The bar is a circus. Music booms like cannon fire, thudding against the walls. Linking hands with Veronica and Macy, Kira follows the weaving Eva.

‘Marco!’ Eva yells into her phone, covering her other ear. ‘No, don’t just say “Polo.” Tell me where you are!’

She veers toward a gap to the right, through a knotted group of guys. Rolling her eyes, Vero waggles the sweet pack. Macy nods. Kira mouths please, and a tequila-drenched gummy bear finds its way to her mouth. It’s gross, but potent. That’s all that matters.

‘Marco!’ Eva shouts again. Lit by throbbing neon lights, she guns for a table at the back. It’s chattering and crowded, tucked in a corner. She throws up her hands. ‘Finally! Polo!’

‘Ladies!’ Seb cries, as Kira squeezes onto the bench. Flopping a large arm around her shoulders, he slots a drink in her hand. ‘It’s called a Green Lantern. If you’d been much longer, I’d have drunk it myself.’

‘Please.’ Kira clinks her dainty glass against his. ‘Feel free.’ Tilting it to the side, she frowns at its murky contents. It smells of disinfectant and tastes like kiwi. ‘It looks like it came from a swamp.’

Chastising her with a pointed look, he drains his own glass dry. ‘How rude.’ He plants an alcoholic kiss on her cheek, loud and wet and smacking. ‘Did you never learn about gift horses?’

Kira screws up her face. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She plucks the sweets from the sticky wood table. ‘Here. Have a gummy bear.’

Inch by inch, the night takes over. Inch by inch, as Seb spies on this fine face, that dapper shirt, or this outrageous beard, Kira floats into calm. Inch by inch, as Seb acquires blue drinks, Whiteland starts to fade.

‘Shots!’ Bespectacled, bearded Ron appears, enthusiastically brandishing a tray of drinks. It lands on the table with a clatter and a slosh, and he leans down to kiss Macy as the thirsty parties pounce. Kira takes a glass, calls her thanks, and drinks; again, a while later, and again, and again, until Seb hisses for her help and leads her out to dance.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he shouts over the music. A playful smile quirks his lips. He knows she never minds. ‘I want to see if he likes me.’ He nods vaguely through the crowd. ‘You know. Red-trouser-guy. I’m hoping he’ll see me with you, realise what he’s missing, and whisk me away for a lifetime of passion. The usual.’

Laughing, Kira lets him spin her, around and around and around. Many nights have seen these plots, and many nights, they’ve failed. This one has failed already, but she won’t be the one to tell him. It failed before they left the table, with red-trouser-guy locked by the lips to a short-haired girl in gold, but if Seb didn’t see, she won’t disappoint. When he’s enjoying himself, so is she.

Especially now she’s swirling around. Caught by sweaty bodies, she forgets. The bar is a maelstrom of cloudlike light, of bass that thumps behind her ribs. The air is hot and sweet and stale, and she’s one of many, just a—

‘Damn!’ The spinning stops abruptly. Kira staggers. Above her, Seb’s round face falls. ‘Damn, and blast, and…damn.’

Kira turns. Ah. Red trousers and gold dress are spiritedly dancing, whirling up what looks like a practiced storm. She turns back to Seb. ‘That’s…unhelpful.’ She squeezes his slouching arm. ‘Never mind?’

With a scowl, a pout, and a sigh, Seb shrugs. ‘Never mind,’ he agrees, as the bassline changes, doubling speed to a jitter. It feels like a heart attack. ‘Dutch courage, my lady?’

Cheerily, Seb recovers his smile. Kira nods, and returns it. This routine is well-rehearsed. ‘Excellent!’ Seb takes her hand, gallantly leading the way to the bar like a bull through bowling pins. ‘And do you know’—he leans on the juddering wood, tapping his shiny nose—‘why I’m going to indulge in Dutch courage?’

Avoiding the beer stains, Kira clicks her fingers. ‘Because you’re Dutch, and we’re in Holland.’

‘Perfect!’ Seb throws up his hands. His blond mane flies. ‘Barman!’ He waves to the eyebrow-arching woman. ‘Two absinthes, please.’ He lifts a thoughtful finger. ‘Actually, barman, two absinthes and two amarettos. We need it.’

‘Seb!’ Kira exclaims. The shots line up before her, even more eclectic than normal. ‘That’s beyond disgusting.’

He throws her a wink, and hands her the drinks. She sighs, with the gusto of a melodrama, but takes them. To be fair, he’s not wrong.

‘One for each hand.’ Seb winks again. With a clink and a cheers, they take a breath, and swallow the shots in a chain.

It burns. The pungent flavours are chaos. Warm and bitter and spicy at once, they barrel down Kira’s throat. ‘Aagh.’ She coughs, looks up at Seb, and laughs. His face is a flushed, bug-eyed wonder. ‘Wow, that never gets old.’

‘I think you mean…’ Seb wheezes. Blinking hard, he wags a finger, and clears his croaky throat. ‘I think you mean never again.’

‘No.’ She kisses his contorted cheek. ‘You were born for the stage, Seb. Back to the table?’

She offers her hand. With an unsteady nod, Seb takes it. This routine is well-rehearsed.

‘We’ve got friends!’ Macy proclaims as they retake their seats, having taken a clumsy age in the flashing, smoky air. She flips her hands, one at a thickset man near Ron and the other at his friend. Deep in conversation, only his mess of brown hair is visible. ‘They’re Ron’s friends from Spain. Madrid.’ She glances at Ron. ‘I think?’

With a vague, merry nod, Ron taps the thickset man’s arm and heads away to the bar. ‘Dance?’ Macy claps her hands, looking around the table. ‘Eva? Kira? Vero, you will.’

So many blurry faces. Kira blinks. The words, the lights, the noise fade in and out and round. So many blurry bodies, getting up to dance. Their forms swim through water. Are there dozens of chairs, or has she started seeing double?

Both. So many people. Inelegantly, Kira stands, laughing, clutching Eva. The chairs are playing tricks. The table’s growing edges, crowing like a witch.

‘Whoa.’ Eva stumbles on an outstretched boot. Grabbing on to Kira, she rights herself and wobbles off.

Kira sways. ‘Thanks, Eva,’ she mutters thickly, reaching out a steadying hand. It hits a shoulder. ‘Sorry.’ She flaps her other hand at the owner. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just…’

Sparing the shoulder an unbalanced glance, she totters after Eva. These shoes. Damn Macy. This is why she doesn’t go clubbing.

The drunken weight lifts off his shoulder. Arching an eyebrow, he nudges her upright, or as right as she’ll manage to be. Her laughing puff of breath drifts off, hot and oversweetened. He huffs. These drinks are awful. This place is awful. Give him a beer and a plate of chips, and—

Watching her go, he stills. No.

Even if she hadn’t caught his stare, it sears two holes in her back. Faintly irritated, Kira ignores it, tightening the shirt at her waist. If he thinks for even a second of approaching her, of doing more than stare…she may be drunk, but she won’t be seduced. She didn’t really look at him, admittedly, so he might be an Aquaman rock star, but alcohol only makes men annoy her. He doesn’t want to try it. Not tonight.

Not on the anniversary of—

Kira stamps her heel on the wayward thought. She promised herself she wouldn’t think about that. Squinting around for Macy and Eva, she squeezes past a grinding couple, winces at an elbow to the arm, and stops. Yes; not only will she not think about it, but she’ll drown it. Death is the best revenge.

The bar. Where?

There. Kira turns, pushing back past the couple.

A hand on her arm spins her around. Her head swoops, and steadies. It’s Ron’s goddamn brown-haired friend, who doesn’t know when to stop staring. Fire flares fierce inside her. He approached her. He’s in the way, and she needs a drink, and not thinking about it isn’t going so—

Wait. Kira stops. Her mind goes tabula rasa, and she blinks. The brown-haired friend isn’t saying anything. Not speaking, not trying to dance, not forcing a drink in her hand. He’s just staring. Wide brown eyes, a shock of brown hair, the faintest shadow of stubble—

‘Sorry.’ He lets her go, and her focus is broken. ‘You look like someone I used to know.’

He turns to head back to the table. Kira looks after him, squinting to sharpen her wavering vision; she can’t catch in his face, can’t snatch in his voice, what she somehow thinks she should. A lilt. An image. A memory. A name.

From a corner deep inside her, something starts to scream.

It’s not.

It can’t be.

What if it is?

He glances back. She’s watching him, and he stops and turns. That checked shirt. That pale skin. The way she pouts when she frowns. It’s not. It can’t be.

What if it is?

‘What’s your name?’ he shouts.

Kira’s thoughts float away. She blinks. ‘Um.’ The raucous club is a pulsing bubble, smoky-pink and blue. Isn’t she meant to be dancing? ‘Kira.’ Her voice doesn’t feel like hers. ‘I’m Kira.’

In the middle of the crowd, Ron’s friend stiffens. ‘What?’ he mouths, rather than calls. He looks like he’s seen the Wild Hunt, or apocalyptic horsemen. ‘What did you say?’

Jerking forward, he elbows his way toward her. Kira snorts as he grabs her shoulders, looking hard into her face. If he wants to be weird, and freak out, then let him; her shots are working magic, and she no longer cares. Cloudy down the rabbit hole, she’s off to Wonderland.

‘I said…’ She smiles dreamily, swaying to the music. This, now this is fun. The smile bubbles into a giggle. The lights, the music, the warmth in her brain. His strong hands on her shoulders. Perfect.

The friend doesn’t seem to think so. His forehead tightens, like the Wild Hunt have caught him and stuck him with their spears. Kira squints to read his lips. He’s mouthing something, squeezing her shoulders.

‘What?’ she shouts. As lulling as the bass is, it’s far too loud. She waves a sloppy hand. ‘I can’t hear.’

Gripping her tighter, the friend bends down, putting his mouth to her ear. Cologne that triggers something, the dim smell of beer. ‘How old are you?’ he asks.

Kira snorts. ‘Are you a pimp?’

He straightens up, but says nothing. Perhaps the words aren’t clear. Nothing’s clear. She gives him a dutiful nod. ‘Nineteen.’ She salutes, as if to a colonel. ‘Sir. Anything else you—you—’

She slows. Something inside her clicks.

The cloudy warmth recedes. The scream cranks into life, in her chest, in her mind. Something in his accent, strained above the music. Something in his wide eyes, his scruffy heathen hair. He said he thought he knew her. Oh, god. Kira screws her eyes shut, and drags them open. The scream is filling her head with darkness. Why is she so drunk?

‘Kira, who’s nineteen.’ The friend leans in again. He looks her up, down, up, down. ‘Kira, who’s nineteen, looks like a pixie, and brings a checked shirt to a club.’ He lets her go, rubbing his eyes. ‘Jesus. Is it not you?’

Kira’s gaze wanders away. Her chugging mind is whirling. Club lights glinting off bottles at the bar, scarlet, jade, gold, blue. Red trousers and gold dress, dancing up their storm. It can’t be.

Or she’s not letting it be. She locked it all away, but now…

‘Kira.’ The friend grabs her wrist so hard it hurts. She looks back, woozy, her chest swelling, but he’s letting her go and walking away. Tattoo, tattoo, tattoo, she hears, but did he say it? She staggers. He’s barging through the crowd, and with the swelling barrelling up her throat, hot and bulbous, she knows for sure. He walked away like this after the first day in the forest. He bandaged her skin when the mist attacked; he followed her to Whiteland. He was there when she fell asleep in the boat, and then he disappeared.

Just as he’s doing now.

No. Kira squints through the crowd, but the flashes of memory, sparking and vivid as they shoot through her irises, made her lose sight of him. Where did he go?

Two girls shoulder past. ‘Sorry!’ one calls back. Kira teeters, catches herself, sways. Her brain keels, as off-kilter as a one-wheeled wagon. The club blurs, sound and smoke, people shouting, singing, drunk. Her body vibrates with the music. She spins unsteadily. Where did he go?

Sparking. Vivid. Lurching out of the mist with Romy, smirking at her, catching fish. Her senses return with a pointed wallop, and Kira staggers into the fray. He’s not at the bar, not by the window seats; she scans the dance floor, but he’s not there either, and she wouldn’t expect him to be.

If it’s him. Kira digs her nails into her scalp, fixing her brain in place. Again. Fading in, fading out, she’s not here, not aware.

Suddenly, she’s outside.

Kira blinks. The blackout clears, and she looks around. Oh, no. No, no. Too drunk. Please, no. The snow patters cold on her head. The winter needles her face and arms. Did she get thrown out? Did she leave on her own?

Behind her, the music thumps. Cigarette smoke puffs in the air, curling around like ghosts. People are queueing around the corner. How British. Kira rubs her arms. Nothing’s real. What is she doing?

‘Oops-a-daisy, you’ll catch your death.’ A reedy man, all drooping spliff and upturned collar, slinks an arm around her waist. His attempt at seduction quirks a smile and hoods his bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s freezing out here. D’you fancy a drink?’

‘Get off,’ Kira mumbles, as he reels her in. His smirk murmurs more than good deeds. ‘Get off.’

He does not get off. ‘Why don’t you smile?’ He croons around the spliff. Moving one hand from her waist to her rear, he tips her mouth to his.

‘No.’ Wrenching her head to the side, Kira stumbles. The air shoots slivers of sobering ice, but the pavement is frozen, curse these heels—

‘Oops-a-daisy!’ The man scoops her up, pressing her into the wall. With a flick, the joint is consigned to the floor. His groin pins her tight, and he leans in close. ‘You really should be careful.’

‘No.’ Scraping her back against the stone, Kira fumbles for her self-defence. This is why she took those classes. Exactly why. ‘I told you—’

In a rush of frozen air, he’s yanked back. Kira staggers, but before she can fall, someone catches her. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t say oops-a-daisy. He’s beer and cold and faint cologne, a scarred hand.

Callum.

‘Are you okay?’ Callum asks. Gripping her numbing shoulders, he rights her.

‘After the same thing I am.’ The joint-less man spits at the ice. ‘Betcha.’

Callum angles his head sharply. ‘Fuck off.’ He turns back, peering into her face. ‘Did he do anything? Because I will hit him.’

Cursing, the man stumbles off. Kira shakes her head. ‘No.’ She shakes it again. Callum. Callum, Callum, Callum, Callum. Slowly, she looks up at him. The word taking shape is as light as lies. ‘Callum.’

Callum’s eyes crinkle. His body seems to sag. ‘Kira.’ He brushes her wrist, the tattoo. ‘This is—I—’

‘Oh, my god, Callum.’ Kira throws her arms around him, burying her face in the hair at his neck. Her alcoholic fog sweeps up, lifted like a curtain. Callum. Callum. ‘How are you here?’

Tears rise hot in her throat, cracking at her words. Hugging her hard, Callum only shakes his head.

It’s a long while before Kira lets him go. Slowly disentangling herself, she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, half convinced that he might have disappeared, that the man she was hugging is a stranger.

But, ‘Where do you live?’ Callum asks. It’s him, wild hair and a face so open, so lost, broken, stunned. Unsteady, he steeples his fingers on the wall and raises his voice above the bass. ‘Did you bring a coat?’

He glances at the entrance to the bar. The throng still snakes along the length of the building, and he pulls a face. Too many man buns, short skirts, sticky chemical drinks in bottles that spill sweet stains on the floor. ‘Sorry. I went back for mine, but didn’t think about yours.’

Kira’s expression twists in tandem. ‘I’m not waiting in that. I’ll be fine. Let’s go.’

Motioning down the road, she walks off, cautious and covered in snow. Callum carefully pushes himself upright. She never did hang around. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Fumbling with her shirt, she taps her pocket-sized bag. ‘I only live ten minutes away, and I have this. If one of my friends doesn’t bring my coat, I’ll go back tomorr—oh!’

She flings out her arms, skidding to the side on a patch of black ice. It glints beneath her ridiculous heels, and she rights herself on the wall. ‘Wow.’

Sheepish and bright-eyed, she looks back at him, and in that moment, he could frame her. Kira, alive in the winter night. Kira, lit up by streetlamps and clumsy on the cobbles. Kira, tottering, half-smiling, pushing back her untidy hair. His chest aches, a longing deeper than the cold, and it becomes a rueful smile. She’s alive.

He catches her up at the mouth of a side street, where the bar’s thumping finally fades. Along a black, L-shaped alley, a frigid little wind tunnel. Out onto a road hung with star-shaped lights, where a small, bundled-up crowd watches a burly fire-eater. It seems as if they’re home in seconds.

Thank God. Wincing in her pinching shoes, how she managed it is an enigma. She had a few moments of clarity, but with movement, the alcohol swept right back. Muddling with the key, Kira shivers. Her shirt’s soaked. This isn’t right. She shouldn’t be seeing him again this drunk; she shouldn’t have drowned the memories. Not tonight. She shouldn’t have gone out, when she knew she was stuck in the past. She should have clung on to her wits, her sense, her mind. Her dignity.

But she wasn’t to know she’d run into Callum. She thought he was dead, yet here he is: following her through the squat, cherry door, into her squat, quaint house. He’s far more real than she feels, shaking his snowy coat from his body and kicking off his Vans; is it definitely him?

Yes. She might be drunk, but she’s not crazy; just an idiot.

‘Where to?’ Callum spreads his hands. Even in the gloom, it’s him. ‘Where’s the warmest place in this house?’

‘There.’ Slapping on the light, Kira gestures to the living room, stumbling down the hall. A mess of blankets swallows the couch, colourful, patchwork cloth. Normally, she and Macy would be huddled within them, drinking something experimental and watching dippy films.

‘Oh, beautiful.’ Callum throws himself down, with a great whoosh of a sigh. ‘Down you come.’ He grabs her arm. Her head swoops, and she collapses beside him with a squeak. ‘You’re freezing, I’m freezing. Let’s not die. Again.’ He yanks a blanket or three from the rest, spreading them out and tucking them in. Checks, snowflakes, monochrome stripes. ‘Good?’

Kira hesitates, but she’s oh, so tired. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she nods. ‘Astonishing.’

Callum works his arms around her. ‘That pretty much sums it up.’ He sighs. ‘Jesus. I don’t even know what to think. I spent ages trying to find you, after I got out, but social media failed abysmally. Plenty of Kiras, none of them you.’

Kira huffs. ‘I don’t use social media.’

‘Well, that would explain it.’ He lifts his head to look at her, his practised eyebrow arched. ‘You’re one of those.’

Kira smiles up at his light-sparkled face. Everything is softly blurred, cosy, tranquil, warm. Heavy eyes. Heavy head. Spinning like a carousel. ‘Mmm.’

‘Of course you are.’ Callum tips his head back, shaking it dryly at the ceiling. ‘Of course you are.’ He stills, his arms tightening. ‘It killed me, though.’

It killed me. It killed me. The words loop through Kira’s head. They’re the turtle, the porpoise, the whiting, dancing the lobster quadrille. It killed me. It killed me.

She hugs his chest in silence, and then there’s only sleep.