‘Press my hand,’ Jake was saying. ‘Here. One finger at a time. Can you clench? No? Don’t try, then. What does that feel like?’

‘Like my hand doesn’t belong to me,’ Glenda whispered. ‘Like it’s not there-only it is. I can feel it but not like I want to feel it. Sometimes it hurts so much I just want to chop it off. It’s not mine any more. It’s not real.’

‘It is real.’

‘I’m being stupid,’ Glenda said, as finally Jake rested her hand in his again and let it lie.

‘No.’ It was such a flat response that Glenda stared. ‘You’re not being stupid. How long have you been putting up with pain like this?’

‘A while.’

‘Months,’ Doreen said dully. ‘And it’s getting worse.’

‘But at the beginning it did seem to get better?’

‘Yes,’ Glenda whispered. ‘That’s why it’s stupid. It got better and all the scans are good and the doctors say I’m cured. Only then the pain started…’

‘I’ve seen this before,’ Jake said. He was still holding her hand in his, so gently he couldn’t possibly be hurting.

‘I’m thinking this is something called complex regional pain syndrome,’ he said, and it was as if he was alone with Glenda-everyone else had disappeared. ‘Everything fits. You’ve had major trauma. So many of the bones and blood vessels and nerves were damaged that often a physical recovery masks more complex nerve problems. The symptoms often occur months after the injury itself. Your hand feels cold and there are areas of sensory blunting. It feels strange and stiff, like it doesn’t quite belong to you. And then there’s the pain. You protect it to stop it hurting, and the more you protect it, the worse it gets. Your fingers are already starting to curl. It’s hard to make them move.’

‘I don’t want to move them,’ Glenda whispered. ‘But it’s only my hand. I was so lucky… I’m better.’