Sebastian made a high-pitched whistling noise, but instead of ending with an explosion, it went on and on. An adoption fantasy (if it was a fantasy; he must of course keep an open mind, but it almost certainly was) represented a kind of progress. So many patients, at all levels of disorder, played with the idea of adoption, to escape their fate or to embellish the rejection of their families. Martin had treated borderline patients with convincing and elaborate adoption stories which turned out to be fake, but in the case of a schizophrenic patient, the story was even more likely to be the displacement of forbidden, life-threatening feelings of terror towards a real source of harm.

‘My granny,’ said Sebastian, ‘during the war’ (high-pitched whistle) ‘was sitting on the floor of her bedroom, playing with her favourite doll’ (high-pitched whistle) ‘when a bomb came through the roof and snatched her doll away and went down’ (high-pitched whistle) ‘through all the other floors of the house and lodged in the basement.’

The whistling stopped.

‘Did the lodger explode?’ asked Martin.

‘No, of course it didn’t explode! Did it sound like it exploded?’ shouted Sebastian.

‘No, it didn’t, that’s why I asked,’ said Martin sympathetically.

Sebastian stood up and walked out furiously from behind the armchair.

‘She spent the whole of her miserable life sitting on an unexploded bomb. Can you imagine what that feels like, you heartless bastard?’

Sebastian rampaged around the room, tearing books from the shelves and flinging them to the floor. Oh, no, thought Martin, not this again. Perhaps he was getting too old to take on psychotic patients.

‘Is this what would have happened if the bomb had exploded?’ asked Martin.

‘This?’ shouted Sebastian. ‘A few books on the floor? Are you fucking joking? We’re talking about innocent men, women and children being ripped apart. The smell of burning human flesh. We’re talking about my granny, when she was just a little girl, having her life ruined for ever.’

Sebastian sank to the floor, lay on the carpet and started to run, lying down, making his body turn in agitated circles.

‘You can’t even tell the difference between what’s alive and dead!’ he screamed. ‘You’re nothing but a monster.’

Martin stayed silent for a while, aware that they only had five minutes left.

‘So, your new parents called you Sebastian to help protect you,’ said Martin.

‘You’d have to ask William Tell,’ said Sebastian.

‘Well, maybe he’ll come to our next session and tell us his side of the story,’ said Martin.

‘Time’s running out, time’s running out,’ said Sebastian, spinning more frantically than ever around the floor. Then, he suddenly stopped, got up and knelt with his hands clasped behind his back, tilting his head and twisting his body in a perfect impersonation of a Renaissance painting of St Sebastian tied to a post with his body full of arrows.