‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.

‘Sure.’

He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.

‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’

‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’

‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’

A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.

‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’

I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’

‘Yeah.’

There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.

And actually, why not tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.

‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’

‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’

‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’

‘But you write notes.’

‘Yes. I write notes.’

There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:

Hi.

I smile at it, and reach for a pen.

Hi.

I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.

Is this easier than talking?

A bit.

Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.

That’s OK.

I remember your eyes from before.

Before?

I came round once to see Frank.

I noticed your eyes then.

They’re blue, right?

I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.

Yes. Well remembered.

I’m sorry you have to go through all this.

Me too.

It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.

I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.

You think?

My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.

So, what, I’m rhubarb?

Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.

I’m RHUBARB?!

There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.

‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.

‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’

‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’

I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.

They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.

I just hope he realizes that.




At my next appointment with Dr Sarah, she watches my documentary so far, while making notes.

Mum has come to the appointment, as she does every now and then, and she keeps up a running commentary – ‘I don’t know WHAT I was wearing that day . . . Dr Sarah, please don’t think our kitchen is usually that untidy . . . Audrey, why did you film the compost heap, for goodness’ sake’ – until Dr Sarah politely tells her to shut up. At the end she sits back in her chair and smiles at me.

‘I enjoyed that. You’ve been a good fly-on-the-wall, Audrey. Now I want that fly to buzz around the room a bit. Interview your family. Maybe some outsiders too. Push yourself a little.’

At the word outsiders I clench up.

‘What kind of outsiders?’

‘Anyone. The milkman. Or one of your old school friends?’ She says this casually, as though she doesn’t know that my ‘old school friends’ are a sore point. For a start, what ‘old school friends’? There weren’t that many to begin with and I haven’t seen any of them since leaving Stokeland.

Natalie was my best friend. She wrote me a letter after I left school and her mum sent flowers and I know they call Mum every so often. I just can’t reply. I can’t see her. I can’t face her. And it doesn’t help that Mum kind of blames Natalie for what happened. Or at least, she thinks Natalie was ‘culpable’ for ‘not acting sooner’. Which is so unfair. None of it was Natalie’s fault.

I mean, yes, Natalie could have said something. The teachers might have believed me sooner then. But you know what? Natalie was paralysed by stress. And I get that now. I really do.

‘So you’ll do that, Audrey?’ Dr Sarah has this way of pressing you until you agree to do something, and she writes it down like homework and you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good! You need to start widening your horizons. When we suffer prolonged anxiety, we have a tendency to become self-obsessed. I don’t mean that in a pejorative way,’ she adds. ‘It’s simply a fact. You believe the whole world is thinking about you constantly. You believe the world is judging you and talking about you.’

‘They are all talking about me.’ I seize the opportunity to prove her wrong. ‘Linus told me they were. So.’

Dr Sarah looks up from her notes and gives me that pleasant, level look of hers. ‘Who’s Linus?’

‘A boy. A friend of my brother.’

Dr Sarah is looking back at her notes. ‘It was Linus who visited before? When you found things difficult?’

‘Yes. I mean, he’s OK, actually. We’ve talked.’

A pink tinge is creeping over my face. If Dr Sarah notices it, she doesn’t say anything.

‘He’s a computer-game addict, like Frank,’ says Mum. ‘Dr Sarah, what am I going to do about my son? I mean, should I bring him to see you? What’s normal?’

‘I suggest we concentrate on Audrey today,’ says Dr Sarah. ‘Feel free to consult me at a different time about Frank if you feel it would be helpful. Let’s return to your concern, Audrey.’ She smiles at me, effectively dismissing Mum.

I can see Mum bristle, and I know she’ll slag off Dr Sarah a little in the car on the way home. Mum and Dr Sarah have a weird relationship. Mum adores Dr Sarah, like we all do, but I think she resents her too. I think she’s secretly poised for the moment when Dr Sarah says, Well, Audrey, of course it’s all the fault of your parents.

Which of course Dr Sarah never has said. And never will.

‘The truth is, Audrey,’ Dr Sarah is saying, ‘that yes, people will probably talk about you for a fraction of the time. I’m sure my patients talk about me, and I’m sure it’s not always complimentary. But they’ll get bored and move on. Can you believe that?’

‘No,’ I say honestly, and Dr Sarah nods.

‘The more you engage with the outside world, the more you’ll be able to turn down the volume on those worries. You’ll see that they’re unfounded. You’ll see that the world is a very busy and varied place and most people have the attention span of a gnat. They’ve already forgotten what happened. They don’t think about it. There will have been five more sensations since your incident. Won’t there?’

I shrug reluctantly.

‘But it’s hard for you to believe that, trapped in your own little world. And for that reason, I’d like you to start making visits out of the house.’

‘What?’ My chin jerks up in horror. ‘Where?’

‘To your local high street?’

‘No. I can’t.’

My chest has started to rise and fall at the very idea, but Dr Sarah ignores it.

‘We’ve talked about exposure therapy. You can start with a tiny visit. A minute or two. But you need to gradually expose yourself to the world, Audrey. Or the danger is, you really will become trapped.’

‘But . . .’ I swallow, unable to talk properly. ‘But . . .’

There are black dots in front of my eyes. Dr Sarah’s room was always a safe space, but now I feel as though she’s thrusting me into a pit of fire.

‘Those girls might be anywhere,’ says Mum, protectively grabbing my hand. ‘What if she bumps into one of them? Two of them are still at school in the area, you know. I mean, it’s outrageous. They should have been sent away. And when I say away, I mean away.’

‘I know it’s difficult.’ Dr Sarah is focused solely on me. ‘I’m not suggesting you go out alone. But I think it’s time, Audrey. I think you can do it. Call it Project Starbucks.’

Starbucks? Is she kidding?

Tears have started to my eyes. My blood is pulsing in panic. I can’t go to Starbucks. I can’t.

‘You’re a brave, strong girl, Audrey,’ says Dr Sarah, as though reading my mind, and she passes me a tissue. ‘You need to start pushing yourself. Yes you can.’

No I can’t.

The next day I spend twelve solid hours in bed. Just the thought of Starbucks has sent me slithering down a tunnel of fear, to the black, dark place. Even the air seems abrasive. Every noise makes me flinch. I can’t open my eyes.