‘I know it’s hard to bring up the past,’ Jenny says, ‘but it’s better to get it all out in the open than have it swimming around in your head all day. Shall we walk down by the tennis courts?’

‘Okay.’

It sounds posh – a hospital with tennis courts, but the truth is, they’re a couple of tatty concrete courts with ripped nets and faded white lines. The hospital building used to be a hotel, so there are remnants of it, like the swimming pool and the balconies – which they’ve had to box in for obvious reasons. We walk side by side, slowly, as though I’m an invalid.

‘I’ve been thinking about the Morrises and about Holly,’ I begin.

‘Oh yes?’

I can detect some apprehension in Jenny’s voice. She’s waiting to see if I know who Holly is. Whether I think she’s my daughter or whether I remember the truth. Although the fact I answered to ‘Catriona’ must have given her a heads up that I’m not ‘Rachel’ today.

‘Holly Faisal,’ I clarify. ‘The child I took from the shopping mall.’

She nods and smiles, realising that this is probably going to be a good session. A session where I understand who I am and what I’ve done. ‘You’ve been thinking about her?’

‘Yes.’ I exhale. ‘I actually can’t get her out of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the day of Grace’s accident. After… after it happened, I visited that shopping centre and I took that little girl home with me. Someone else’s child. I took her!’ Some days – like today – it astounds me that I could have done such a thing.

‘I watched the news afterwards and I found out who she was. They said her name was Holly Faisal, and I saw her parents – Rachel and Andrew Faisal. They put out an appeal on TV. The mother, Rachel, she was crying. It was terrible. But I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t call the police and own up to what I’d done. On some level I knew who she was, and I knew that what I’d done was wrong, but I ignored it. I kept on going with my fantasy that Holly was Grace. How could I have done that? How could I?’ I clasp my hands in front of me to stop the trembling that’s started up.

Jenny doesn’t reply. We keep on walking, past the buddleia bushes, which have blossomed pink and purple since I last came down this way. Like shooting fireworks.