When I head back into the front room, I see Liam is still dead to the world on the floor in front of the log burner. I don’t wake him. Instead, I head upstairs to find dry clothes, hurrying over to the dresser and pulling out fresh underwear, a large jumper and a pair of leggings, then a warm pair of hiking socks which make me groan with bliss when I put them on. I dig out a woollen hat next and pull that on over my dry but still tangled hair. What I would give for a hot shower – but that’s a luxury we no longer have.

I pause for only a second to look in the mirror in the bathroom, and as I suspected, it’s not a pretty sight. I’m a ghost: skin like a corpse drained of blood, lips pale, hair in ratty strings; but I also see, in my eyes, a flash of something that wasn’t there earlier – a spark of life. I remember the fight I put up when I was under the water; how my mum appeared to me and I heard her voice, urging me on. Something ignited in me in that moment and I can see it in my reflection, burning in my eyes – a fierce determination and a will to live that my depression had sucked from me, but that has now returned in full force.

When I head back downstairs, I see that the front room is empty. ‘Liam?’ I call.

I stoop and gather the wet clothes we stripped off earlier, which are strewn where we left them, noticing as I do the bird crap all over the furniture. The clothes are still sodden. I have to stop myself from shuddering at the memory of the water closing over my head, dragging me down into its depths. I remember that my pill and my anti-depressants were in the pocket and quickly shove my hand inside to find them. They’re not there. They must have fallen out when I was under the water. Damn. But I can’t worry about it now.

‘Liam?’ I call again.

There’s no answer. I head towards the kitchen, and that’s when I notice a drop of red on the carpet by my feet. It looks like blood. I bend down to take a closer look. It’s still fresh. And there are several more drops. I follow them, heart pounding. ‘Liam?’ I say again, this time louder.

In the kitchen I find him sitting in a chair, blanket draped over him like a cape. One foot is resting on the other knee and he’s bent over and peering at the sole of his foot.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. ‘I was calling you.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘I was concentrating. I’ve got something in my foot. I’m trying to get it out.’

‘What?’ I ask, coming closer.