I nod. ‘It’s actually a pretty common form of dissociation.’ I take a low quick breath; I’m horribly nervous, I realise. Because I like Kelly, and want her to like me. I automatically reach for the chain around my neck, the pendant shifting cool against my skin before I let it go. ‘When I was fifteen, I finally plucked up the courage to go to my GP. He referred me to a psychiatrist.’

I think of that first psychiatrist, the light that bounced off his shiny bald head. His low, ponderous entreaties to a stony-faced Mum. Your daughter is unwell, Mrs Anderson. She has been unwell for some time. And Mum’s fury when we were alone, the grief and shame for me – her fearful, gullible daughter. Mental illness is a tool of repression and ignorance. It’s a way for men, for society, to persecute us, to call us hysterical. To keep us witches – she spat the word – inside our cages.

‘I have bipolar one. It means that I have manic episodes, followed by depressive ones. The mania usually lasts only a few weeks, if I get it at all. I’ll drink too much, spend too much, talk too much, sleep too little. My thoughts race like mad. It feels great. Like nothing bad is ever going to happen again.’ I look down at the table. ‘And then afterwards, I don’t really remember any of it. People tell me what I did or said, and I apologise, like it’s on someone else’s behalf, you know? I can’t describe it. It’s the same as the jamais vu. As if it’s nothing to do with me.

‘The depression lasts longer. I just kind of stop doing everything.’ My smile feels wrong. ‘Except sleeping – I do a lot of that.’ And a lot of not caring whether I wake up again, although I’m no more going to tell her that than I am what happened in the crematorium.

When I stop talking, the silence is unnerving. My face feels hot, my hands clammy.

‘Oh, Maggie,’ Kelly says, pulling me into a tight, quick hug. She smells of jelly beans. ‘That’s awful, I’m sorry. And here’s me banging on about reincarnation and murders like we’re in Days of Our Lives.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Although I’m grateful when she lets me go. ‘I don’t want you to feel bad. I mean, I’m all right. It’s just … someone has to know. I have to tell someone. Just … just in case. Because psychosis – you know, delusions or hallucinations – that’s a possibility too. So … it’s just in case, you know, something—’

‘Oh,’ Kelly says. ‘Of course.’

‘I am all right.’ Although I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. ‘I know what to do. I have my meds, I have regular blood tests to check my levels. And there’s a doctor in Stornoway who’s agreed to see me while I’m here.’ I pause, resist the urge to fidget. ‘It’s just … I can’t completely relax, you know? I can’t completely trust myself.’ Any more.