‘Elizabeth,’ a cheery woman, with red hair and ID hanging from a lanyard identifying her as Cliona Barr, said softly. ‘I’m Cliona and I’ve been appointed as your social worker. I think you’ve been expecting me?’

I blinked at her. She looked friendly. Caring. Ruddy of cheek, wearing a dark green wrap dress and a brightly coloured necklace. She pulled up a seat and sat down.

‘I’m here to work on your behalf. To make sure all of your needs are met and that when you’re well enough to leave hospital, you have adequate support in place to help with your ongoing recovery.’

She clicked her pen and opened a beige folder before crossing her legs and getting poised to write.

‘I’ve had a look over your notes,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be talking to the multidisciplinary team once they’ve completed all their assessments. Is that okay?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll manage.’

My tongue still felt thick in my mouth. I felt as if I sounded drunk when I spoke. Cliona looked at me sympathetically, but I knew by the look of her she wasn’t going to be dismissed easily.

‘You’ll manage, I’m sure of that. But I’m just going to make sure that you don’t make yourself worse when a little support can make life easier. You’ve nothing to fear from me, Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I’m on your side.’

Something in the manner of how she spoke made me think I could trust her. I felt comfortable in her company. I found myself welling up – stupid old woman that I was, thankful to find someone on my side. It had seemed as if I’d been fighting against people for too long.

Seeing my tears, Cliona reached over, pulled a tissue from the box at the side of my bed and handed it to me. I dabbed my eyes, tried to compose myself.

‘You don’t have to be strong all the time,’ Cliona said. ‘You’re not a machine, Elizabeth, and you’re not on your own. I’ve had a good long read of your referral and your file. You’ve been through the mill in the last few years. Anyone who’s been through even half of what you have would be entitled to feel more than a little sorry for themselves.’

A knock on the door to my room interrupted us. We both looked across to where a young male nurse was standing.

‘There’s a policeman here to see you, Elizabeth,’ he said, his face reddening.

I wondered if he thought I was some sort of criminal. I’d have laughed at how uncomfortable it seemed to make him, had I been feeling more like myself.

‘He says his name’s DI Bradley,’ the nurse said.