‘Don’t mind me,’ Miss Morgan whispers. I smile at her – I’ve been hoping she’d show. Half crouched, she canters over to me and shakily grabs my hands in hers. ‘Good luck, Oliver,’ she mouths. ‘It’s all going to be just fine.’ She nods emphatically before retreating to take the seat nearest the door.

With the light faded to navy blue outside, we are soon all assembled. In addition to Shaun, Gramps, Silver Foxton and Miss Morgan, there is Anka, my CBT therapist, my psychiatrist, Dr Gale, and a guy in a pinstripe three-piece introduced as Dr Obisanya.

‘So, we’re here to discuss Oliver’s care plan moving forward,’ Dr Gale says as she thumbs through my notes. ‘Oliver was admitted back in May, on a treatment order under section two, and subsequently section three, of the Mental Health Act. As of today, his section expires.’

Dr Obisanya’s eyes flit between his notebook and my face, his expression that of the seasoned poker player. Can these guys assess someone’s craziness just by looking at them? That seems to be what he’s doing. ‘Is this the first time Oliver’s been sectioned?’ he asks.

Dr Gale flicks to the front of my file. ‘He was brought into Accident and Emergency at St Bede’s. He was then assessed here, where a twenty-eight-day section was applied. A section three was deemed appropriate after that time.’

‘Six months,’ Dr Obisanya says, giving me a sympathetic nod. ‘It is so often for the best.’

I remember little of that day, of those first few weeks. My memory is shrouded in a dense fog, just the occasional snippet bright enough to cut through. Gramps crying as he held my hand in casualty, assuming I was still drugged. The blood from ripping the cannula from my own arm when Gramps left me for a moment. The security guards who chased me through the wards when I went looking for surviving classmates during the night. The air-lock door arrangement on the way into this building, where I was flanked on four sides while the outer doors were locked before the inners opened – a threshold that I have not crossed since. There’s so little else.

‘Oliver’s progress was, at first at least, slow,’ Dr Gale explains. ‘The initial diagnosis reached by my colleagues was of schizophrenia, which to me was quite obviously incorrect. Unfortunately, his programme of treatment was based on this diagnosis, so unsurprisingly he made little headway.’