CHRISTOS AND I are at a barbecue. He points to a man leaning against the fence. The man is wearing a baseball cap and talking to Gareth Maher from back home. The man is middle-aged and thin; there’s not much swagger in his walk as he crosses the yard towards me, removing the cap. Dean Cola! I ask where he’s been and he tells me he’s had cancer, has been through chemo but is OK now. He is married with two children. Then we are slow-dancing. I slide my arms around his waist and my hands, unscarred, into his back pockets. An aura the colour of Fruit Tingle lollies — chalky gold with a fairy-dusting of pastels — powders around him. We kiss. I am aware that I’m dreaming and this is wrong, but regret and longing gape in me like a wound. So wrong. I hold him closer, closer, aching to fill the empty space.

Christos was moving behind me. I lay as still as I could, breathing quietly, feigning sleep. My nose was itchy. Unbearably itchy. I twitched it, but it didn’t help. Slowly, carefully, I slid my hand up from under the sheet to scratch it. Not carefully enough. An arm the size of a small tree trunk fell across my chest; big fingers fumbled under my nightie for my nipple. I twisted, and scrunched my shoulders forward, edging his hand away. I could bear his cock inside me, but having my body touched (by anybody) was almost intolerable — it gave me a feeling under my skin like cold worms in dirt. Over the years, I had stopped feeling guilty for being unable to love Christos physically like I should, and he didn’t seem to mind. He’d be making his pufferfish face against my back. I gritted my teeth and my hands found each other under the pillow. The right hand was less damaged; it could feel the left, and held it tight. Moonlight, or streetlight, leaked around the blind, illuminating the edges of the ceiling fan as it beat time with the slapping of flesh. Dean Cola, the fan seemed to say. Dean Cola, a flash of light on the blade; Dean Cola, light on the blade; Dean Cola, light.

When Christos was snoring evenly, I slipped out of bed. A dizzy spell — a withdrawal symptom of decreasing my meds. I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two until the room stopped spinning.

Straightening my nightie, I padded quietly out of the room and up the short flight of stairs to the attic.

I flicked on the light and rubbed my eyes. Must get a shade for that bare bulb. There was a brass doorknob on the door, with a twist-button lock. I locked it. From the parkland across the road, the chattering of early morning birds made it feel like the country, almost.

The Pac King box was where I’d moved it to — behind a tub of Christmas decorations and a cluster of pink charity-donation bags. My pulse quickened as I dragged it out and found The Poem.

… If only again the fire would alight

& lead us back to the place where we fell

Down the stairs with so many stars lit bright

Nothing ever looks the same in the light

You’ve forgotten all the things you told me

In the Hedera helix green & white …

What things had Dean Cola told me in the Hedera helix green and white? What, what, what? Why couldn’t I remember? What the fuck even is Hedera helix? I kicked the box.

‘Everything all right in there?’ Christos coughed outside the door and twisted the knob.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s very early. Why’s this door locked?’

‘Is it? I’m just putting some clothes in the bags.’ I rustled one.

‘Need some help?’

‘No thanks.’

One last chance for us, or forever wish

Remember & search for remnants of this

Down the stairs with so many stars lit bright

In the Hedera helix green & white