The next few days pass in a blur of white-bread cheese sandwiches, black tea, ginger-snap biscuits, orange squash – which every time I swallow a mouthful makes me think of Tommy and I feel like I might openly sob, but I never do, just quiet leaking tears, which no one passes comment on. Bodies come and go, different shades of snores, waking and sleeping merge into one. At first I don’t swallow the pills, at first I tell myself I’m in control of this, I’m not so bad, I haven’t even been drinking for that long, have I? I wasn’t even drinking that heavily anyway, was I? But: the sweats are bad, the spasms weird, the sensation of spinning sickening, the dreams (hallucinations?) too vivid, too intense, even for me; a woman smiling down on me, smelling of rose water, her voice sweet yet sharp, not safe, everything speedy. The cracks on the ceiling over my head are a portal to another world. Little winged creatures, fairy-like but buzzing like bluebottles, fly from these cracks and Tommy is trying to swat them away before they land on me, before they make their home inside me. Sound of Tommy crying, Herbie barking, all the dogs in the world howling, animals burning up, our greed, our greed, our greed. The sheets crackle and irritate my hot skin. Everything irritates: Nursey Nurse’s grating voice, various attempts at striking up a conversation, which I ignore, plastic undersheets, the stinging smack of antiseptic, the suffocating weight of the colour brown on carpets and curtains, the buzz hum flicker of the lights, the kindly nun with her apple cheeks and the swish-swish of her habit on the ground. A palm on my clammy forehead, a prayer uttered, or maybe I’m making that up. Pretty soon – how soon I don’t know, not a conscious decision on my part – the pills go down, softening the edges of my impatience, my sorrow, my crackling irritation, my anger, my impotent ravening anger, which feels like it might devour me whole. Sometimes I wake myself up, shouting – is that really me, that raving woman? Must be, as I hear the name Tommy, over and over. TOMMY. And no one answers. The woman on the beach and Mrs O’Malley blend into one terrifying hag, all my fears for him realised as he’s spirited away to another dimension. SNAP. My imp appears, clad in her gaudiest gear; she looks at me in blatant disappointment, like I’m pathetic, a killjoy, no spunk. She orders me to go find my son, grow some balls, but then my father appears and Mrs O’Malley, and behind them flashing blue lights and sirens.

‘How are you now, Sonya?’

The rosy-cheeked nun sits at the edge of my bed. She’s not wearing a habit. I don’t know how to answer that.

‘I’d like to talk to my son.’

‘Your first phone call home is in ten days. First visiting day is the following week. Let’s concentrate on getting you in good shape before then.’