Once he was alone in the room, Stephen ate the ice-cream. It was vanilla; custard-coloured, with little splinters of ice-crystal. Ice-cream was incredible! Vanilla was actually pretty terrific, too, if you stopped to think about it. Stephen thought it was maybe the best thing he’d ever eaten in his whole life. He put just a little on the tip of the spoon each time, to make it last longer. But lifting his arm repeatedly made him feel exhausted. He left the sandwich and the drink to have later on. Before long the orderly came back to collect the spoon and to bring him a hot drink.

He slept for a while. A woman came into the room. She wasn’t wearing a white coat, or a uniform or anything. He guessed she was some sort of a therapist, but she introduced herself as Dr Capple. She sat on the end of his bed. She told him the tube in his arm was just saline, because he’d been very dehydrated when they brought him in. They were going to keep him in for a few days, see how he got on. Was there anyone he’d like them to get in touch with, any family over here? He thought of the Clarkes. They were family, kind of. But he shook his head and said no. He certainly didn’t want his mum and dad to find out that he was here, he wanted them to think he was benefiting from his travels, enjoying himself. He didn’t want to be a disappointment to them.

The second day, Dr Capple came back. She sat on the chair this time. She had very clean shoes and her feet looked long and narrow inside them. This time she asked him questions and made notes on A4 paper, cradling a clipboard in her left elbow. The first thing she asked was whether he’d ever received psychiatric help before: he told her he hadn’t. He felt inclined to like her: she seemed gentle. He explained it all to her: the henhouse and how that had been his fault; the haunting feeling he’d experienced, afterwards, and the recurring picture he’d had in his head, of the dead claws of the birds. How that same image had been staring him in the face, straight in front of him, in the gallery: that must mean something, mustn’t it? Because it was just too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Then he told her about the car accident and how he’d known something bad was going to happen, beforehand. How he thought he might bring bad luck around with him. How he loved Cass but had been sleeping with Georgie. How much he was counting on getting back there, to the farm, to be with them. How much he loved it there: the tussocky green snowdrop field, the smooth rocks by the tumbling river, the ancient orchard.