I take several deep breaths and look at myself again in the mirror, scouring my naked image. I could barely be more of a disaster—my eyes are red and my face and neck are blotchy, I’ve managed to scratch myself in several places in my haste to brush off the revolting creatures and my hair is sticking out at ludicrous angles—but at least I can’t see any remaining insects on me. And then I look at my feet and see a squashed body, oozing out yellow innards, stuck to one of my big toes, and I have to rush to the toilet to physically retch.

When I’ve calmed myself a little, I clean the carcass off my toe with some toilet paper. Then I look in the mirror again, taking deep, slow breaths. I will have to go back downstairs. I will have to clean up the kitchen. How on earth can it be fair that I am dealing with all of this whilst Carrie is peacefully sleeping?

Actually, how can that even be possible? I suddenly feel sick with dread. Heedless of whether I might be stepping on any more insects, heedless of the fact that I’m stark naked, I dash from the bathroom. I cross the hallway to her bedroom door, which is ajar, and push it gently open, painting the floor with an ever-widening trapezium of light from the hallway. She has left the curtains undrawn again and the blackness is peering in. It takes a moment for my eyesight to adjust, but soon I can make out a hump in the bed. She is sleeping on her back, one arm tucked up under the pillow, her head turned away from where I’m standing. I can’t hear her breathe—and then I do, a long, peaceful huff out. I stand for a moment, and as I do, my eyesight adjusts even further, and I can see that she has earplugs in.

Earplugs.

Jesus.

Even so, it’s still a marvel that she has slept through all this. Maybe the alcohol is playing a part in her oblivion, too. I back carefully out of the room and go to find myself some clothes to wear to set about the unenviable task of cleaning up my fly cemetery of a kitchen. It turns out there’s insect spray under the kitchen sink, which is useful because some of the creatures aren’t quite as dead as I would like. I can’t imagine how all of these fitted in the small smoke alarm—there are hundreds of them. When I’m finished, I feel vaguely light-headed from the spray and the kitchen is spotless, but my skin is still crawling and my hands feel itchy and raw, as if they’re reacting to the chemicals of the spray.