At one end of this corridor was the secure entry system opening onto the rest of the hospital, and at the other was a small dining room which doubled as a visitors’ room. The tables were in rows, all of a piece with a bench on either side, and the whole lot screwed to the floor. Patrick and Lauren sat close together on a bench. There were four orderlies stationed around the room, paying close attention to the patients, but she only noticed because Patrick kept glancing anxiously at them. She was used to it now, and most of the time she almost didn’t see them.

The room smelled strongly of bleach, and was too hot, as usual. Light through the high windows cast grids on the far walls, shadow cages for the shadow birds that perched there. Some of the other patients had visitors, but not many. Those that did were sitting opposite each other, talking quietly or playing card games. Unvisited souls sat alone, and those patients on Amber or Red lay placidly in bed, or paced behind the glass walls of their rooms, lost in a haze of medication.

At the next table along, a filthy, skeletal old man sat alone playing a game of patience. Every few seconds he forced out a cough.

“Do you mind sharing with males?” said Patrick, in a low voice.

Lauren turned towards him. Her mouth hung open wetly; increased salivation was a side effect of the anti-psychotics she was taking. They also made her bloated, and dopey.

“It’s fine,” said Lauren, trying not to drawl. “We have our own rooms. We only mix at mealtimes, and that’s only the people on Green.”

The traffic light system was rather primitive, but it seemed to work. Follow the rules, take your pills, don’t throw anything at the glass or bite anyone, you could stay on Green for weeks. Only when on Green could you be considered for release. Lauren, like all patients, started out on Red. It had taken some adjustment of her meds before she was calm enough for Amber, and a lot of hard work and concentration to get on Green, but she’d done it. She’d been on Green now for five weeks. The doctors would shortly be meeting to discuss a visit home.

Lauren’s problem, according to the psychiatrist, was that she was very good at appearing outwardly to be mentally well, while maintaining a dysfunctional inner monologue. Her face had remained entirely placid as she’d thought, well, how the fuck would you know the first thing about my inner monologue? The thought that followed was one of hopelessness: If that’s what the doctors think, then there’s not an awful lot I can do about it, is there?