The door opens and Johan and Isis appear in the doorway. They’re an unlikely double act. He’s late twenties, tall, six foot four at least, and slim with broad shoulders, while Isis is short and petite and quite a bit older, with grey cropped hair, purple hessian trousers and a grey tank top. As they stroll into the room, Daisy and Al snap apart. Their reactions to the new arrivals couldn’t be more different. Al slumps into herself, head down, and rubs at the back of her neck with her hand, while Daisy sits up straight and pushes back her shoulders. She tips her head to one side and smiles coyly at Johan but he walks straight past her and crouches beside Frank. They have a conversation, after which Frank nods and reaches into his back pocket and hands over a passport. Johan pockets it then straightens up. He nods at Isis as she sits down to the right of the altar, in front of the gong, and strolls straight back out of the room.

“Arsehole,” Daisy says as the door closes behind Johan.

No one says anything else and we sit in uncomfortable silence for several minutes before the door clicks open again and Isaac appears in the doorway. My cheeks grow warm and I look down at my hands, knotted in my lap, before he can make eye contact with me. The next time I look up, he’s lounging on a beanbag in front of the altar, facing the group.

“I’m so glad to see so many of you here, especially when I know some of you weren’t sure about coming to this session.”

I glance at Al but she’s looking at the floor.

“Yesterday, we talked about detoxing the mind.” He reaches into his shirt pocket for his tobacco tin and proceeds to roll a cigarette, nimbly handling the thin papers with his long fingers. “This session continues that theme, only today we won’t be talking about attachment, anger or ignorance. Today, we’ll be talking about clearing emotional damage.”

I shift on my beanbag. Al isn’t the only one who feels uncomfortable sharing her secrets with strangers.

“I was physically abused as a child. My stepdad beat the shit out of me on a regular basis,” Isaac says. “He hated that my mum had had a kid with another man, so first he got her pregnant, then he turned her against me. She put me into care when I was eight years old.”

He stops speaking and the sentence hangs in the air, demanding a response, but no one says anything. I look at the floor and trace a knot in the dark wood with my finger.

“It fucked me up for a long time,” Isaac continues, “a really long time, and without really knowing it, I fucked up other people, too, because of what had happened to me.”