It begins with a nightmare and it goes something like this. She’s driving a car and she can’t control the speed. Every time she pumps the brakes, the car goes faster and faster. She’s on the verge of crashing.

In the midst of her dream she hears screams. They get louder and louder. More strident. More frightening. Her eyes blink open. In the first few moments of consciousness, she’s not sure whether the screams are part of her dream or what’s happening around her – each seems to merge into the other. Placing a hand on either side of the bed to steady herself, she attempts to stand, her wobbly legs doing their best to support her frail body. She finally realizes that her sleeping hell has been replaced by a waking one.

She staggers out into the corridor and sees that the door to one of the bedrooms in the Observation Unit is wide open. Nurses and patients run in with towels. Figures emerge with sheets and pillow-cases drenched in blood. She can’t help herself. She has to go in.

There’s blood everywhere. On the mattress, the lampshade, the rug, the curtains. A picture she will carry with her always. The smell is something she will never forget either: rancid, sickly, completely overpowering. Marianne dips her finger in it. Although she’s only touched the surface, she feels the blood seep deep within her, permeating her entire being.

‘What’s happening?’ cries a patient from down the hall.

‘It’s Kalpana,’ comes the reply from another. ‘She must have got hold of a blade from somewhere. She’s slit her wrist.’

Marianne rushes into the kitchen, turns on the tap and thrusts her hands in the sink, scrubbing her fingers with a scouring pad. A voice behind her makes her jump out of her skin. She turns round to face a plump, ruddy-cheeked woman in a faded pink dressing-gown leaning against the counter, a half-full mug of tea nestling between her palms. The two patients exchange a few sentences along the lines of ‘Boy, what a night!’ and ‘Christ, I’ve only been here two days and already…’, before a third woman approaches the group and a conversation ensues. Although she’s dressed in an oversized, crumpled T-shirt, and has lank, unkempt hair, the bones are unmistakeable.

It’s midnight, she’s in a nuthouse and one of the inmates has tried to top herself. Just when she’s convinced the night can’t get much weirder, in walks Cat Green, one of the world’s most controversial supermodels. Marianne can just about manage a feeble ‘Hi’, shortly followed by a ‘Bloody hell!’ – her mouth remaining wide open long after the sounds have dropped out.

‘Yeah, I know. Mind you, p’raps the experience will come in handy. You know, for your work.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I heard you’re a novelist. Would have thought this was good material for people like you.’

Click here to reserve a copy by email. Include ‘Castle in the Clouds’ in email subject line. £7.99 pbk, Bumbury Press, ISBN 978-0-9555657-0-0. Due out Spring 2008.