‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

‘Sure,’ I said, desperate to please him, wondering if he still liked me even though he knew I was a liar.

‘How are you feeling today?’ He looked lovely, the pale blue of his chambray shirt enhancing the colour of his eyes.

‘OK,’ I said cautiously.

‘Can I make a suggestion?’ he asked.

‘OK,’ I said, even more cautiously. I really didn’t think this was going to be one of those me, him, no clothes and a condom ones.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I know you don’t think you need to be here, but why don’t you try and get the best out of the place.’

‘In what way?’ I asked carefully.

‘You know the life story thing they make you write when you’ve been here a while?’

‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of what John Joe had read in my first session of group.

‘Well, even if you’re not an addict,’ said Chris, ‘It can be very helpful.’

‘How?’

‘You know how it is,’ he said, with a wry smile that made my insides feel funny, ‘we can all benefit from some kind of psychotherapy.’

‘Can we?’ I hooted in surprise. ‘Even you?’

He laughed, but in a sad way that made me shift uncomfortably.

‘Yes,’ he said, with a ten-mile stare that took him far away from me. ‘We can all do with help being happy’

‘Happy?’

‘Yes,’ he said.‘Happy. Are you happy?’

‘God, yes,’ I said confidently. ‘I have a lot of fun.’

‘No, happy,’ he repeated. ‘You know, content, serene, at peace with yourself.’

I wasn’t that sure what he was talking about. I couldn’t imagine feeling content or serene, but more importantly, I didn’t want to feel that way. It sounded frighteningly dull.

‘I’m fine,’ I said slowly. ‘I’m perfectly happy except for some things in my life that need to be changed…’

Like just about everything, the thought forcibly struck me. My love-life, my career, my weight, my finances, my face, my body, my height, my teeth. My past. My present. My future. But other than that…

‘Think about doing your life story,’ Chris suggested. ‘What harm can it do?’

‘OK,’ I said reluctantly.

‘With your ex-boyfriend’s questionnaire, that’s two things you have to think about.’ He flashed me a smile. And then he was gone.

I stood looking after him in confusion. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I mean, did he fancy me or didn’t he?

I sat down – I’d missed the good chairs – and tried to see from Josephine’s face whether I was for it or not. But, in the wake of Emer’s visit, the focus was on Neil. I was deeply satisfied when the group addressed some of the glaring discrepancies between what Emer had told us about Neil and what Neil had told us about Neil.

Neil was still saying that, if they lived with Emer, they’d beat the crap out of her too. And, while none of the others were as mean as I would have liked, they kept trying to point out to Neil that what he was saying was wrong. On and on through the morning they laboured, Mike, Misty, Vincent, Chaquie, Clarence. Even John Joe managed a couple of words about how he’d never raised his hand to a calf.

But Neil steadfastly refused to admit to anything.

‘You’re disgusting,’ I eventually burst out, unable to help myself. ‘You big bully.’

To my surprise, there wasn’t the expected chorus of agreement from the others. They just turned the same compassionate faces on me that they already had on Neil.

‘Is that right, Rachel?’ Josephine asked. I instantly wished I hadn’t said anything. ‘You don’t like the bullying side of Neil?’

I said nothing.

‘Well, Rachel,’ she said. I could feel something unpleasant approaching. ‘The things we dislike most in others are the characteristics we like least in ourselves. This is a good opportunity to examine the bully within you.’

You couldn’t fart in this place without a laughable interpretation being placed on it, I thought in disgust. And she was wrong. I was the most unbullying person I knew.

To my great relief, the spotlight was on Neil again in the afternoon. Still no mention of my questionnaire.

Josephine had decided the inmates had been given enough of a chance to help Neil and that now it was time to send in the heavy guns – her.

It was fascinating. Josephine referred back to Neil’s life story, which he’d read in a session before I’d arrived. With spot-on accuracy, she unravelled his life, as if she’d just pulled a loose thread in a jumper.

‘You said almost nothing about your father,’ she said agreeably. ‘I find that omission very interesting.’

‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ Neil blurted.

‘That’s perfectly obvious,’ she replied. ‘Which is exactly why we should talk about him.’

‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ Neil said again, louder this time.

‘Why not?’ Josephine had got that dog-with-a-bone light in her eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ said Neil. ‘I just don’t.’

‘Let’s find out, will we?’ Josephine said, with fake comradeship,’ Why you don’t want to.’

‘NO!’ Neu insisted. ‘Let it be.’

‘Oh no,’ she insisted. ‘Letting it be is the last thing we should do.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Neil’s face had darkened.

‘There’s obviously plenty to tell,’ Josephine said. ‘Why else are you so upset? Tell me now, did your father drink?’

Neil nodded warily.

‘A lot?’

Another wary nod.

‘That’s a rather important detail to omit from a life story, isn’t it?’ Josephine said shrewdly.

Neil shrugged nervously.

‘When did he start drinking heavily?’

There was a long pause.

‘When?’ she barked again.

Neil jumped and said, ‘I don’t know. Always.’

‘So it’s something you grew up with?’

Neil assented.

‘And your mother?’ Josephine prompted. ‘You seem very fond of her?’