Then she says, ‘Do you want to talk about anything?’ But staying silent is my only protection against making it real, making it live on again. My head is strangely calm, maybe it’s the drugs that are making me woozy, and the counting down from a hundred over and over. I can hold my breath from a hundred back to five now, and getting longer every day. Linda gives me my own pad and pen and tells me to write it all out. I do not even lift the pen.

One day, she asks about Mama and Papa. ‘Do you think your parents know where you are?’

What a stupid question. I see Papa taking the wad of money from Petre, and Mama pummeling him before she is turned to stone. I turn my head away. F-U-C-K. I can hear Sammy’s voice.

‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ Linda asks.

My hand reaches for the pen and writes: A book.

‘Anything in particular? What do you like to read?’

Treasure Island, I write.

‘Sure thing. I’ll be back with it tomorrow, and maybe a few others, ok?’

I nod and inside I hear myself saying, Go now, go, just F-U-C-K off and leave me alone to sleep.

‘We’ll be moving you out of here soon,’ she says. ‘Your injuries are healing nicely.’

I attempt a smile, which feels forced and tight. For a moment the question crosses my mind, where? Where are they moving me? Then I realise I don’t care. I’m numb and empty and can barely lift my head off the pillow. Let them do what they want to me, I’ve gone beyond feeling, caring about anything at all.

Days, maybe three, maybe ten, pass in this way, me sleeping and eating jelly and soft toast and drinking tea and trying to read, although the words slip-slide off the page, with Linda at the side of the bed sometimes asking questions and getting no answers, and at other times just sitting there looking out the window at the darkening skies, full of different kinds of rain.

Then the day comes when she says, ‘Tomorrow. You will be moved tomorrow.’