‘The drugs obviously aren’t helping. I’d like you to go and see someone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone you can talk to. About your feelings.’

‘You think it’s all in my mind?’ He had a vision of himself as mad, his face contorted and savage, the horrible feelings he was trying to keep tamped down inside himself suddenly liberated and possessing him entirely.

‘It can be very helpful.’

‘I don’t need to see a psychiatrist.’

‘Try it,’ said Dr Foley. ‘If it doesn’t work, you won’t have lost anything.’

‘I can’t afford to pay.’

Dr Foley started to tap on his keyboard. ‘This is a GP referral. You won’t have to pay. It’ll be a bit of a journey, but these people are good. They’ll contact you with a date for an assessment. And we’ll take it from there.’

It sounded so grave. Alan had just wanted Dr Foley to give him different medicine, to make it all go away, like a stain that could be wiped clean, leaving no trace. He put his hand against his heart, feeling its painful bump. He just wanted to be an ordinary man with an ordinary life.

There is a place where you can see and not be seen, an eye pressed to a small hole in the fence. It’s playtime and they spill out from their classrooms and run across the yard. Boys and girls, all shapes and sizes. Black and brown and pink, with blond hair and dark hair and the shades in between. Some are almost full-grown, spotty boys with clumsy feet and girls with breasts just budding under their thick winter clothes, and they won’t do at all. But some are tiny; they hardly look big enough to be away from their mothers, with their stringy legs and baby voices. They’re the ones to watch.

It’s drizzling in the schoolyard and there are puddles on the ground.