When I first felt the obstruction, the resistance, in my stomach after the abortive vox pops, I thought it was no more than a consequence of trauma, and that it would weaken and dissolve with time. Wrong. It strengthened and grew.

I’ve called it the Need. That’s not quite right. It’s difficult. These are sensations that taunt and neuter language. Something inside is screaming, and it doesn’t use words.

But it can always use a drink.

The Need wasn’t about drink, it was about everything. It existed before the drinking really started, it was already there. It did not elevate drink in my mind, or draw me towards it – what it did was shut down everything else. The drink was just what it left behind, the only respite. The Need blacked out the laptop, the clothes on the floor, the phone, the shower. Even looking at the laptop, and thinking about a day’s work, was impossible without my guts and lungs clenching up. It foreclosed all other options. All it left clear was the path from the bed to the fridge. The Need filled every other corner, it was in me and choking me, like smoke.

The flat was cold, the tiles of the kitchen floor icy under my bare feet, but the Need didn’t care about that. I took a can of Stella from the fridge, cracked it open and sipped. The world opened a little.

No warmth came in with the thin grey light that filtered through the branches of the neighbour’s tree and the filthy glass roof of the kitchen extension. It was too cold, colder than it should be. I put my hand on the radiator – it was almost as chilled as the aluminium can in my other hand. My first thought was to fire an angry email to Dave, the landlord. But then I looked at the clock: half past eleven. The central heating had turned itself off three hours ago.

Next door, the drill started up, battering away at the foundations. The tiles vibrated, my teeth vibrated. Was it just starting now, or had they been going since first thing? I didn’t know. Either way, it hadn’t woken me. Eleven thirty … I went back to the fridge. There was a plastic-banded four-pack of Stella in there, untouched, and a second band with only one can left in it. And the can in my hand. Six cans. Had I bought two four-packs last night, and drunk two cans? Or had I bought three, and drunk six? Whatever had happened, it had been enough to really knock me out.