without condemnation or judgement but in the tone of a professional, a counsellor or doctor – or a sympathetic interviewer.

‘Thank you,’ I said, late. I took a sip of the water. Putting the glass back on the table, I saw that the DVR was still running, its red light still lit, counter still counting. This would all make uncomfortable listening, if I ever got around to that stage.

When Pierce came back, he was holding two small cut-glass tumblers and a bottle of whisky – Maker’s Mark, with the melted plastic around the neck of the bottle to look like a wax seal. Though I dearly wanted a drink, the sight of the bourbon filled me with fear. There was the usual reflexive secrecy of the addict – the fear of being seen indulging in addictive behaviour, a fear married to shame. But there was more. I tend to avoid spirits, even wine. Deep in me, I knew that it was too easy to overdo it that way. And by ‘overdo it’, I don’t mean getting incapably drunk – that was the work of every evening. I meant killing myself.

‘I don’t usually drink whisky,’ I said.

‘What do you usually drink?’