‘I’m stuck in this place, aren’t I?’ Henry spat. ‘I got expelled from one of the best schools in the country. Am I not being punished?’

Alex tutted and grabbed her hair. ‘I’ve been in young offenders. This place is a Holiday Inn by comparison.’

‘Why should I justify myself to a girl who smoked crack when she was twelve?’ Henry blurted.

Georgia shot up and yelled, ‘That’s out of order, Henry.’

Tanvi made two sharp claps, asserting herself before her group got out of control.

‘Cool heads,’ she said firmly. ‘Abuse is never acceptable during group work. Settle in your chairs … We only have a few minutes of the session left. Let’s take out the sting with some breathing exercises.’

‘I can’t be in a room with that knobhead,’ Alex spat, hooking her fingertips inside the wrecked pair of New Balance under her chair and making for the door. ‘Sorry …’

‘We all agreed to abide by the group rules,’ Tanvi pleaded. ‘That includes staying in the room for the full hour.’

Georgia glowered at Henry, now wearing a triumphant smirk. She didn’t want to stay in the therapy room when she heard Alex smash her palm against the vending machine in the lounge outside. But, unlike Henry, the expensive psychiatrist had yet to write her report on Georgia. She had to toe the line if she wanted to stay out of prison …

‘This session is almost over,’ Tanvi said, gesturing Georgia towards the door. ‘Alex probably needs you more than we do.’

The deserted lounge area had a dozen sofas arranged in rows. Patients did group or addiction therapy in rooms that branched off either side. The coffee and snack machines were against the wall by the main doors and Alex pounded the machine again as Georgia closed in.

‘Henry sucks!’ Alex said, eyes glazing as Georgia gave her a hug.

Georgia knew that something more than Henry was bugging her friend.

‘You were so quiet in there,’ Georgia said.

Alex shrugged as she jabbed the button for hot chocolate. ‘You didn’t have to run out after me. You’ve got your sentencing coming up.’

‘At least we beat the queue for drinks,’ Georgia said.

When the clock hit four, the unit’s teenaged patients would stream out of therapy rooms, checking phones and forming a queue for hot drinks, chocolate bars and McCoy’s crinkle-cut crisps. The Henry types would sprawl over the lounge, flirting and yapping until the kitchen opened for dinner, while the shy and desperate hid in their rooms.

‘My stepdad spoke to his insurance company,’ Alex confessed reluctantly as her drink spattered into a cardboard cup. ‘They won’t extend my stay here beyond forty-five days. He can’t afford to pay himself. With my drugs and psychiatrist bills, it’s a thousand quid a day.’