‘He wanted to be a victim, along with Julian and Elinor, and for everyone to know that he had martyred himself.’

She poured herself more wine, and topped up his glass. For the first time, he felt relaxed in her company and hoped that there might even be a possibility that she was feeling relaxed in his, as strange as it seemed.

The news had moved on.

‘I wanted to say I’m sorry about telling you I knew about your medical condition,’ she said. ‘I should have been more . . . tactful.’

Priest was surprised, the apology was sincere. Jessica Ellinder is sorry. ‘I don’t really keep it a secret.’

‘Nonetheless, I wish I hadn’t said it.’

‘It’s under control now, sort of.’ He lowered the phone, realising that she was still watching him, waiting for him to tell her about it. About the panic attacks, the hallucinations, the sudden intense awareness of himself. In truth, he had never really spoken about it. His ex-wife, Dee, had never been receptive to it, had never tried to understand it. In the end, it had destroyed them. But then, had he ever tried? Had he wanted to try? Maybe that was the difference. Now, he wanted to talk about it. But whether that was because of the passage of time or because it was Jessica, he wasn’t sure.

‘I had depersonalisation disorder, a type of dissociative disorder, for several years but, over time, the symptoms have faded. Now, it comes back on occasion but most of the time I’m fine.’

‘What’s it like?’

He waited a few moments, arranging the words in his head. It wasn’t something that was easy to articulate; it was something that you could only really understand if you had it. ‘Imagine suddenly realising – knowing without doubt – that your mind and your body are two separate beings, independent of each other. You are your mind but you no longer have control over your body. Sometimes you even see it from afar, like a real life out-of-body experience. You immediately question your own existence. Am I really here? Have I died? Then this detachment is accompanied by an overwhelming and irrepressible feeling of dread; you realise that your own existence is a facade. The cell you inhabit, your body, is nothing more than a collection of chemicals and organs, disgusting and unnatural. Then you question: is this the real world and the times when I’m normal the dream?’

Jessica nodded slowly, thoughtful. She didn’t seem shocked, like when he had told her he had almost died in the church, she didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Then she said, ‘You must feel like you’re going insane.’