After a few repeated knocks and a call through the letterbox, Miranda comes to the door. Her usual pose – one hand on the doorframe, one hand on the door, slung pitifully between these two points of connection like a domestic Jesus on the cross. With reading glasses.
‘What do you want?’
‘You called for an ambulance, Miranda. Something about an overdose. Can you tell me what’s happened?’
She bobs her head in a non-committal way, still holding on to the door.
‘Can you tell me what you’ve taken and when?’
Miranda pushes her glasses back up her nose to consider the question. She calls an ambulance many times each night; Control allow her one visit. We’ve all been here a number of times, but so far no-one has made it over the threshold.
She gives a curious facial spasm, then dismisses us with a slap of the air in front of her nose.
‘You can fuck off.’
Then she slams the door. We can hear her crash back into the dark recesses of her bungalow.
We turn back to the vehicle.
My torch picks out the glazed smile on one of her gnomes.