So no, I don’t get many visitors here. One or two colleagues from the police have been to see me, but they haven’t returned. There’s Gemma, my sister-in-law, and her kids – one of whom is actually Alice’s, but was only a baby when she was killed – but she only comes every few weeks. In truth we never got along that well, and after what happened with Ben, there’s an unease between us that may never pass, even though we were both victims of his. Yet other than her and Jason, there really is no support network around me.

So why does it annoy me so much that Jason keeps butting in? I can’t describe why but I resent that he wants to help so much. I wish I didn’t feel like that.

‘I’ll continue my rounds,’ Lucia says, then gets up and heads for the door.

‘How are you doing today?’ Jason asks.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I brought you these.’ He holds up a bag of jam doughnuts. ‘Your favourite.’

The nurses have encouraged him to bring extra food in for me. I’ve lost two stone in bodyweight and my metabolism remains heightened as my brain tries in vain to recover.

‘They were my favourite. You may as well have brought a bagful of mud.’

‘Still, the sugar’ll do you good.’

‘I’m not hungry now,’ I say, pushing the tray of nearly eaten slops away.

‘Maybe later then.’ Jason moves to the bed and puts the bag down. He pecks me on the forehead.

‘I don’t want them later!’ I snap. ‘I can’t taste a damn thing anyway, so what’s the point? You have them.’

Jason just smiles and sits down, not rising to it at all. I’m told that my irritability and unconscious outbursts are down to my damaged frontal lobes. I’m angry, a lot. I blurt things out, angrily, like someone with Tourette’s might. But despite what the doctors tell me, most of the time I think my anger has nothing to do with my broken brain; it’s because people just don’t listen to me. They treat me like an incompetent invalid, or like they’d treat a two-year-old. They make decisions for me, tell me what to do and what to think and what to say.

I just want to be listened to and trusted again.

‘Have you seen the physio today?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. He wanted me to use that bloody hand bike again. What’s the point?’

I’m able to walk unaided now, but my body lacks coordination still. Writing in this diary helps not just my brain but my dexterity, even though it leaves me with pains and cramps most days. Likewise, the hand bike is one of the many exercise machines designed to help me build up muscle again and regain ‘normal’ motor skills.