Bannerman had returned his gaze to Tania. She had not moved. Nor, it seemed, had she so much as blinked. Her eyes were dark, mysterious pools that gave no hint of what might be going on behind them. Bannerman remembered the touch of her cold fingers on his cheek and he was disturbed by the affection that stirred in him. ‘What kind of future does a child like that have?’ he heard himself asking. And he turned to look at Mascoulin’s square, ugly face.

‘It is difficult to say. Only time will tell. But there is a great danger in such cases that lack of responsiveness to treatment will lead eventually to confinement in a mental institution. There they tend to resort to drugs to maintain some kind of equilibrium, in some cases leading to schizophrenia.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘You see, autistic children grow up to become autistic adults. In bad cases, and where there is no one else to look after them, they are unable to look after themselves. They are unpredictable and sometimes violent. There is little else that can be done.’ He saw the alarm in Bannerman’s face and added quickly, ‘That is only in extreme cases, of course.’

The session in the playroom came to a close. Another nurse led the children away, but Tania was the last to go. The nurse who had spoken to her earlier took her hand and the little girl followed with that same passive serenity that Bannerman had seen in her before.

‘She has a room of her own,’ Mascoulin said. ‘She likes to be left to her own devices. Sometimes she draws, but never in the playroom. Athough we always provide pencil and paper there. She regards our attentions as . . . well, as an intrusion, I suppose.’

‘Can we see her?’ Bannerman said.

‘She might react.’

‘I know, I’ve seen it.’

Mascoulin shrugged. ‘Just one of you, then.’

Sally said, ‘On you go. I’ll see her next time.’

*

Tania’s head snapped around abruptly when the door opened. She was sitting at a small desk pushed against the wall. It was covered with sheets of paper. She clutched a small pencil in her hand. The weary, pained face of Christ looked down from a crucifix fixed to the bare white wall above her. Her bedsheets were a mess, as if she had spent a tortured night in them. A dark wooden dresser stood against the far wall. A threadbare square of carpet covered black-painted floorboards. It was an austere, functional room, like a cell.

The first thing that Bannerman noticed was the bars on the window that looked out from the first floor on to the driveway below. Beyond, the lights of the city twinkled in a snowy distance.

Then he was drawn by her eyes.