‘No,’ I cry, my tears making a blur of Hutchinson. ‘I can’t. Not again. I need to find my baby, my beautiful baby girl. I need to get her back.’

Amanda grabs my arms before I fall to the ground and I let her hold me; let her carry for just one moment the weight of my despair.

‘It’s okay, love,’ she whispers as she pushes my hair out of my eyes. ‘You let it all out. Have a good cry.’

In the background I hear Hutchinson walk to the door.

‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ he says. ‘If you need anything just ring zero from the phone on the desk.’

‘Thanks, Mr Hutchinson,’ says Amanda, lifting her head.

He closes the door behind him and I wriggle free from Amanda’s embrace.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, aware suddenly that I’ve exposed my vulnerability to a complete stranger.

‘You have nothing to feel sorry about, Maggie,’ says Amanda. ‘This is a huge ordeal for you in every way. But we’re here for you.’

I rub my chest. The pain is starting up again.

‘I need my inhaler. Could you get it for me?’ I say, sitting on the bed.

‘Yes, of course,’ says Amanda, standing up and taking the small blue inhaler from my bag. ‘My house is cluttered with these. My son has asthma but he’s always losing his bloody inhalers. Which isn’t surprising considering the state of his bedroom. Still, that’s teenagers for you. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, putting the inhaler to my mouth and taking a sharp breath.

‘Here’s some water,’ says Amanda, handing me a yellow plastic beaker.

I take it and sip slowly.

‘Does that feel better?’ she asks, smiling at me as though I’m a small child.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

I drain the cup then put it down on the floor beside me.

‘I saw you have a box of painkillers in your medicine bag,’ says Amanda, picking up the beaker and taking it to the sink. ‘How many do you have to take a day?’

‘Six,’ I reply. ‘They’re for the muscle pains.’

Amanda nods her head.

‘Well, I think it’s probably best if I leave you enough for tonight and then I’ll give the box to your carer, who’ll be visiting each day from tomorrow. It’s a good idea if she administers them, just for the time being.’

She smiles but I can detect an underlying wariness. She doesn’t trust me with them.

‘Anyway,’ she says, rubbing her hands together, ‘I think it’s time for a cuppa. It’s just this crappy UHT milk, I’m afraid. Are you happy to have it black?’