Ben shrugged; he wasn’t bothered.

Later that morning, I sat in the small office of Doctor Sola, wringing my hands. Thank goodness there was a cancellation. Normally it took two weeks before an appointment would become available. What were you supposed to do if you were actually sick? In that time whatever ailment you needed to see a doctor for would have cured itself, or you’d have died waiting. The journey here had been uneventful, but I was still uneasy being surrounded by lots of people during rush hour. I’d left a message on Stuart’s answerphone to let him know I would be coming in to the office late and quickly called my mum. She sounded pleased to hear from me, although I said I couldn’t talk long, letting slip I was on my way to the doctors.

‘Are you still poorly?’ Mum had sounded concerned.

‘No, Mum, not really. Something happened that I need to tell you about, but I can’t talk now. I just wanted to make sure you were all right?’ I heard her hiccup and gritted my teeth. That’s why she was in a good mood, she’d had a drink.

‘Yes, I’m fine, love. In fact, I have something I need to talk to you about, too.’

‘Okay, I’ll ring you later,’ I’d said before hanging up. I had to sort out my own problems first before I tried to fix her.

Doctor Sola was a small Indian woman who had an excellent bedside manner. She put me at ease as I stumbled through my rehearsed and edited version of what had brought me to the surgery.

‘Well, I believe you’re suffering with PTSD. The side effects of an event like this are psychological as well as physical. I’m happy to give you something to help your anxiety, but I believe you should consider seeing a counsellor too.’

I nodded in all the right places and took the card she gave me of a local psychiatrist who saw NHS patients. I still had the details for Victim Support but couldn’t bring myself to get in touch.

‘I’ll refer you and you should receive an appointment automatically, but if you don’t then please don’t hesitate to come back.’ She gave me a prescription for some diazepam, 5mg dose, and advised me to take one, three times a day. She had only prescribed sixty-three pills. Enough for three weeks at the recommended dose. Did she think I might be a suicide risk? The thought had crossed my mind in the past week but only for a split second. It would never be something I’d seriously consider. Did I look suicidal? I had a few days of floating around in a cloud to look forward to. ‘How are you coping at work?’ she asked.