‘Yeah. That you think there’s a chance my brother might get off.’

‘No. Not get off. We know he’s a killer. But the defence’s argument of diminished responsibility has some credibility. We just need to know if you can help. You know him better than anyone.’

‘Do I? Other than him coming for me and trying to crack my head open like an egg I remember jack shit. Don’t you understand? It’s gone. My brain is fucked. Whatever you want from me, it’s not in there anymore.’

‘I know you’re struggling, Dani. But you taking the stand could help make sure he gets what he deserves. Just paint the picture: who he was, what he did. You knew him for years when he was hiding his secret. He killed Alice, his wife, your best friend, then got on with his life like nothing had happened.’

‘I’m well aware now of what he did. Clearly at the time I wasn’t.’

McNair sighs. ‘I know. Just think about it, yeah?’

She gets up from the seat, but pauses as she hovers over me as though she’s expecting me to have a sudden change of heart.

Of course, I don’t. Eventually she turns and leaves without either of us saying another word.

Later I’m sitting at a formica table in the assessment room, McNair’s visit still weighing heavy on my already tired mind. Greg, one of the neurologists, is next to me. Two large beakers are on the table. I’ve just separated all of the white plastic counters into one, and all of the black plastic counters into the other.

‘Very good,’ Greg says as he finishes scribbling a note on his pad. ‘Now again.’

He picks up a beaker in each hand and empties the counters onto the table, mixing them around with his hand.

I sit back in the chair and fold my arms. I’m tired. I’m bored. My head is raging, at Ben, at McNair. At Greg for making me do this, again. But I’m trying to keep it inside.

I look up. I see McNair standing across the other side of the room. I blink, thinking perhaps it’s just a hallucination. I know my brain plays tricks on me sometimes. No. This time I’m damn sure McNair is right there, watching me.

‘Dani? Let’s do it once more,’ Greg says. ‘See if you can beat your time again.’

‘Beat my time?’ I say, my focus still on McNair who’s staring at me like I’m her little experiment. Like she’s analysing me to see what the craic really is. ‘It’s not a bloody Olympic sport. Who gives a flying fuck how fast I can do it?’

‘I do,’ he says, not at all moved by my aggressive response. ‘Please?’

‘No.’

‘This is the last time today. I promise.’