‘Shhh. You like me, don’t you? And I’ve always fancied you. Let’s have fun. Where’s the harm?’

Where is the harm?

She’s not Kerry.

But I can’t have Kerry, because she’s chosen Tim.

Zoë’s lips touch mine.

Afterwards, we lie sweating on the floor. She’s naked but I’m not: I stopped her taking off my T-shirt because I didn’t want her to see my ICD. None of that lot know about my heart. After the big drama when I arrested on the Level last year, I told them I’d had a fit after overdoing the pills.

Zoë’s body is as slight and pale as I expected. But now I see her skin is covered in scars: faded track-marks, crisscrossed self-harm lines, and a nasty pink slash across her stomach. Surgery, or self-inflicted? Clearly, we both have secrets.

I pull the throw off the sofa to cover her up, as much to stop me having to see her pain as to keep her warm. But she beams at me for the trivial kindness, as though I’ve presented her with a giant bunch of flowers.

‘Why fank you, you are a gent and no mistake.’

It’s a perfect music hall Cockney accent. ‘Where did you learn to do all those voices?’

‘We moved a lot when I was a kid, so I adapted my accent to fit in. Then when I went into care, it was handy to be able to make people laugh by doing impressions.’

I want to look after her, show her she’s worth more than she’s been given. I want to help her.

Maybe this is my turn to save a life.

Chapter 27: Tim

11 April 2004

‘So what’s the goriest thing you’ve seen so far?’ Marilyn asks, her knife slicing through lamb so pink that blood is pooling on her plate.

Easter Sunday lunch with the in-laws-to-be, and already the interrogation is in full swing.

‘Depends a bit how you define gory? I could offer cysts, tumours, haemorrhages . . .’

I could tell you about how blood clots after it’s left the body, darker than the redcurrant jelly on your plate. Or describe the dermoid cyst we all pored over in the lab, with its own teeth and nails and impossibly long strands of blonde hair that remind me a lot of yours.

‘Yeah, but have you treated any actual patients yet?’ Marilyn’s voice is mildly contemptuous. ‘I mean, it’s been, what, four years since you started? I was dealing with clients from day one.’

‘It’s not quite four years yet. And I have helped to diagnose people, done tests. But because it’s slightly higher risk than filing people’s nails, they want to make sure we know what we’re doing.’

Marilyn doesn’t laugh but everyone else does, even her husband, Neil, who usually falls into line, however outrageous her pronouncements.