I watched a documentary once, about a surfer whose arm was bitten off by a shark. He didn’t feel any pain until he was hauled out of the sea by lifeguards. The doctor who treated him said that pain is a survival mechanism, and where pain would make survival even harder, we shouldn’t be surprised that there is none. Is that why the pain is so unbearable now? Because Sonia tugged my true feelings out of my subconscious in the same way that the lifeguards hoisted the surfer out of the waves? But my ordeal isn’t over. It isn’t even remotely close.

‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Dad gives me a smile as he puts a mug and a pint glass away in the cupboard. ‘Mum said you’ve had a bit of a day.’

‘Yeah. It’s been tough.’

Mum stops stirring the pot of brown gloop on the hob and gives me a smile too. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime. I’ll just have some water.’

‘I’ll get it.’ They turn instantaneously but Dad reaches the sink first and fills a pint glass.

They watch as I drink the water. Dad grabs the empty glass before I can put it in the sink. ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up? Watch a bit of TV or something?’

‘Maybe in a bit. There’s something I need to talk to you both about first.’

They exchange a look and I catch the fear in Mum’s eyes.

‘There’s no news,’ I say quickly. ‘DS Forbes hasn’t been in touch. It’s about me. There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us?’ Mum says.

‘Shh, Maggie.’ Dad holds up a hand.

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ I adjust my chair, shifting myself closer to the kitchen table, and press the soles of my feet against the kitchen tiles. The coolness is soothing. ‘I knew how upset you both were about the TV appeal going wrong.’

‘We both were,’ Dad says and this time Mum is the one to make a shushing sound.

‘I thought the fugue to Weston was a one-off. So did my GP and counsellor. No one thought it would happen again.’

‘But it’s happened three times now,’ Mum says. ‘How many more are you going to have? Surely there’s something they can give you for it. Some drugs or something.’

My mum, the pill popper. When I was a kid she’d demand antibiotics from the doctor if I so much as sniffed.

‘What’s causing them?’ Dad asks. ‘And why did you go to such weird places?’