Ronan sunk to his knees. Cradled his head in his hands. Water pellets fell from his hair and cheeks, forming a pitter-patter puddle against the scuffed, vinyl tiles, and with every release of breath, physical pain bled back into being. His throat was on fire. His eyes stung like a mother-fudger. And his head? That thing felt like it had been shoved inside a tumble dryer. There was blood beneath his fingernails too. It took reaching up, touching his tender scalp and brushing against fresh crimson to understand why.

The shower helped somewhat. Acted like the sea and washed the worst of his fears down the plughole and carried them...