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‘He’s the spokesperson for the Black Star.’

Paul slurps the last of his drink and then throws it over his shoulder. The glass shatters behind him. He claps twice and the shadow bars disappear. ‘Pleathe, follow me… come, come. We don’t have long before that pesky apparition sets in.’

‘Apparition?’ I ask.

‘If you’re untethered to a host like a body or a Star you begin to fade,’ Walker explains, a rattle following his movements.

‘You die. Like you die, die. You ditholve and dithintegrate until there’th nothing left,’ Paul explains with enthusiasm, traipsing down the halls.

We follow him down a winding corridor filled with doors, some open, some closed. All reek. And every square inch is filled with… I can’t explain it, it’s like the air of this place has its own frequency and it’s stuck on a note only a kid blowing a recorder for the first time can make.

‘Thorry, we’re in the middle of renovationth!’

‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to review.’

‘She can’t be reviewed, she’s not tethered,’ Walker whines.

‘Yeth. But thpecial guethtth requires thpecial treatment, Roman. You thould know that. Thinthe you’re on the rethieving end of thothe tho often.’ He winks and Walker gives him a reluctant smile. Damn. Can Paul win over Walker? I’ve got no hope of getting out of here.

I’m probably going to sell everything I am to Paul, and after he’s done leaching me dry of whatever it is he wants, I’ll smile and say thank you.

‘It’s—’

‘Oh, you’ll thee.’

Sounds ominous. Splendid.

‘I like your sconces. Very baroque.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t even know what baroque means,’ Walker mumbles. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s jealous.

‘Yes, I do,’ I snark.

‘Go on then.’

‘I’m not telling you so you can piggyback off my knowledge.’

‘Oh, the’th delithiouth, Roman,’ Paul says, and Walker smiles, like he’s just pleased Paul is talking to him. He turns to me. ‘You’ll fit right in here… well ath long ath you path the review.’

What the hell is this review?

Finally, we reach the end of the hall and come to a theatre room with worn cinema chairs, playing pre-movie credits of people falling over. Someone stacks it and I smile.

‘Ah, you like that? You’re already a natural born thitizen of the Black Thtar, I can feel it in my boneth. You jutht have to get through the review, friend – and you can thtay ath long ath you like. You can watch thethe idiotth falling over all the live long day if you like.’

Honestly, not the worst way to spend eternity.

‘Pleathe, take a theat,’ Paul directs. Walker sits beside me and Paul goes to flick the lights off. Static plays on the screen before a countdown begins and my origin story plays out on the screen. A baby abandoned on a doorstep isn’t exactly breaking news, but it is still a hard watch.

I can’t stand my younger years. I can’t stand seeing myself try and fail to make friends. I was so unlovable. I still am, a voice whispers in the back of my mind.

A depressing montage begins to play of all the time me and Tilly shared, backed by the hit “Knowing Me, Knowing You”. Paul does the part of the gentle whispers in the second verse. Credit where credit’s due – he kills it.

But then it slows down. The song warps and the screen zooms in so far we become entrenched in the memory. It’s as if I’m right there, watching myself doctor Tilly’s records after a successful interview for adoption when we were ten.