I feel my arms grow weak; there’s a hollow feeling in the pit of my chest. How can I explain to Abayomi what this means? That work, my job, feels like so much of what keeps me sane? The routines, the order of it, the repeating structure of each day. Enough contact with people to stave off loneliness, but always professional, never too much.

I fight to keep my voice steady. ‘Please, Abayomi. Surely this isn’t necessary. I can help. What if the police call here, what if they need me to answer more questions?’ I’m grasping at straws, I know I am.

‘Emma or I can answer those.’

‘Please,’ I say again. I’m cold with shame. ‘I know I was off sick the other afternoon, but it won’t happen again. Please. I really don’t want to take time off.’

Abayomi shakes his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Jennifer. But it won’t be for long. A few days, a week at most, I’ll make sure of it.’

I look at him, see the tension in his face, and feel something inside of me give. He is only trying to do his job. Having me in the office puts him at risk. And he’s only trying to give me time to pull myself together. He can’t know he’s only pulling me further apart.

I stand up slowly. Abayomi doesn’t say any more. I sense he’s as embarrassed as I am.

In a gesture of kindness that almost breaks me, he holds the door open for me as I leave.

Outside, in the cold of Brixton High Street, I feel as though I’ve gone into some kind of free-fall. It’s as though there’s no pavement, no concrete under my feet, and very little right now holding me together. I don’t know where to go. I don’t have anywhere to go, except home, to my empty flat. I’ve walked these paving slabs hundreds of times, but suddenly they seem completely unfamiliar. What happened? I keep thinking. What just happened? Halfway up Brixton Hill, I sit down on a bench in the cold, my knees letting go of me. As they did a fortnight ago, pigeons gather round me, bumping each other and cooing. Their bobbing heads tilt up at me, waiting for food, but I’ve nothing to give them. I just sit there, defeated and ashamed.

I’m still sitting there when my mobile shrills. When I pull it out, I recognize the number of the CMHT. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ comes a soft voice in return. ‘Is that Jennifer Arden?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is Freya,’ the woman says. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling again. It’s about the feedback questionnaire, I think I said in my message.’