Gramps’s face falls. The delay can only be a second or two, but it feels like minutes. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘You don’t seem very sure?’

Again the delay. ‘I’m sure. Positive. No violence.’

Dr Obisanya presses him no further, just ticks the necessary box in his notes.

Gramps has been asked this question so many times. And always he stalls, his body language that of a dishonest man. I don’t understand it. I’ve never been violent at home – I wish he’d just tell them that, say it like he means it.

‘And, sorry to bring this up, Oliver,’ Dr Gale says.

I look at the floor. I know what she’s about to say.

‘Mr Morcombe,’ she goes on, ‘you are aware that you need to help Oliver keep tabs on his use of pornography?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ Gramps says. I dare to look up at him. He’s doing his best to appear unfazed, but he’s obviously deeply uncomfortable. He’s not the only one, but this comes up a lot in my CBT sessions. They say that my compulsive porn watching was a major factor in my delusions about what was happening to Sophia. Sometimes they refer to me as having a pornography addiction.

‘You and half the population, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Dr Gale has mused more than once.

‘Then I see no grounds for not discharging Oliver,’ Dr Obisanya says.

Dr Gale nods. ‘The managers can have a bed back. They’ll be ecstatic.’

Miss Morgan raises a clenched fist in front of her chest in discreet celebration.

‘Miss Morgan,’ Shaun says. ‘Shall we make arrangements to return that piano you kindly loaned to the ward?’

‘Oh, keep it, dear, please. Someone else will be glad of it.’

There was some resistance when she donated it a few months back. She’d been at a case conference when Anka had expressed how I needed to bury myself in the activities I loved, but had left behind when the illness set in. There’d been suggestions that there wasn’t the space for a piano in the dayroom, but Miss Morgan sent over her own by courier anyway. After much argument with the driver, the furniture was suitably rearranged. I play it most days. On quieter evenings, I play ‘Life on Mars’ or ‘Space Oddity’, and Shaun does his best David Bowie.

‘That’s very kind,’ Shaun says.

‘I’ve bought myself a new one now anyway,’ she says. ‘A Steinway, Oliver!’

‘A Steinway?’ I whisper.

She giggles. ‘I’ve no wish to be the richest old dear in the cemetery. I can put my face on in the reflection from it. You must come round and have a play.’