‘Fuckig itches like a b. . . bastid.’ ‘Well, let me shave the scraggy thing off, for pity’s sake,’ says Phil. ‘P. . . p. . . you’ll prolly kill me,’ El says, then laughs. ‘Second th. . . thoughts. M. . . maybe should.’ El’s twitches and tics have escalated to the point where he can’t shave without cutting himself half a dozen or more times. And he’s too temperamental, too stubborn, to allow Phil to do it for him. ‘Anway, ’s. . . ’strendy.’ ‘You look like a vagabond,’ says Phil, who himself looks uncharacteristically dishevelled. He has bruise-coloured bags beneath his eyes and it looks as if he’s been crying, not sleeping or both. El doesn’t reply; he’s engrossed in his iPad, as he has been for most of the evening. There are two pizzas on the coffee table, but Phil isn’t eating and El lost interest halfway through his second slice. El holds the iPad towards me.
