‘Oh …’ he babbled, embarrassed. ‘Give me … I mean, if you step out while I put on …’

Julius had an unzipped wheelie case on the floor. Once he’d put on a hoodie, black Nike tracksuit bottoms and some Prada pumps, he caught up with Georgia in the hallway. New arrivals always spent a night in the observation room opposite the nurses’ station, and three staff stared out of their glass cube as he emerged.

‘That way is just more rooms,’ Georgia explained, pointing right. ‘You’re not supposed to go into another patient’s room, but they’re not super strict.’

Georgia led off in the other direction.

‘Laundry room there,’ she said, as an Indesit spun. ‘Powder is in the cupboard above. The machines are first come, first serve, so it gets busy in the evenings. Kitchenette over there.’

Next, they passed into a D-shaped reception. Scandinavian leather chairs and a spherical vase filled with lilies were designed to impress parents forking out a thousand a day to keep teenaged darlings safe. Two sets of toughened-glass doors separated reception from the world, the outer set only opening when the inner ones were locked.

‘Escape eez impossible,’ Georgia said.

She was trying to sound like a soldier in the cheesy WW2 movies her dad liked, but Julius just looked baffled.

‘Through those doors are the therapy rooms, and the waiting area where you—’

‘Lost my heroic struggle for freedom,’ Julius joked.

Georgia liked this turn of phrase and laughed. She’d only agreed to show Julius around because Susannah would nag until she agreed. But she sensed that Julius might be OK, provided the lumbering head-in-the-clouds charm didn’t vanish with the last effect of the haloperidol-lorazepam cocktail they’d shot in his rear.

‘There’s a gym in the basement, if that’s your thing,’ Georgia said, aiming a hand towards two lifts with the unit’s main staircase wrapped around them. ‘There’s a rec room with a pool table in the general ward on the second floor. We’re allowed up there, but eating disorders on three and the addiction ward on four are off limits.’

‘And food?’ Julius asked.

‘First floor, you can join me for brekky now if you’re hungry.’

‘I’m queasy, but my mouth is dry,’ Julius said, stroking his throat. ‘I could probably go for milky coffee. Maybe yoghurt if they have some …’

‘In little pots,’ Georgia said, moving towards the stairs. ‘Food here is mostly OK. But every week has the same menu, which gets repetitive after a while.’

By the time Georgia had explained this, they’d reached a first-floor hallway, lined with some of the better efforts of patients in art therapy.

‘When are we allowed out?’ Julius asked.

‘You’ll be confined until you’ve been assessed by your psychiatrist,’ Georgia said. ‘After that, most people can go out with family. But you’re restricted to hospital grounds if you’ve been sectioned like me.’