White poplar means time.

He walked three metres behind, eyes fixed on my back. I didn't care where I walked.

The drizzle left my forehead damp and my hair a nest of glistening droplets, hanging in the night air like a warm blanket. Petrichor drifted up from the pillows of autumn leaves on the sidewalk.

We'd just had dinner at a dingy Japanese eatery, slightly off the main road. The restaurant was empty save one other couple. It was well past what could be considered conventional dinnertime.

He'd ordered a plate of gyoza to share, and they arrived in a hot plate the size of a pizza box, each one fat and greasy, sizzling in its own oil. The aroma of fried dumpling skin was irresistible but I'd lost my appetite. I wanted to walk. I picked dutifully at the offerings and he'd ordered a beer. I declined a drink and he fretted that the date wasn't progressing well. I could tell; his forehead furrows in a way I can't explain but have since memorised, his eyes between myself and the door wondering whether I would get up and leave any minute, or whether he should.

Dinner was a short affair. We left the restaurant after 20 minutes, and meandered through smaller and smaller streets until we were incidentally facing a graffitied alleyway, off Chinatown. Our only light sources were appropriately tacky red lanterns, strung between the two rooftops, illuminating the dustbins in the far corner.

'Aren't you coming?' I asked. He hesitated. 'It doesn't look safe.'

'Why, are you scared?' I mocked - then relented. 'There's a bar on the other side. I promise. And if we get attacked in this alleyway, don't worry - I'll protect you.'

He muttered something under his breath, thought you didn't want a drink, or it might've been, thought you didn't drink. Either would've been true; I wasn't much for alcohol when we were in a relationship.

I'd lied; it was several alleyways further down that we found the place. Flashing red neon lights lit the way. Beakers and conical flasks artfully lined the back wall, filled with unidentifiable coloured liquids, illuminated against the bare brick. This time, we were the only patrons. I seated myself at a booth, crossed my legs, and noticed a tear in the leather. Picking mindlessly at the stuffing, 'Would you like a drink?'

He slid into the booth opposite me, jittery like a nervous meerkat, caged, lonely without its friends. I insisted, but he refused, saying that he had to drive later. Suit yourself. I tiptoed up to the bar and ordered a cocktail.

'That'll be $12, darling,' the bartender said. She had hair greener than meadow grass, straightened to dry straw, in endearing pigtails. Her lips were stained plum purple, and a nosering wriggled distractingly when she breathed. She wore striped tights, Alice-In-Wonderland style.

I gave her my card, and she looked at me.

'There's a surcharge on card - but you know what. It's a quiet Tuesday night; you can have it on the house.' In that moment, I could've kissed her. She jerked her head towards my 'date', slouching in his seat, blue light from his phone disrupting the aesthetic. 'He bothering you?'

I shook my head.

'Don't let boys push you around. You know, when push comes to shove, they're all talk. They ain't got no balls. So don't let him get in your way.' She turned around, resuming polishing the glassware. 'You let me know when he wants to order a Diet Coke, or a babyccino, hey, hun?'

I dared him to come upstairs, to the second floor.

It was a rundown, unused gymnasium that could now be hired out as a function space. The lights were off as we ascended, him pausing halfway to ask if we were trespassing, and me denying it without turning around. 'There's something I want to show you,' I'd said.

Illuminated only from the outside, the space was even eerier through the frosted glass windows. Gymnastic rings dangled from metal chains, long and short, haphazard. One plastic potplant sat in a sorry corner, lifeless. Graffiti, not like the graffiti art that plastered the buildings on our way in, but callous tags, jagged and angular, polluted the yellowing walls.

But this was my favourite: a broken wheelchair, mounted by its handles on an off-angle. Like an angry asylum inpatient had hauled it up there in a fit of psychosis. Positioned in the corner, above the entrance, so that a careless observer might miss it - only to see the shadows of its spokes stretch like spiders across the walls as city lights outside blink on and off.

'Isn't it beautiful?' I grinned, perhaps wickedly. 'Isn't it just perfect?'

In all sincerity, I thought it was. Everything from the dust on the plastic leaves to the scuffs and scratches on the floorboards only contributed to the aesthetic of the room. It even smelt musty. I imagined into existence the squeaking of rats; of course, there were none.

'Let's get outta here,' he said.

So then, we walked.

I was unfazed by his reaction. Nothing could dampen this mood, this wide-eyed baby-like wonder, this blueish-grey tinted innocence. Nothing could touch me, safety enveloped in a blanket of mist, under the watchful eyes of city streetlamps and gaudy lanterns.

I led us through a city garden, heading towards its centrepiece, a water fountain. Skeletal branches of oak and plane trees intertwined, forming an arching canopy overhead; white poplars lined the walkways like sentries on watch. White poplars, I thought, meant time. On the left, the state museum and its facades of glass; on the right, an old nineteenth-century pavilion, a flagpole protruding from its domed ceiling, lit up by spotlight. In front of that, was the white fountain.

I love the sound of all water - the trickling tinkle of a shallow stream, the deep rumbling of an unsettled sea, the relentless pounding of rain against concrete (hard enough to see it bounce), and the generous gurgling of a well-fed fountain, the plop into the waiting pool below. I sat on the rim, trench coat crumpled in my lap and warm autumn rain soaking through my paper-thin dress. I motioned for him to sit beside me - but he stood, watching me, with desolate eyes.

'You've changed,' he said, 'haven't you?'

I remember a story someone told me, about riding through this park on a motorcycle, before dawn on a winter morning. He'd worn wool under his riding gloves and a balaclava under his helmet, and he was cold and he was late. The fog was thick like milk; he could see barely two feet in front of him. In that moment, he felt the urge to ride, wind in his face, free, through the silent park - and so he stripped off his double-gloving, ripping off his headgear and with it the balaclava, and opened himself up to the cold. His knuckles turned pale then blue, frozen in place around his handles. The air pierced his cheeks, a thousand needles; his eyes watered. He rode for two or three blocks before putting his protection back on. But, he said afterwards, it was the most magical minute of my life.

On that warm autumn night, I felt the veins in his fingers melt, felt the stinging sensation subside, and the reinstation of wool against my skin. I wanted to tell him, wrapped in safety, that I'd learnt a new appreciation, and that I'd never felt happier. I knew he smelled - had always smelled - of fresh showers and spice, refreshing, like a gin and tonic with a slice of lemon. And I knew, pressed against his jacket, I could drink it in right there and then. But I was pressed against the fountain, surrounded by a bed of white and pink roses in full bloom, covered in glittering dewdrops, their petals outstretched, sending their perfume into the sky. I was already drunk, on flowers.

'Yes,' I said softly, 'I know.'

Ringleaders

Ringleaders, was the store name. Diamond experts.

I tripped on the carpet getting into the lift and felt out of place and awkward instantly. It was located on the second floor, away from the bustling shopping mall on street level.

In the lift, mirrors formed all four walls, and I looked up at his face to avoid looking at myself otherwise. He had his business face on; square-jawed, clean-shaven, and some muscle tension showing over his taut cheekbones. I felt nervous and girly. Silly.

The doors opened onto a neat blue-carpeted, wood-panelled office. A glass case featuring a small selection of jewellery stood a few metres from the glass door. It was nothing like dark velveted jewellery chain stores we had frequented up until now, stores in which gleaming diamonds seemingly floated in a sea of spotlight from all angles. Two cobalt-blue sofas sat on opposite ends of the large room. No one was at the reception desk.

Struck by a sudden attack of the nerves, I clutched Alex's arm with every intention of leaving, but we must have triggered a door alarm somewhere in the office and a man appeared, thin but with a slight belly, hair definitely greying but perhaps also thinning, in a grey shirt and a purple tie.

I noticed the tie right away. Aubergine, I thought, knowing of only one other man who had worn a purple tie. I had no fond impressions of that ex-boyfriend.

The grey shirt featured loud patterns in a contrasting grey that weren't to my taste, being adverse to boldness. On his left hand, a generous ruby set in a wide intricate band of gold glowered at me. But even as he approached and I was being swept away by a tidal wave of insecurity and anxiety, he seemed happy to see us and not in any way malicious.

'Hi,' Alex started. 'We were just looking for some diamonds..?'

He had opened vaguely and all three of us knew it. The question betrayed our ignorance in the way of diamonds and jewellery.

Warren, which we later discovered was his name, led us towards one of the cabinets. In it were two dozen designs of a variety of rings, some engagement, some not - and others. A set of particularly beautiful diamonds earrings winked at me.

He began to explain, pulling out examples of rings he'd designed as he went. I won't bore you with everything I learnt that day, but we explored solitaire rings versus halo settings versus side accents and three-stones; round brilliant cuts as compared to princess cut, squarer cuts like the emerald or the Asscher, or stranger cuts like the heart or the pear. We discussed the anatomy of a diamond stone; the table, the crown, the girdle and the pavilion, and the different faces of the diamond - the star facets, the upper and lower girdle facets, the pavilion main and the culet, which is the bottom of the diamond. We discussed the elements of ring design: the prongs (four or six), the shoulders, the bridge and the band, or the sitting area.

I learnt that in an ideal cut, the table should be 60% of the girdle, and the pavilion 60% of the depth, to allow for the best light refraction. But hearing Warren talk, I also learnt about his background. His parents were both gemologists, and he himself had taken an apprenticeship in lapidary, making him an expert in both. He spoke highly of the teachers he'd trained under, having been warned not to take an apprenticeship at chain stores. He talked about the dying art of lapidary, and the corruption in the diamond business at every level, from the suppliers, to the laboratory appraisers and diamond valuers, to the authorities who define the international grading systems and their loopholes.

He's quite chatty, I observed, waiting patiently to get a word in edgewise, but amiably so. It was the way his eyes lit up that I recognised. It was the way mine lit up thinking about pharmacy - its practitioners and its patients, the problems and the politics. It was the way my eyes swelled at the subject of drug abuse, the misuse of pharmaceuticals and its cure. It was pride, and passion.

I later said to Alex, a man who loves and takes pride in his work is a man we can trust. He agreed.

Warren sat us down on the sofa, placing five or six jewellery boxes each containing twenty of his designs before us. He watched us quietly, letting us ambivalently pick up this and that. I gravitated towards solitaires, watching him note my choices. Alex chose something more elaborate but I put it down. 'I don't have the personality for that. I'm a rather plain person,' I said apologetically to Warren, who smiled awkwardly. 'Whatever suits you.'

In the end, out of a hundred or more designs, we had five - three of which favoured above the others. We handed them to Warren, who wrote down serial numbers. Then he asked us for a price range and specifications for a diamond, which Alex named. We had rough sizes, colour and clarity of the diamond in mind, but weren't sure about how much it would reasonably cost.

'Leave it to me,' Warren said. He would source some diamonds, and we could call again in a week's time.

'Next lesson,' he said, 'will be about safe diamonds.' I cocked my head at him, not understanding, but he left it cryptic.

It was late by the time we'd finished. The office officially closed at 7pm, but we'd overstayed and it was now 9 o'clock and dark. I felt silly for not noticing the time, given that we'd arrived in the late afternoon while the sun was still up, apologised for keeping him, but he brushed it away.

'Hard honest work takes time,' he'd said. 'Now go and get some dinner.'

Alex and I hadn't eaten since the afternoon and our stomachs were growling. We thanked him, and said goodbye, looking forward to the next lesson.

Alex held the lift door open for me. I tripped again on the peeling carpet.

'What did you think?' he looking at me quizzically, once we were inside. I could tell he was in a good mood; his eyebrows almost dance cockily when he is. I didn't answer and shrugged, feeling that somewhere inside me the knot of worry loosen and dissipate.

The doors of the lift opened, and we both stepped out into the night, content, knowing full well that the ramen bar where we'd planned to have dinner had closed.

Raspberry Coke

I am holding a Raspberry Coke. In a plastic 600mL bottle.

There are six of us, trapped in this concrete prison. Grey slabs stained brown surround us ten floors high. Through the glass, we can see khaki figures guarding the doors.

We're not scared, because there's six of us (and six of them), and I'm holding a Raspberry Coke. They chase us down, up wheelchair slopes that maddeningly zigzag the complex. Their belts and buckles clang against the metal railings when they run. There are no corners, just neverending corridors and so for now, we're not scared.

Inside, the aged plaster smells like public urinal. Our feet, wading dreamlike in suspended reality, are soundless and weightless against the lino. Gradually, the corridor walls press in on us, Alice-In-Wonderland-like, as we fly through this museum of optical illusion. Each corner is tighter, each room smaller and smaller. Too small for six, and we start to feel scared.

There is one more wheelchair ramp. It slopes from the second-floor exit to the right, then back to the left, to a door on the ground floor directly below the first. On the far left, another exit leading to darkness. On the far right, the afternoon sun sparkles through a glass door leading outside to a leafy courtyard. We six squeeze tight and shimmy through the railing bars, and somersault to ground from the guardrail, parkouring to freedom - only to be faced with more khaki.

Four men enter through the glass door. Another six, guns - guns! - at the ready, skulk in through the ground floor exit. The gap closes as the khaki we have amassed during our escapade, numbering in the twenties, flank us. Lastly, breaking from the mass, their leader advances menacingly - wielding a polished baton, shiny and dark, that is much scarier than the guns.

We might be six, but now we're scared. Their leader is muscular and unforgiving. His square jaw is matted with prickly beard that is soft as cactus. His gold tooth winks at us in warning as he grins, but not warning enough as he swings his baton into the soft abdomen of one of us. There is an audible crack of ribs, and it is the first time today that I will hear bones break. Our friend crumples, winded and in that moment, we're separated, not feeling his pain and not wanting to. The static binding us disappears, the electron trails snap. We're not six but six ones, standing on his own, each man for himself.

The buzzing, of trapped electricity frantically fighting its way out, of sudden isolation, of the bubbles in my shaken Coke, causes confusion and panic. It isn't unfamiliar but it isn't pleasant. It is waking up to yourself. It is a state of persistent heightened alertness leading to anxiety, paranoia and eventual insanity. It is a depressingly desperate struggle. It's cyclic. It's annoying.

I watch the big guy swing his baton again, casually and randomly, crushing a mandible beyond repair.

I grab one of the armed guards. He looks young, prepubescent, with no pockmark scars marring his perfect sweat-drenched skin. He is thin, eerily so and almost weightless in my arms. He's gone limp like a rag doll. I hold his cocked gun to his head and back slowly towards the darkness.

The khaki herd start to follow but the big guy holds up his baton and they retreat. He walks towards me, oh so leisurely, waving his stick in a figure-8 in front of him. I continue backing away with my hostage, and he follows until the three of us are in shadow. His gold tooth twinkles in the dark so I know he's still smiling. I'm awkward and clumsy. Now, I can hear my own feet, scuffing the concrete, and my own heavy breathing, but paradoxically can't hear his silent footfalls. I stumble but don't fall, and pray that I won't trip again.

My back comes up against a wooden door.

Big Guy hasn't seen me yet. With my gun hand I fumble frantically for the handle, a round brass knob. It's slippery. Sounds seem to echo further in the dark and the lock is dodgy. It unsticks with some effort, rusted metal grinding harshly on rotted wood. It is then that I hear his sheer bulk coming towards me. The thumping of muscle on muscle. The thumping of his excited heart.

I scramble inside, dragging the hostage with my left arm, and slamming the door closed with both our body weights. I hear a thump and feel it reverberate through my body, but the wood is solid. I lock the door with my right, swing around with the gun and instantly shoot the boy in the head. Such a waste of a life, and I'm sorry.

The banging on the door won't stop, and the door won't hold. I am in a sad-looking office, with a full bookshelf to the right of the door and a desk and matching chair facing a thin, long window that provides little natural light. I judge the room to be on the first floor, but the view from the window proves me wrong. I'm three floors up, boxed in by a large corrugated metal fence two-and-a-half floors high. The fence forms a narrow alleyway that holds a dumpster, and piles and piles of old university textbooks.

I consider barricading the door with the desk, but it's too heavy, or the bookshelf, but it's full and so too heavy. The dead boy's brains are a now sticky star-shaped splatter on the carpet. Both were poor time-buying strategies. There is only one real option for escape.

The window slides open, but sticks a quarter of the way. The resultant rectangle is the size of a small dog kennel. I can squat on the ledge, the only way I can fit, and launch myself out.

I slam into the metal fence. I then rebound, onto the edge of the open dumpster, chest first, and my ribs snap inwards. I slide to the ground, face down, and hear the final crunching of bone. Wrist, radius, femur or skull, I don't know. I imagine a million tiny voices shrieking in pain. I see a birds' eye view of my own sprawled body, flat and limp like a rag doll.

From three stories up, I hear a window open.