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Meredith Bennett breezes into the room, all business, with her hair still wet from the shower. Her floral dress is summery and cool but professional when teamed with a white doctor’s coat and the ubiquitous stethoscope slung casually around her neck.

‘I heard the good news,’ she says, smiling at Evie.

‘This is the neurologist I was telling you about,’ I say.

‘Do you remember me?’ she asks.

‘Vaguely,’ says Evie. ‘You were prodding me like I was a science experiment.’

‘Sorry about that. Can I do it again?’

‘Do I get to keep my clothes on?’

‘I’d prefer it that way.’ She pulls a chair close to the bed. ‘What day is today?’

‘Monday.’

‘What month?’

‘August.’

‘What is the opposite of cold?’

‘Hot.’

‘Up?’

‘Down.’

‘Who is the Prime Minister?’

‘Who cares?’

‘What’s the capital of Paris?’

‘You mean the capital of France.’

Dr Bennett smiles. ‘That’s known as a trick question. You passed.’

‘Can I go home?’

‘Soon. Tell me what you remember?’

‘I blacked out.’

‘Did you knock your head or fall over?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did you see the bodies washing up on Cleethorpes Beach?’

Evie’s silence answers the question.

‘I’d like to take a closer look,’ says Dr Bennett. ‘Just to be sure.’

‘To be sure of what?’

‘That nothing is wrong neurologically – a brain bleed or a haematoma. I want to schedule a brain scan, an MRI. It’s a machine that uses strong magnetic fields and radio waves to take pictures inside the body.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asks Evie.

‘No, but it’s noisy and not great if you’re claustrophobic. Do you mind small spaces?’

‘I love them,’ says Evie, not joking.

I’m standing at the window. I hear a crowd chanting outside. Pulling aside the Venetian blinds, I see people gathered at the hospital entrance. Some are holding placards and waving Union Jack flags. The protesters are predominantly white and male. Some are shirtless and shoeless, covered in tattoos or wrapped in flags or wearing Guy Fawkes masks or red MAGA caps. The apparent ringleader is wearing a camouflage jacket and holding a placard that reads, Stop the Invasion. Other signs have different messages – Defend our Borders, Turn Back the Boats, Take Back Britain – while a few declare that Jesus Saves and White Lives Matter. Maybe they took a wrong turn somewhere.

A dozen uniformed police officers are blocking the access road, preventing the protesters from reaching the hospital entrance. Each time an ambulance arrives, the officers force them to the footpath, clearing the road.

‘They’ve been arriving all morning,’ says Dr Bennett.

‘One survivor. It hardly seems worth it,’ I say.

‘More boats have been arriving. Another this morning.’

‘Where?’

‘Further south. I heard it on the radio.’

A teenage boy begins beating a snare drum and the protesters start to sing. Eyes shining. Mouths open.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never will be slaves.