“You’re category A, love,” Pauline had said, when pressed. Apparently Lauren was among the very few in the unit assigned such close observation, never to be left alone even for a moment. There was a hierarchy of madness, here.

In the little, hot room, the babies were asleep and swaddled, and Lauren and Patrick sat in limp silence with the nurse a short distance away in a chair, twirling the end of her leather belt over and under her fingers, endlessly. The bedroom was oppressive, and it had become uncomfortable. The wide open space visible just the other side of the barred window was tantalising, and yet unreachable without special permission, and a chaperone. It was a strange kind of gratitude Lauren felt towards Nurse Pauline then, when she said, “Shall we go for a walk outside?” and led the way, through the security doors and into the grounds.

The Tranters became one of the slow-moving knots of people pacing the nuthouse lawn from end to end in the sun, each group harbouring a baby stroller or two, and among their number, always, a white-coated figure acting as guide, spy, and protector.

At first, being outdoors diminished Lauren further; beneath the sky she felt small, an ant under a glass. The skin on her hands seemed semi-opaque in the sun, veins standing out. She found herself jumping at the unexpected movement of birds, gripping Patrick’s arm when a squirrel ran along the branch of one of the huge old oaks. But after a short time she started to breathe easier, and her muscles relaxed slightly. Her gait went from shuffle to meander. She hooked her arm through Patrick’s and laid her head on his shoulder. She hung back, allowing their unit to split into two, allowing a distance to open up between them and the listening ears of the nurse, who had volunteered to push the twins. Up ahead, she could hear the babbling of the babies, and the silences in between, when they themselves were listening.

“What did you do with our double stroller?” said Lauren.

“I took it to the tip, of course,” said Patrick, slightly defensive. She suspected, from his tone, that he might not have done it yet.

“That’s good,” said Lauren, “I didn’t want you to sell it. It’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck to sell it?”

“No, I mean the thing itself. It’s got bad energy, luck, whatever you want to call it. Best not to pass it on to anyone else.”

Lauren thought, I don’t believe in luck. Neither does Patrick. But nevertheless I don’t want anyone else having that stroller, and I never want to see it again.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Well, it was covered in mud round the bottom, anyway. It stained the fabric. No one would have paid money for it.”