Carl had visited me just once in London, at the end of my first year. We went to a house party in Deptford and when we were scoring he asked for five Es, so he could take some home with him. I left him talking to a girl on the sofa, came back and heard him talking about being the manager of the fish-processing factory where he worked, how the money was really good, how they might be sending him to work in the head office in New York. I handed him a beer without contradicting him. The woman got up and left the room and didn’t come back. Half an hour later Carl was staggering from room to room, white-faced and gurning. I dragged him out. Propped him up as we walked back to get the train into town. He was apologising. He’d taken all his drugs. His comedown was going to be awful. He could barely respond to a question the next day. He had a specific ticket booked for the day after but said he had to go home early. Said he’d be all right on the train, hide from the conductor, feign ignorance. I let him go, didn’t argue hard that he should stay. The next evening I forced myself to call him, to reassure him that the visit had not been a disaster. He told me that the train conductor threw him off in Milton Keynes when he couldn’t afford to buy himself a new ticket. There he went to the pub where he was befriended by a beautiful woman who then took him back to her house for a party with her twin sister, with whom he had a epic threesome. When they woke up he was able to get on the train for which he had a valid ticket. Great, I’d said. That’s brilliant. I’m glad everything worked out for you.