Daz was munted. Right off his tits. So much whizz ripped through his system he hadn’t slept in three days—now it felt like he’d never slept, would never sleep again. Things moved in the corners of his vision that weren’t there when he looked. He swayed in the queue outside Romero’s, half leant against Banger.

Around them, clubbers shuffled in the cold and dark. Chatter, tension, anticipation hung with plumes of breath and cigarette smoke in the autumn night. The walls of the club—a semi-industrial concrete box as charming and adorned as an electrical substation—throbbed as though some creature of bass were pounding against them. Light pooled around the entrance. Two bouncers loomed either side: a squat bald-headed ogre, wider than he was tall; and a pro-wrestler type with a blond ponytail. They ushered in a gaggle of shivering, bare-shouldered girls, who bopped and swayed as the music drew them inward. Behind Daz, the queue dissolved in writhing shadows. The orange traceries of cigarette tips hung in the air like some occult script Daz could almost read…

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