At least in January he could keep the garden door locked and, in any case, Olivia’s newborn baby was unlikely to go out there during those cold, dark days. Nevertheless, Olivia might naturally wander out on a sunny morning to get some fresh air in that fashionable and elusive enclosure, ‘a safe space’, only to find that her unknown twin was bellowing psychotically in the basement or crouched behind the curtains in a knot of primal fear. Martin’s other patients would lie down, free associating while they gazed at the ceiling, or perhaps closed their eyes, indifferent to the muffled sounds of domesticity that reached his consulting room: the rare, faint ring of the landline or the distant thud of the front door closing, only just audible in a pause. They would probably not notice anyone in the garden, or remark on it if they did, but for Sebastian, who often got up from his chair, or checked over his shoulder, nothing could be more provocative than an infant in its mother’s loving arms. At this stage of his treatment, the sound of Olivia’s baby crying might make him think he was hearing another delusional voice or being tortured by the sly, knowing soundtrack to his screaming psyche. Even if he were well enough by January to be sure that the baby was in fact a baby, he might not be able to stand the competition of seeing it being loved and looked after.