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gathered that it’s like asking a prisoner if they are innocent.
    “No ma’am,” he says and winks again.
    The woman makes more notes then takes a step back and looks him up and down. She says, “Thank you.”
    She repeats the procedure with Nikolai, checking his eyes and mouth, then his fingernails.
    “Are you currently on any medication?”
    “No.”
    He’s aware of Damien grinning madly beside him but takes no notice.
    “Any illegal substances?”
    “I’m clean,” Nikolai answers.
    “Thank you,” she says, then turns and flicks through her sheets of notes. She walks up the line and back again and it shifts with her presence as if she exerts some sort of gravitational pull on each person there.
    “You,” she says finally, pointing her pen at Nikolai.
    He hesitates then steps forward when she motions for him to come towards her. He stands beside her, looking back at the crowd from which he has been plucked.
    “Thank you all for coming,” she says and then guides Nikolai towards the cherry red Honda she had arrived in.
    “You’re fucking kidding me. That’s it?!” one of the others complains, loudly enough for the woman to hear. “You’re only taking
one
?”
    “One is all we’re looking for, guys,” she says, opening the door for Nikolai. He climbs inside.
    “And you choose
him
?” Damien shouts. “He’s the biggest fucking junkie out of all of us!”
    She closes Nikolai’s door and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Maybe next time fellas,” she says.
    The group has now gathered in front of the car, blocking its exit. The woman starts the engine, revs it a couple of times. She hits the headlights, flooding the group in light and for a few moments there is a stand-off, nobody prepared to make the first move. Finally the crowd splits, though only just enough for her to squeeze the car through them, and, as she passes, fists and palms slap against the roof and window.
    She pulls the car onto the main road and joins the light traffic, glances in her rearview mirror at Nikolai.
    “It’s not true,” he tells her, nervously rubbing his hands across his thighs. “I’m not . . . taking anything. Not anymore.”
    The woman says nothing, her indifference as tangible as it had been when assessing them. She swings the car into a u-turn to head back the way she came.
    Nikolai looks out the window as they pass the parking lot.
    Damien stands at the front of the crowd and gives him the finger.
    “I hope they
fuck you up, Nikolai
!” he shouts, then disappears from sight.
    But before that, there was this. . . .
    • • •
    Bridget watches the couple from a booth at the back of the club, away from the main throng and bathed in the glow from a couple of slot machines lined up against one wall.
    The woman is of medium height with rich black hair, multiple tattoos adorning her arms. The man is taller, bright blue eyes and short blonde hair. He says something and the woman laughs, placing a hand on his chest, fingers spread.
    Bridget sips at a glass of water, leaning to one side when someone entering blocks her view momentarily.
    “Loving your look,” another man says to her. He wears a suit with his tie and top shirt buttons loosened, the gel in his hair losing a battle to keep it slicked back from his forehead.
    She follows his gaze to her hands, sheathed in purple latex gloves. She tucks them into her pockets, removing them from sight.
    “How do you get your hair that colour? So pink?”
    “I dye it.”
    “Oh. May I?” the man asks, already starting to sit down.
    Bridget blocks him with one booted foot, shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says, then peers over his shoulder.
    The couple are leaning into one another, exchanging breath and scents. The woman stands and pulls her coat on. The two make their way through the crowd.
    Bridget gets up, pushes past the man without another word, and hurries to follow the couple outside.
    A cold breeze snaps her to attention as she looks farther up the