In the kitchen I run the tap, rinse the glass, fill the glass, tip its contents, repeat, before I’m satisfied the glass is clean and the water cool enough. My father’s obsession with germs seems to have finally caught hold of me. It’s the incessant sharing of everything.

I swallow my full glass in one, then fill another. I suppose I’d better go back.

A wave of stale trapped air meets me. He’s standing by the window, trying to open it.

‘It seems to be stuck.’

Of course it’s stuck, what did he think I was doing on the table – lap-dancing? I have to stop myself throwing my water all over him, which I recognise is pretty extreme, but something about this situation is making me feel panicked. Back in the day I could channel these impulses into my characters, or later I could dampen them with a bottle, or two, of whatever medicinal gloop was in the fridge. Now I have to feckin’ ‘ground’. I can hear Jimmy’s voice in my ear telling me to ask the Man Above for patience. I look towards the stained ceiling, searching out any divine intervention, any message in the cracks. I don’t see any zigzagging lines; I can’t even play that particular game.

‘Would you like to sit down?’

He goes to pull a plastic chair from the table. So absurd, this show of ‘gentlemanliness’ – so patronising.

‘Thank you.’ I sit politely, arranging my skirt, pulling it down over my knees. A demure ingénue.

‘So, how are you doing, Sonya?’ He sits in a too-small plastic chair looking anything but at ease, his long frame spilling over its edges.

‘Fine.’ I sip my water delicately.

He nods, not taking the bait. He knows exactly what that word means in a context like this. He extends his hand. ‘David Smythe.’

Is he pretending not to recognise me? I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain this now. The swarm is dangerously close to erupting. I swallow the remnants of the glass in one gulp, which dilutes the bastards and stops their flight, momentarily. I study his long, tapering fingers, his sculpted, strong hands. He looks down and consults his notes. I wonder who told him what? Did the doctor itemise my neurotic tendencies? Sister Anne? What would she have said? I find I really do care.

‘I believe you’ve been through a difficult period.’

‘Obviously!’ I try to smile. ‘Or I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I mean in here.’

‘Well, the food is pretty crap!’

He doesn’t smile. ‘Where are you now? Almost halfway?’

Does he really not know that I am the same person he gave his card to the day before I was forced to come here? He doesn’t look me directly in the eye. Something shifty about that, or awkward, or just shy.

‘Congratulations on your sobriety to date. That’s quite an achievement.’

‘I didn’t exactly have a choice.’

He stays looking at his notes. ‘What do you mean, “exactly”?’