Daisy was the only one who could talk me down from my panic attacks at uni, the only one I trusted to see me in that kind of state. She’d stroke my arm and talk to me, conjuring up my ideal holiday, making me live it in my mind. She didn’t make me close my eyes and she didn’t make me focus on my breathing, but by taking my mind somewhere else, she’d break the cycle of hyperventilating, rapid heartbeat and “I’m going to die” thoughts, and my anxiety would gradually dissipate.

“My mum was drunk when she said that about the abortion,” Leanne continues, and I open my eyes again. “She’s always drunk. My dad was killed in a car accident when I was fifteen, and Mum’s been drinking ever since. She said he was the love of her life, but that didn’t stop her bringing men back from the pub. I lost count of how many there were.”

She stops speaking and stares at the floor. She is utterly still, lost in thought. Isaac rises soundlessly from the floor, crosses the room and sits directly in front of Leanne, crossed-legged. For a couple of seconds, he says nothing. Daisy and I share a glance.

“Look at me, Leanne,” he says, so quietly I barely catch the words.

Leanne slowly raises her head. Isaac leans forward and looks deep into her eyes, the expression on his face so tender, so concerned, that she immediately tears up.

“Did one of your mum’s boyfriends hurt you, Leanne?” he whispers.

She shakes her head.

“Who crept into your room when your mum was passed out on the sofa, Leanne?”

She drops her chin but Isaac catches it, lightning fast, and tips her face back up towards his. “Who hurt you?”

She attempts to shake her head but Isaac tightens his grip on her jaw.

“Who?” he says, his voice louder, his tone more urgent. “Who hurt you and what did they do?” He pushes the strap of her grey vest top down over one shoulder, revealing her pale-skinned, bony frame. “Who made you hate yourself so much you stopped eating? Who made you feel that starving yourself was the only way you could feel in control?” His voice is so loud now that it’s bouncing off the walls and filling the room. The scent of the incense sticks, dotted around the meditation room, wedged into church candles, plant pots and wooden holders is overpowering. The air is thick, jasmine scented and heavy with emotion. The rough walls seem to be closing in, constricting the space, forcing the eight of us closer. I want to stand up, throw open a window and let some air into the room, but I’m rooted to my beanbag. “Who raped you, Leanne? Say his name. Say it out loud. Say it and let go of the hold he has on you.”