‘It’s raining,’ I say.

He nods, looking towards the sky. Neither of us makes a move to go back inside.

‘Almost refreshing, were it not so fucking relentless,’ I continue.

He laughs, surprising himself.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

He looks at me sideways, suspiciously.

‘I’m curious: is there the same level of relapse in a private facility as in here?’

‘No one has documented that, not that I know.’

‘I bet the price tag puts people off reoffending in a private rehab.’

I can hear how my words are speeding up, becoming garbled.

‘Reoffending? Interesting term, Sonya.’

A warm, giddy feeling is building inside me. ‘It seems every second person I talk to in here has been here before, and not just once.’

‘Do you believe the twelve-step approach works?’ he asks.

Is he trying to draw me into some shared complicity, or is he trying to catch me out?

‘Not sure about the one-size-fits-all philosophy.’

‘Have you found anyone in here you can relate to?’

‘In a way.’ I think of Jimmy and the kittens.

He stops walking, turns and looks in my direction. ‘Unless a person gets honest, it doesn’t matter where they go.’

My body is in his shadow. I look over his shoulder, seeking the light.

He moves away, sits on a mossy wall. I sit beside him. It’s damp.

‘How’s the meditating going?’

How can I tell him that focusing on my breath sends me into a heightened sense of panic? There is nothing calming in plugging into the internal mechanisms of my body, or my mind. I seem to inhabit an inner life sewn from the fabric of dread.

‘Have you found a sense of a Higher Power?’ He seems embarrassed to be asking me this. It feels invasive and somehow ridiculous.

I shrug, like a teenager.

He quickly changes tack: ‘Have you been exercising?’

‘Swimming is my thing.’

‘Right, well, when you get out, make sure to incorporate a swim into your day.’

Oh yes, and how might I do that, a single mother, on benefits? I don’t say anything, just sit on my hands, which are trembling.

Watery sunlight filters through the trees, dappling his face, accentuating his cheekbones, the animal-likeness of him. The light is moving across the planes of his face. The urge to chase that light with my hand, to trace its path, to land on his stubble, the smooth skin above. I imagine him reaching out and taking my hand, his big, solid one encircling mine.

19

My name is called out over the loudspeaker. As I make my way to reception, undulating lines appear in front of my eyes. I move towards the phone as if towards an unexploded grenade, terrified that whoever it was has hung up, and even more terrified of hearing his voice. I pick up the heavy receiver, wipe it down with my sleeve – God knows how much spittle this thing has accumulated – breathe deeply and dive in.

‘Hello?’