‘Yes, sir. And if I undergo this treatment?’

‘We’ll send you out of here with a glowing report and the world’s your oyster, my boy. You just report to an assigned doctor every three months to monitor your progress and any possible … side effects.’

‘I see.’

‘So, if you’ll just sign here, here and here, we can set the wheels in motion.’

I signed.

Now I am at home, with a new notebook and all the time in the world in which to write in it. I spend most of the days in my room. Mum brings food up on a tray. I think she and Dad actually prefer me not to take meals with them, as after a while the silence is so strained that it puts us all off our food. At least I’m eating well. I’m putting on weight. I’ve regained all the weight that I lost during those last months at Reville, and more. I’m flabby. I can’t stop eating. I think it’s a side effect of the pills they made me take at Halton, and which I am still taking, twice a day. I assume that the puffiness around my chest is another side effect, the headaches, the loose bowels and the uncontrollable fits of crying when I watch Emergency – Ward 10.

My parents have said nothing about why I am home. I suppose someone has written to them. I don’t know what the letter said. We don’t ask questions. It’s been put about that I am ‘convalescing’ but nobody says from what. Callers are not encouraged.

There were things waiting for me at home: a big brown paper parcel tied with string, addressed to me by me, and a dozen or so letters, ditto. I’ve put them on the top shelf above my bed, behind some of my old children’s books. There was also a letter from Stephen, forwarded from Reville.

Dear Heart, it’s been ages, have you dropped off the edge of the world? I do hope this finds you well and happy, please drop me a line. Life goes on much the same in the wicked city, I’m busy busy busy with all sorts of excitements which I wont bore you with. Please do think about coming up to town again, we can have another jolly night out, they all ask after you, you made quite an impression! And of course I miss you madly. Please do drop me a line just to let me know your news.

I haven’t replied. I don’t know where to begin. The last few months seem like a big mouthful of cotton wool. Everything has happened, and nothing. I am in a dream, in a fog. Perhaps it’s the pills. Perhaps if I stop taking them, things will seem clearer. But then, will it all begin again?

One morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wondering why I didn’t have to shave quite as often as before, when I noticed that I had breasts. Not just a bit of puffiness from overeating, but actual tits. I touched them. They were tender, sore. I collected up all my pills and flushed them down the toilet. For four days, I had a splitting headache, couldn’t bear light, stayed in my room with the curtain drawn except when I had to run to the loo. Then I woke up and felt better than I’ve felt in months. I drew the curtains, looked at the trees and the birds and realised that spring was here. I clambered up on the bed, pulled aside a load of books and retrieved that brown paper parcel with the Reville Village PO postmark. I blew off a layer of dust and untied the string.