We quickstep across a low-lit path to a door in the side of a low building. Tommo turns and smiles, holding his other hand out to me. Rach hasn’t let go of him since we met.

‘Let’s get this party started,’ she says as she steps towards him.

I find myself smiling too as his hand closes over mine. It’s rough and warm, like Jason’s. I suddenly want to believe he asked for us to come too. I want to believe it so badly, I feel faint.

Music, chatter, laughter, all drift into the air as the door opens, a peek into a world turning just how I think it should, except I lost whatever place I had in it sometime I can’t even remember. Others would just hear noise, but to me it sounds like harmony – reasons to keep walking down the same messed-up streets day after day after day, because they might be finally taking you somewhere else.

What else could I do other than keep walking? There’s less than nothing left if I turn around. Tommo keeps hold of my hand as I follow him inside.

34

Marie ~ London ~ 2006

My trainers thump the old canal path skirting this length of the Thames as I run, chasing my own shadow as it disappears and reappears with every dim street light that scuds past. Filthy river water puddles in every cracked paving stone but I keep my balance, of course I do, feet skimming over obstacles I know better than my own footprints. I’ve cased this path’s every hiding place, witnessed every fumble in the dark, crunched through every discarded needle, the lot. This path’s skeleton is as familiar as mine; anyone tries anything with me here and I’ll know before they do. Faster, faster … the rush of blood in my ears and ache in my lungs crowding out every memory of the warehouse, every ripple of fear as I remember how close we came to getting caught. Fear gives way to the rush of adrenaline as my body pops its emergency tank, skidding as I turn to retrace every thump back along the path towards my flat, faster still, till there is nothing I could possibly think about other than my pounding ears, trembling legs, stinging ribs.

Only as I reach the low wall bordering the edge of my estate do I stop, bracing my hands on my hips as I gulp my heartbeat back down my throat, turning a slow circle on the spot to scan for any surprises. The canal path’s one thing, but this estate can turn on a pin.

‘Long one, was it?’ Alfie, number seventy-five, grins as he shuffles past, through the main gate. I’m breathing so hard he doesn’t expect an answer. That’s another reason I do it. I hawk instead, hitting the ground with a smack.

‘Delightful. And still jogging, I see?’