(25) Breathless. Artificial air tastes like licked Lego, burned copper, dirty coin hands. My fingers are clenched and my skull throbs with the dull drum beat of a death march, kamikaze, this is the end. Last I remember is the grass, hands tearing on the hard earth, a pain like angry acupuncture. Doctor Remnbaud says…

(24) Kit Lock gets home in the early hours of the morning. Her husband’s shoes are not by the door and his coat is not on the rack. My husband, she thinks. She calls out his name even though it makes no difference and she thinks of calling Christian or Sally but neither of them…

(23) My feet don’t hit the right path, my ankles slip on the curb and the pavement moves like it shouldn’t. Kit’s blunt anger has spread across my body like lichen. The whiskey’s gone. I won’t go home. I won’t go home again. My eyes burn like rubbed-in chilli, I can barely keep them open.…