‘Put it in your pocket,’ I hissed.

‘What?’

‘Put it…oh shit.’ I grabbed it from her and stuck it in my front pocket, turning away from the woman in the EasyJet uniform who was almost upon us. ‘Flight 342 to London?’ she asked. ‘You need to check in now.’

‘Yes, sorry,’ Emily said. ‘I was just looking for my headache tablets.’ She stuck her hand back in the rucksack pocket and pulled out a box of Anadin, brandishing them triumphantly, as relieved as I was that she hadn’t just produced a bag full of heroin and syringes.

The woman hurried us over to the desk and we plonked our rucksacks on the conveyor belt.

‘Did you pack your bags yourself?’ the woman asked robotically.

‘Yes, yes,’ we nodded in unison.

‘Has anyone had the opportunity to interfere with your luggage?’

‘No, no.’

She handed us our boarding passes and told us which gate to go to. We walked off as quickly as we could. I was sweating; I couldn’t have looked more suspicious if I was wearing a T-shirt with a marijuana leaf on it and a shit-eating grin. I expected some cop to appear to appear at any moment and say, ‘Alright Cheech and Chong, hand it over.’

Emily muttered, ‘You moron.’

‘What? I didn’t know it was there.’

‘You’ve got to dump it. What if we get stopped and searched?’

‘Jesus.’ There were no bins in sight and we were surrounded by people. How the hell was I supposed to discreetly get rid of a huge baggie of dope, especially when we were moving rapidly towards the departure gate, about to miss our flight? I tried to work out the chances that we would get stopped before we boarded the plane. And then, as we neared the departure gate, I saw a uniformed customs officer. With a dog. A dope-sniffing dog.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Emily grabbed my arm.

‘Act cool,’ I said.

‘Dump the fucking dope,’ she said.

To my left, appearing in my field of vision like an oasis in the desert, was a Gents toilet. I left Emily with the trolley and ran inside, trying to look as if I really needed a pee. The cubicle was occupied. I wondered if I was too young to have a heart attack. But then the cubicle opened. I could have kissed the hugely fat man who exited it, until I got a whiff of what he’d left behind. I pushed past him and slammed the cubicle door behind me, immediately taking out the bag of mary jane and emptying it into the stinking bog. I stuffed the bag behind the loo and flushed, rushing back out to find Emily at the desk with lots of grumpy, impatient-looking airline staff. We were just in time. I looked back at the man with the dog. The dog looked at me. I swear the fucking thing winked.

Emily didn’t talk to me much on the plane. She was convinced I had hidden the bag of dope in her rucksack. And it was difficult to protest my innocence with the other passengers listening in. Luckily, it was a short flight, and on the tube from Heathrow I pleaded my innocence until she told me to shut up.

‘I’m going back to my place,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

As she got off the train, I said, ‘I’m sorry, Emily.’

I expected her to say something like, ‘So am I.’ But she didn’t say a word. Just slung her rucksack onto her back and headed off. And to be honest, I was pleased to see her go. I’d had enough emotional shit for one day.

When I got back to my flat, Simon and Nat were sitting in the front room, smoking a joint. ‘Want some?’ said Simon.

I pictured the police dog winking at me. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why are you back? And what happened to your cheek?’

‘It’s a long story.’

I turned to leave the room, but Simon said, ‘Some woman called for you while you were away. Five times. She refused to believe you weren’t here.’

‘Silly beetch,’ said Nat, giggling.

‘Anyway, she finally got the message, but not before leaving a message of her own. There’s a bit of paper stuck to your door with the details on it.’

My trainers felt like they were made of lead as I walked to my room and tore the note down from my door. It said: Please call Elaine Meadows on 8 823 6544. Or she’s going to the police. Underneath, in brackets, Simon had added, What have you been up to? Then he’d drawn a smiley face.

Chapter 33

Siobhan

Saturday. Late.

My birthday’s nearly over, I’m drunk and weary and my tongue, lips and teeth are stained dark with red wine, but I think I feel better, about everything. I’m home again, and it’s got suddenly got so cold outside that I’ve lit the fire. Now I’m sitting here writing, enjoying the warmth and flickering light and – yes – enjoying the solitude of my home. All the windows and doors are locked up securely, of course, but I don’t feel scared any more.

I didn’t invite any of them back after the meal; Mum and Dad like to get to bed early, Jess had a babysitter, and Paula and her new boyfriend Gary were clearly off to do what couples do…. Besides, after the dramas in Amsterdam, I feel a bit like retreating into my nest and letting things calm down a bit.

It would be nice to have Biggles to stroke, but he’s in self-exile in my bedroom; I don’t think he likes the smell of the fresh paint. Probably just as well – there are enough bristles from the paintbrush stuck along my skirting board without needing a load of cat hair rubbed in it too. I’m into this painting lark, it’s very therapeutic. Think I’ll do the banisters next. I’ve been painting like a maniac for two days, since I got back, and it’s helped a lot. Phil always promised to do it for me when he moved in but – predictably – couldn’t tear himself away from whatever sporting event was on television on any given weekend. So I did it myself. I haven’t ever decorated anything before, but I knew what you had to do: sandpaper it, put masking tape along the edges, and paint it – I mean, how hard is that? I’m feeling well pleased with myself.

This room is a mess, though. I seem to be less obsessively tidy than I used to be. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to clear up after Phil anymore. I don’t know, but I quite like being bohemian and spontaneous. It’s more fun than running around with a can of Pledge every five minutes.

It’s been ages since I saw Mum and Dad, and Dad was looking much better now his slipped disc is on the mend. Paula and Gary were all over each other, and I didn’t even feel a twinge of envy (though I suspect this might have been more to do with the fact that Gary is 5’4” and paunchy), and it was fantastic to see Jess. We’ve made a pact to meet up once a month minimum, from now on, and really get our friendship back on track. She apologized for ‘neglecting’ me but of course I understood – I mean, children are so time-consuming, so everyone says. She also told me how worried about me they’d all been, which gave me a warm glow. I do have friends and family who love me. That’s important.

They toasted my birthday, and I made a little speech. Told them all I was going to give up writing and get a proper job. Admittedly I was a little bit upset that nobody leaped up and shouted, ‘No, please don’t do it, Siobhan, the world would be such a dark place without your talent!’ but I guess I can live with that. They were all encouraging and said how brave I was, and how it was the right thing to do. After all, said Mum, there’s nothing stopping you writing another novel in the future if you get inspired again, is there?

Must go to bed. I’ve drunk my Resolve and my litre of water, so I’ll be up in the night to pee, but at least I shouldn’t have a hangover in the morning.

Oh – there was one conversation I want to write down, between me and Paula, when Gary went to the loo, and she asked me what I thought of him.

‘He’s lovely,’ I lied, suddenly pretending to be very engrossed in scratching small splashes of white gloss off my forearms. ‘And he seems to really adore you.’