‘Okay, Dan,’ Alan says finally. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll continue to see Atticus for two more sessions. If, after that, you’ve made no progress or you still feel uncomfortable’ – he says the word with an emphasis that makes Dan blush – ‘then I’ll take him on as a client. You’ll have to tell him why, though.’ Dan wants to gulp. Instead he scrunches his toes in his trainers till they hurt. ‘And I’d like to meet with you twice a week to debrief on all your cases.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ Dan asks. Alan had said he was doing well, hadn’t he?

‘Not at all. Learning to detach from your clients and their concerns is a hard skill to master. There are cases that get under my skin even now. I want to make sure you’re not holding your client’s emotions after they’ve left the session. Think of it as a ritual cleansing. Burning the sage.’

Dan knows there’s no point in arguing. No point in trying to say more. He thanks Alan for his time and closes the door behind him.

The Beacon is one of Dan’s favourite places in the world. Even in the rain, it welcomes you. The windmill is always there and always will be. Dan doesn’t need to count its arms. There are six, and always will be. Six arms splayed out, like sunbeams. It always has its hat on. Dan and Fitz have explored every inch, every nook and cranny of the Beacon. They have had Famous Five-worthy picnics with lashings of ginger beer. Dan has sped down every hump on his BMX. He knows every dip of his happy place. Here the wind dries him out, like laundry on a line, pushes his hair from his eyes, washes him clean.

It was his mother who first introduced him to the Beacon, and the village of Rottingdean, where he now lives. A quieter seafront, just along the road from Brighton, a hidden gem, centred round a pond and a church, with a village green that hosts village fetes. Rottingdean is also the site of Kipling Gardens, maintained by the locals and named after the man himself. Rudyard Kipling rented a house in the town, and there is a crumbly old museum upstairs in the library with a not-at-all-lifelike waxwork of an old man.