‘I named her that because I wanted her to be different to me. To shine. To fly.’ Leanne sniffed, wiping her hand across her face.

The conversation that followed was gut-wrenching. I knew that Leanne didn’t want my pity, but boy she had my sympathy.

She’d been lured away from home at sixteen, in a process that today would be recognised as grooming, but fifteen years ago was put down to a wild, uncontrollable teenager with no morals or self-respect. The thirty-four-year-old monster who stole her heart along with her innocence introduced her to heroin, as a reward for being passed around strange men like a joint of weed.

For the next two years she stumbled through a living hell, lost in a haze of drugs and abuse.

‘I was nothing. Worthless trash. That’s how they treated me, so that’s what I became,’ she said, her accent thickening as she voyaged deeper into the memories.

And then, when she realised she was pregnant, everything changed.

‘I’d made a sort of friend. Betty. She lived in the flat downstairs. She looked at me different. Like, she saw me as a person, not a thing to be used. She was a bit doddery on her feet, so I started helping with her shopping, stuff like that. And then, one day, she offered to cut my hair.’ Leanne stopped to catch her breath.

‘I’d forgotten what it was like to be touched like that. Gentle. With kindness. So, when I found out about the baby, I told Betty. She helped me make a plan to get away. We found this house for women like me, out in the countryside.’

Another pause. Leanne’s face had set like concrete, although her hands twisted and plucked at the bed sheet. ‘But then… I wasn’t pregnant any more. Back to business as usual.’

It was all I could do not to turn away, close my eyes. But I was not going to be yet another person who dismissed her story or backed away from her pain.

‘I decided, though. That was never going to happen again. So, I left. I spent nearly a year in the house, getting clean, and getting strong. Well, stronger than before, which isn’t saying much. I got pregnant with Joan a few months later.’

‘And have you taken anything since?’

‘Drugs, you mean?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’ve not injected. See, no fresh tracks, here, Doctor.’ She held out her arms as evidence. ‘Some weed. A lot of booze. But I’ve been sober for three years. Still have a ciggie now and then, to chase away the nightmares.’