But there were never any demons on Evergreen. In my eleven years there I could stack my happy memories on top of each other and they would reach the sky. In one session, I’d skimmed over my parents’ divorce by stating categorically that none of their problems started until much later. Until after we had left the island and moved to Winchester. When my dad had lost his soul to an air-conditioned office with blacked-out windows in the city – that was when they were no longer happy. I told her that a few times, though I wasn’t sure I believed it myself, but I wasn’t prepared to open the lid on that box.

It is not even three a.m., and I should be going back to sleep, but I glance at my iPad. There have been times in recent years when I’ve wanted to look up my house online. After my first counselling session, when we had dissected Evergreen in more detail than I’d been prepared for, I’d returned to my flat and opened up Rightmove, tapping the Quay House address into the search bar but deleting it before I hit Enter. I hadn’t been ready to see how it might have changed.

I had previously managed to look up some of the islanders, though. Many times I’d searched for my once best friend, Jill, but I’d never been able to find her. Even some other names I’d tried like Tess Carlton and Annie Webb – the woman we called Aunt, though she was no relation. I hadn’t been so surprised to find she wasn’t on Facebook – by now Annie must be in her eighties.

But my dreams have left a bitter taste in my mouth and instead of scouring the web I find myself reaching for my childhood scrapbook that hides in the magazine basket beside the sofa. Always this is a comfort, a reminder of blissful times, and I can already feel my pulse slowing.

It falls open at the place I last looked, where a feather is stuck with brown, now-faded Sellotape which is curling at the ends. I press it down, but as soon as I release my finger it springs back up. One day I must go through the book and carefully mend pages and stick pieces in again before the whole thing falls apart irretrievably.

I know every page by heart, so much so that I don’t know if it brings back actual memories of the island or if the photos and memorabilia have taken over because I’ve looked at them so many times. I turn over a page and catch a photo before it flutters out.