We sit back down and Joel fires up the Volcano, which has pride of place on a short side table. Joel has a vast collection of smoking apparatus, but in the end prefers, as do I, the Volcano. It’s a classic, designed by two Germans back in the day but which has stood the test of time. It forces hot air, the exact temperature of which the user can set, through whatever herb you have into a bag which collects the vapour. Joel grinds up the nug, and we watch the bag fill with milky-looking air. He hands it over to me once it’s full.

‘Haven’t got a name for it yet. We’re provisionally calling it Skywalker, but I’ll need to come up with something better.’

Like Obama, I inhale. Tastes good. Very good. Spice, berries, diesel and something I can’t quite place.

‘So, you finally out?’ Joel asks as I hand the bag back to him. I notice my shoulders drop, making me aware of just how tense they’d been.

‘Got the papers, just haven’t signed them yet.’

‘Seriously, what you’ve gone through over the last few years.’ Joel shakes his head. ‘You’re kind of due a break, y’know?’

I suddenly notice the flame’s hypnotic dance. I feel drawn into it. There are so many colours, constantly changing, shifting. So-called primitive cultures all over the world shared a remarkably similar belief that everything is alive. Sitting here watching the flame, cruising high on Skywalker, I’m starting to think they may have been onto something.

‘I know. It’s just …’ I finally say, eyes still on the fire.

‘Yeah?’

My phone buzzes. I should leave it, I know I should, but something makes me think it might be Sabine again so I pull it out. It’s not, the message is from Jansen.

SORRY, GOT AMBUSHED BY BEVING AND COULDN’T GET AWAY. NEED TO TALK ASAP.

Luckily there’s still some Skywalker left. I inhale again, trying to put the text message out of my mind.

‘Bad news?’

‘Kinda. Old case of mine seems to have blown up. I feel like I’m being drawn back in.’

Joel takes a big inhale, tips his head back and blows a stream out towards the ceiling.

‘You’re going to do it?’

I shake my head. The flame’s still dancing, but now it’s starting to look like something automatic, lifeless. Mechanical, almost sinister.

‘Fuck. I don’t know.’

‘There’s life outside of the police.’

Bag. Inhale. Exhale.

‘Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘How d’you mean?’ he asks.

‘I dunno. I was so into being a cop; it seemed the most important thing I could be doing, you know? Now I’m starting to wonder why I was so caught up in it …’

Joel shifts, stretching his legs out onto a furry cube footstool.