“Obtuse? There’s a big word for you.”

Ignoring one piece of bait, falling for another, “How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Having a good time?”

“Oh I love standing alone at a bar twelve days before Christmas.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Was until Steph came.”

“You could’ve come over.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“That’s pathetic.” I smiled.

“Go on then, since you’re asking. I’ll have a vodka.”

“Think I’ll join you.”

The cold air didn’t help much.

“I love you,” I was saying, unable to stay upright.

“Come on love, taxi’s here.” A woman’s voice, Kathryn’s.

The pine-scented air-freshener didn’t help much either.

“I love you,” I was saying.

“He better not puke,” shouted the Paki driver over his shoulder.

I could smell his sweat amongst the pine.

“I love you,” I was saying.

Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on their toilet floor.

Kathryn opened the door and switched on the light and bought another piece of me.

It hurt and it burned as it all came up, but I didn’t want it to ever stop. And, when it finally did, I stared a long time at the whisky and the ham, at the bits in the bog and the bits on the floor.

Kathryn put her hands on my shoulders.

I tried to place the voice in my head saying, you’ve actu ally got people feeling sorry for him, I never thought that was possible.

Kathryn moved her hands into my armpits.

I didn’t want to ever stand again. And, when I finally did, I started to cry.

“Come on love,” she whispered.

I awoke three times in the night from the same dream.

Each time thinking, I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Each time the same dream: a woman on a terraced street, clutching a red cardigan tight around her, screaming ten years of noise into my face.