I don’t know if I believe her or not. I feel I should be grateful for the fact that they are helping me – hiding me – but why do they have to drug me? I can’t ask that question. It might be the last straw. She might throw me out, and I’m not ready for that.

I follow Thea down the hall into a part of the house I haven’t visited before. We walk down a short corridor and she knocks on a door.

‘Come,’ a gruff voice calls.

Thea pushes open the door, and I know where we are. We’re in the doctor’s private study. It is a parody of every psychiatrist’s consulting room ever seen in the movies: dark red walls lined with shelves full of leather-covered tomes, a chaise longue and a comfortable chair for the therapist. I am tempted to laugh, but I realise how inappropriate it would be. Maybe I’m hysterical.

I stand silently, waiting to be told what to do, my hands hanging limply at my sides, my head bent slightly. I can just see the doctor if I lift my eyes.

‘Sit,’ he says. He glares at Thea as if blaming her for something, then nods his head to dismiss her and she backs out of the door.

I shuffle across the room and sit down nervously on the edge of the leather chaise, tucking my hands under my thighs. I know I’m supposed to be a lot less aware of my surroundings than I am, and although Thea might have noticed, I don’t want the doctor to.

He ignores me as he studies a page in one of his books. It’s making me even more nervous, and I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose. After what seems like ages, he speaks.

‘Lie down,’ he says. ‘Close your eyes.’

I don’t want to. I know the idea is that it will make me relax, but it won’t. It will make me feel vulnerable. Why would anyone think it a good thing for someone who has been traumatised to be flat on their back with their eyes closed in a dimly lit room with a man they barely know? I can’t imagine the doctor has any motive other than to help me sort out my mental state, but I’m not going to close my eyes, no matter what he says.

I hesitate for a moment too long, and under my hooded lids I see his eyes narrow. I’m giving this simple instruction too much thought for one who should be lightly tranquillised, so I do as he asks, slowly lowering myself, my movements languid. I keep my eyes averted so he can’t see my pupils.