You Must Be Sisters by Deborah Moggach

from his pocket and filled them with tobacco from the cigarettes, and something else he tapped out from a little brass box. Everyone watched. He was the priest. Now he stuck the papers together into one loose sausage. ‘A light,’ he said, and the plaits girl leant over with the holy flame.
    He put the sausage to his lips; it flared; through the smoke Claire saw his eyes bulge. For a horrified moment she thought he was asphyxiating. He drew the thing away from his mouth and then, with a sudden hiss and shudder as if he’d been stabbed, his lips drew back from his teeth. It was a long hiss, exquisitely painful, his lips stretched, his eyes glazed, the veins in his neck bulging. Then suddenly he subsided; his breath was let out in a shuddering groan. He slumped down, head lolling, and proffered her the smouldering sausage.
    ‘Oh no,’ she cried. ‘I couldn’t, really.’
    ‘Hey, just try,’ he said. ‘Take it right down, deep.’
    Those eyes were watching, waiting for it. Eyes all round the room. Claire quickly passed it to Laura.
    ‘Are you sure?’ Laura asked. She took it between her thumb and forefinger, her other fingers arched as she’d seen Andy arch his. She put it to her lips.
    It burned down to her lungs; it tore, red-hot, down, and she was transfixed. Everything went black. She couldn’t breathe.
    After a moment she could open her eyes, just. But still she couldn’t breathe. There was no hope of her ever breathing again. How could she, with her lungs full, her throat full, her mouth and head full?
    The next hand hovered, waiting. Suddenly she could gasp. A fit of choking strangled her.
    ‘Good grass, right?’ said Andy. ‘Not too strong; just a gentle high.’
    ‘Is it?’ Claire asked Laura with interest. ‘What’s it like? Do you often smoke it?’
    Andy was listening, so Laura tried to seem blasé. Difficult when she was dying, but she tried. ‘Er, sometimes.’ Why, oh why couldn’t she be as honest as Claire and admit she’d never done it? Why? Why couldn’t she be as nice as Claire? The question reeled round her head. Why? In fact, the whole room was reeling. The Eric Clapton poster on the wall buzzed and wobbled. Hell! It was just like that awful thing with John all over again, but worse this time because she had, in some way she couldn’t make out with her dizzy head, been disloyal to Claire.
    The hissing next to her stopped. She turned to her neighbour; he was pressing his neck. Claire leant forward to look at him too. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked brightly.
    There was a pause, then his eyes slowly opened. ‘It gets me stoneder than stoned,’ he said, then he closed his eyes again.
    Enveloped in themselves, people didn’t speak. The room was heavy with smoke and concentration. Then a voice came from the opposite mattress. ‘I need jam,’ it said.
    ‘And why not,’ said Andy. He heaved himself up and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a loaf and some jam. ‘Let’s get into the con –, the con –, how’s it go?’
    ‘Conserves,’ said Claire helpfully.
    ‘The conserves. Yeah, who wants a jam trip?’ He cleared a space on the floor which was covered with things – ashtrays, teacups, ‘Rupert Bear Annual’ and a Sunday paper. It was open at the page about the aborigines.
    ‘Have you read that article?’ Claire asked Andy, pointing to it. He shook his head. ‘It’s very good.’
    ‘Read it, then.’ He turned round to the others. ‘Listen to a story, children.’
    Claire read it. When she had finished she looked up.
    ‘Wow,’ came an impressed voice.
    ‘Yes,’ she replied, pleased. ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it.’
    ‘Wow, those ants … big green ants, really big …’
    ‘… with huge staring eyes …’ came another voice.
    ‘… and big shiny bodies, leaping through the woods …’
    ‘… their eyes all red and their bodies all – all green …’
    ‘… and pow! You’re face to face with one,’ said Andy. He started giggling.