Normally this speech comes out smoother. Normally Dan smiles reassuringly as he says it, and the patient smiles back confidently to assure him it will never come to that. Then they say something like, ‘Oh, I’d never hurt myself or anyone else. It’s nothing like that,’ before launching into a rambling speech about why they have come and Dan pictures secateurs in his hands, bends down and starts pruning. By the third session, Dan will realize the first reason the patient gave for needing counselling was not the real reason. Nor was the second. He’s been pulling out begonias, not the weeds, bird’s-foot and moss.

‘Why are you in counselling, Atticus?’ Dan asks suddenly, needing to know, more than ever before, why he’s been given the privilege of asking personal questions of a stranger without having to give anything of himself away.

Atticus shrugs and spreads his hands, palms facing up, long fingers curled slightly at the tip. Dan looks at them, briefly wishing he was a fortune-teller.

‘I was lonely,’ Atticus says simply.

Dan didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it was not loneliness.

‘And now?’ he asks. There is a beat of silence. A meeting of eyes. A tectonic shift in the universe. Day-blind stars are realigned.

‘And now I am not,’ Atticus says, and it is as simple and as complicated as that. Dan knows that six weeks will never be enough for Atticus. Nothing Dan can do will ever be enough for Atticus.

Counselling sessions are fifty minutes long. Dan gives himself at least ten minutes between clients. Always, when a session ends, Dan closes the door softly, then lightly mists the sofa with a lavender spray and opens the window to air the room. His nan always used to do that when people left her house, especially ones she didn’t like. Dan likes to think it makes the atmosphere clean and fresh for the next patient – him, too. Then he drinks a glass of water while he records notes to type up in detail later. Sometimes, he adds in the odd ‘Good boy, Fitz,’ because they’ll listen to the recording together, Dan frowning and scribbling, Fitz wagging his tail with joy that he hasn’t been forgotten. Dan does all this as quickly as he can so he has enough time left to straighten his socks, plump the cushion and line up his pencil before there is a knock on the door.

After Atticus, though, Dan does none of these things. He just stands, staring blindly into space, and would have carried on doing so all morning had his next client not arrived, pulling him from his reverie.

Lizzie

(Maud refuses to listen)