Milly was staying at one of Dad’s houses on the old manor. Harlan’s house now, but still – he wasn’t likely to come here. She thought of that swish penthouse with the lovely view of the river, so much nicer than this, but she wouldn’t stay there any more, not since Harlan made it clear that territory was marked out as his, and certainly not since she’d learned that that was where poor Beezer had done a nosedive from its balcony and ended up ten storeys down on the concrete below.

She tried to open the door to the house with her key, but she couldn’t find her key, and Sammy was there right behind her, a hulking presence, but she didn’t feel embarrassed about this the way she usually would. Tonight it struck her as funny. Finally Sammy had to take her bag out of her hands and find the key himself. He got it in the lock and swung the door open, flicking on the lights.

‘It’s humble, but it’s home,’ trilled Milly, dancing up the hall to the kitchen. ‘Coffee, tea or me?’ she laughed.

So this was what it was like to be high. Milly had never felt anything like it. She felt . . . beautiful. She felt powerful. And so confident that she felt she could fly.

‘No thanks,’ said Sammy, looking around. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was OK. ‘Anybody else here?’ he asked.

‘Why? You going to ravish me, are you?’ she asked, coyly.

In fact, Sammy was concerned she might sick up and choke to death. She was right out of it. And who’d get the blame then? The muggins who’d escorted her out of the club. Him. He had enough to worry about, without any more aggro on top. He shook his head.

‘Someone ought to keep an eye on you. What did you take?’

‘What makes you think I’ve taken anything?’

Sammy thought of the shy, mumbling girl that Milly usually was. She was like a shadow, and had always been overwhelmed by her flashy desperate-eyed mother and her loud as fuck father. She never exactly lit up the room.

‘Because this ain’t you,’ he said.

‘I’m bored with me,’ she pouted. It was the truth.

‘You’re off your face. You don’t want to go doing things like this, trust me. It’s not safe.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Milly, shoving past him. ‘You can stay if you like. Or go. I don’t give a shit either way.’

He listened to her thundering up the stairs like a marauding baby elephant. Heard the slam of her bedroom door. Music started pounding through the floor. Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘Two Tribes’. Then he heard heavy footfalls again. She was dancing.