‘Do you want me to read it now?’

‘I must warn you,’ Lucy said, ‘it’s not a healthy work. I was heartbroken when I wrote it. It might unnerve you.’

Natasha shook the envelope.

‘It might make you question everything you know.’

Natasha sat down.

‘You can’t read it here,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t want to hear the conversation you have with it.’

Natasha left and walked back through the city in the early morning sunshine. She bought a small cup of coffee and strolled in the direction of the library. Natasha had avoided the library since the early days of first year when she had interrupted the tour guide to ask if the building was an ‘antique’ and the group had laughed at her. She tried to relax now, going back in, but her mouth felt dry and thirsty. When she thought of all the knowledge that had been gathered there, all the expensive jackets that had been carelessly draped on the backs of chairs, all the minds seeking Truth, she felt sick. She hurried to the first floor before she could back out.

The place was empty except for one boy, his head buried in a heavy book. He was sniffling and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Natasha stared at him. ‘College,’ she said, as if it had just been invented, as if she had invented it. She rolled her eyes to indicate her workload. The boy only buried his head further in his book, his loud snuffles cracking the silence.

Natasha took a seat near the studious boy and began examining Lucy’s play. She slid it out from its envelope. It was written on hotel stationery and long sections were illegible. On every page Lucy had crossed out the name of the hotel and written ‘Hotel of Lost Souls’ instead. On some pages the play veered into room service orders. It appeared to have been written in great haste. Several of the pages were damp from the sea or had gin spilled on them. In the margins Lucy had left little notes for herself like ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here!’

The play itself was a chore – no spirit, no excitement, no life. The exact opposite of Lucy. It was an extensive history of Irish women played by two female characters. Every time you thought you got rid of them, they pulled themselves up and gasped another agonising breath. Several sections were written in verse for a Greek chorus. There were scenes where women rose out of the soil; a scene where the two girls lay face down on carpets. The play couldn’t accommodate all the misery that was in it. Natasha felt greyer after finishing it. She took out a red pen and begin drawing lines through sentences, rearranging words. An hour passed before she realised what she was doing.

‘I know how to do this,’ she said, in shock. ‘How do I know how to do this?’

The boy looked up and gave his most elaborate sniff yet.