As if she’d spoken aloud, the psychiatrist had said, “Obviously, the only way we can understand what’s happening with you is if you tell us. It’s an issue of trust. Trust takes a long time to build, I’m afraid.”

Of course, he couldn’t say how long. She’d wanted to pound the window again when she returned to her room after that session, but she hadn’t. She sat rigidly on the bed, her hands clasped. Eventually an orderly entered the room and took hold of her shoulders, manoeuvred her body into bed and turned off the lights. She lay there in the semi-dark, waiting for the sleeping pills to work.

“Ruthie sends her love,” said Patrick. “And Sonny and Daisy, too. They miss you.”

“What about the boys?”

“The boys are doing well,” he said. “Riley rolled over the other day.”

“Did you bring them with you? Are they nearby?” She turned her face to the high window, as if she could sense them somewhere just outside, maybe hear their voices, call to them and have them answer.

“Oh, honey,” he said, “no, I didn’t. I left them at home with the nanny.”

Lauren slumped down on the bench, her chin falling to her chest. Her grey sweatshirt was soon dotted with dark teardrops.

Patrick placed his arms around her as she cried. He smelled of unfamiliar shampoo, and sweet pastry.

“Patrick, I can’t stay here any longer,” she said. “You have to get me out.”

“I want you to come out. I do. We all want you home with us. But there’s a court order, you know that. We have to convince them that it’s OK now, that you won’t …”

“What?”

“Well. They’re just thinking of the boys. When you come home you’ll need help with them, and the nanny says she’ll be willing to stay on, at least at first. But at times you’ll be left alone.”

“They’re my babies, Patrick.”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t harm them.”

“No.” The denial sounded too emphatic to be authentic.

“You don’t believe me.”

At the next table they heard the old man cough three times, four.

“He does that all night long, you know,” said Lauren. “I can hear him through the walls.” She turned around to look at the man. “Hey, Rod.” Rod swivelled his hooded eyes in their direction. “Can you give it a break, please? You don’t even have a cough.”

The man didn’t blink. He snaked out a shocking pink tongue at Lauren, opened his mouth and coughed, spittle flecking their table and one foul bubble landing on Patrick’s hand, which he wiped with a measure of disgust on his nice clean trousers. They were glared at for a few more pointed seconds, and then the man turned away. After a moment, he coughed, louder than before.