I look at this man – would he believe me? The last one didn’t. What difference would it make? Where would I be sent if it was deemed ‘unsafe’ at home? I’d be some foster-care girl, some ward of the state. Oh, the shame I’d heap on poor Mother’s head. I smile, a full-on, both-sides-involved kind of number.

‘Something funny?’

‘Just some boyfriend trouble. Silly break-up.’

He stares at me hard, and not in the way men normally do. It’s as if this ugly little man has a probe attached to his retinas and it’s in there now, rootling around in my thoughts, which are serenely still.

‘I wonder if there might be some parental problems?’

Again, I smile. ‘I’m fifteen. Who doesn’t hate their parents at my age?’

The probe is going deeper, into the membrane, the cerebral cortex – I think I remember that from biology. ‘Hate is a strong word, Samantha. Is there something going on that you’d like to tell me about?’

Is there?

‘Would you rather speak to a woman? Would that be better? I can arrange that for you?’

Ah, so he thinks it’s some kind of ‘male’ problem, probably some sort of twiddling at the hands of my father. Nobody ever suspects that the maternal instinct can be so thwarted. Not so clever is he, this little man with the big credentials and the probing lens. I don’t have the energy for this. I don’t have the energy to go into battle with that woman, and I don’t fancy being called a liar again.

‘There is no problem at home,’ I say.

‘How did it happen?’

I think he’s referring to the wodka overdose. ‘Well … I drank a whole bottle of the clear stuff, straight-up, on an empty stomach.’

He studies me. ‘And the other? The scars?’

‘Oh, years old. Just a cry for attention. You know how it goes with hormones and stuff …’

‘And the stitches? They look fairly recent.’

Oh God, don’t tell me he was rootling around down below. I have the good grace to look down, like, oh no, that is far too traumatic for words.

‘Did you inflict these injuries yourself?’

So, the probes are working. There is a long silence. Is he getting off on this?

‘That is a very violent assault on your body.’

That’s an interesting concept, and I let it hang there.

‘Samantha, are you too tired to talk now? We can postpone this until tomorrow.’