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An alarm is going off. Someone is shouting and I open my eyes. Mum’s bed is empty. I sit up and twist round and see Dr Rani running past the door.

My heart thunders. I stumble out of bed and see Dr Rani reaching the disabled toilet. The policeman is standing outside, pounding on the door.

‘Let us in NOW,’ he says, then pulls and pulls at the bathroom door handle.

You can’t break a door down if it opens towards you.

One of the nurses is standing next to him. ‘Arianne? Please open the door.’

‘You should never have let her go in on her own,’ says the policeman.

A man in overalls walks up. ‘Let me at that lock,’ he says and puts in a long key. The door swings open and Dr Rani pulls me back but I see her, my mum, swinging from the ceiling by the belt of her heron-patterned dressing gown.

She must have climbed onto the toilet cistern to push that ceiling tile to the side so she could tie it round that pipe. She must have thrown herself off, the belt looped round her neck.

How did she do it with her arm in a cast? With her face all bandaged and two ribs snapped?

‘Get her down! Get her down!’ says Rani.

But it’s too late. I can tell from the angle of her head.