‘When Siv died,’ Erik says, his voice breaking. ‘I threw myself into work. It was my saviour. But then one night I had too much time on my hands and … it all hit me. Everything I’d avoided. All the grief in one go.’ He shakes his head, fixing his pale eyes on Tom. ‘I keep a gun in my bottom drawer. I took it out that night. I had one bullet. And I almost used it.’ He leaves a long pause for that to sink in. ‘Those precious girls of yours need you to be OK.’ A warm smile. ‘And you need you to be OK. So … don’t work too hard. Take the time to recover. OK?’

‘OK,’ Tom says, and he smiles to indicate he has taken it all to heart, that he is absorbing the counsel of wise words offered by a man who has walked the path he is on, the path of burning coals and searing flesh. But he lets the words roll off him, discarding them.

Without work, he will drown.

   18   

THE ATTIC

Now

‘Now, lean forward and put all your weight on your palms. That’s it. A little more. Feet off the ground.’

I was in crow pose – or bakasana – which means I had both hands planted on the floorboards of Derry’s bedroom, my legs bent at the knees and my feet kicking up behind me a foot or so off the ground. It sounds weird because it is weird, especially if you have the biceps of an office worker, which is to say – none.

‘Hurrah!’ Derry said, clapping. A second later I keeled forward and landed flat on my face.

‘Whoopsadaisy,’ Derry laughed, helping me upright. ‘Well done. Why don’t we try some of the easier asanas? Legs outstretched, like this.’

I tried to copy her on my mat – one of Derry’s – but as I raised my arms in the air my sleeves started to roll down. Derry had insisted on loaning me yoga pants – (‘green, the colour of the heart chakra!’) – and a top, but I had panicked a little at this. The sleeves had very loose cuffs, and I definitely did not want Derry seeing my scars.

I clutched the hems of the sleeves with my fingers and held them tightly.

‘Fingers spread wide,’ Derry encouraged. ‘Right inside the centre of your palms is a circle of energy. Let it flow, Sophie. Let the energy dance.’

I tried this, but immediately the sleeves began to slide down my arm. I stood upright, embarrassed. ‘I think I’ve … hurt my shoulder,’ I lied.

Derry gave me a look of concern. She pressed her palms and feet together and bowed deeply. ‘Namaste.’

I began to roll up the mat, but she stopped me. ‘Let me massage your shoulders.’