Then for five minutes Connie lay there unmoving until the fluorescent glow that was in all the rooms was dimmed to signify that it was time to sleep. Obediently, Connie slept. Emma fast-forwarded to 2.20 a.m. when Connie woke up, got off the bed and wandered over to the window, where she stood staring out into the night for an hour and five minutes. She then turned around, went back towards the bed and pulled out a book from underneath the mattress. Emma leant forward to see if she recognized the book but the quality of the recording was poor. Connie moved the chair from the table towards the dim glow of the light, sat down and began to read. She was side-on to the camera. She barely moved. Every now and then she seemed to smile, or she turned a page. No one entered the room all this while.

Then at 3.50 a.m. Connie looked up from her book and stared straight ahead for some time before leaning backwards rigidly. She then went limp and slipped off the chair smoothly, like melting wax, the back of her head banging the chair on the way to the floor, the book hanging in her hand, a page torn. Then she began to fit, her limbs flailing, her head hitting the ground again and again. Four minutes later two nurses rushed into the room, one of whom straddled the fitting Connie in order to hold down her arms and legs, while the other twisted Connie’s body, pulled down her pyjamas and injected her in the bottom. They stayed like that, riding the bucking bronco, until Connie stopped moving and slumped. Another nurse entered the room and Connie was then lifted and taken out on a trolley.

The CT scan in front of Emma showed no aberrations. It wasn’t epilepsy. Emma got up, thanked the security guard, tucked her hair back behind her ear, popped the scan paper under her arm, and was taken down to Connie’s room by a different guard. Her room smelt different today, more clinical. Connie lay on the bed unmoving, facing the window, eyes open; she appeared not to notice Emma’s entrance. She’d been sedated. She looked dreadful, pallid and frail with fresh bruises on her face. The red tufts of hair lent her an air of neglected absurdity. Emma stared at her. She had not seen Connie this vulnerable.

She cautiously approached the bed, reached out and let her hand rest on Connie’s arm.

‘Hello, Con,’ Emma said gently, pulling up the chair, surprised at her own familiar tone. ‘I hear you had a bad night.’

There was no response.

‘Oh, Connie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Still no response.

‘What happened?’ she said, more to herself than to Connie. ‘You were doing so well.’