I haven’t returned to the session today. Maybe I’ll give sex addiction a go later, just for a laugh. The sun’s out and I wouldn’t mind knocking up on the tennis court. I wonder if the coke-addled kids’ TV presenter is up for it. I imagine I’ll be able to track him down in the sex addicts session this afternoon. The good news is that – although I am still having terrible trouble sleeping – I haven’t missed the drink or the coke as much as I expected. There was some sweating last night and a very weird dream. I was in Clare’s office and I saw her bike helmet on the shelf behind her. I picked it up and threw it out the window.

Maybe I should have mentioned it to Dr McGovern, but I’ve only just remembered.

There is one addiction, however, that is causing me intense pain for its forced absence: hackery. I can’t bear to be away from the action. Not knowing what’s going on, who’s talking to who, who’s up and who’s down. I’ll go mad if I can’t escape this prison soon. I want my phones.

There’s a knock at the door, though that’s a courtesy rather than a necessity. This is a hospital, after all, and it would be a mistake to allow the guests to lock themselves in. No mobile phones are permitted and there is no bedside landline, just a panic button.

‘Coming,’ I grunt. When I open the door there’s a receptionist there.

‘Mr Peck? There’s a call for you.’

For a moment, I’m almost tempted to believe there’s a god who answers my prayers. Perhaps it’s Lorimer saying all is forgiven, that the paper can’t cope without me. Or Jess, with some info that will at last reveal the truth about what happened to Clare. I am struck by how excited I am. Any contact with the outside world is water in the desert.

‘Would you like to take it in one of the booths downstairs?’

That’s a rhetorical question: there’s nowhere else I can take the call. ‘I’ll be right down.’

Off the main entrance, there are dark wood cubbyholes with phones, where you can sit on a white armchair and turn your back for the pretence of privacy. It’s like a hotel from the 1930s.

I pick up the receiver, half in dread, just in case it’s another bollocking from the office. ‘Hello?’

‘Just putting you through,’ says the receptionist. A click, and then a silence.

‘Hello?’

‘Gilbert?’

‘Dad? Why are you calling?’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

‘Sorry. Just . . . unexpected. It is nice to hear your voice.’ To my surprise, I am telling the truth. ‘How on earth did you track me down?’

‘Your mobile seemed to be switched off and no one was picking up at your flat. I rang your Commons phone and spoke to one of your colleagues. Nice young lady. When I explained who I was, she told me you hadn’t been feeling 100 per cent. Which was a bit of a shock to your mother and me. You might have told us.’