But her behaviour in Connie’s room the other day was shameful, whatever the book said; even thinking about it set off a profound embarrassment. It had been horribly unprofessional – Connie could have done anything. She could have escaped (she’d already escaped once from Milton House, for God’s sake), she could have attacked someone, stolen a car . . . the consequences could have been unthinkable. Afterwards, Emma had driven straight to her supervisor to confess. But when, at the end of a long day, she’d arrived at Tom’s office, one lone light on in the building, her tread silent with the shame of her deeds, she had found him playing Call of Duty, a duvet laid out on the sofa. She’d suspected he was having marital problems but hadn’t realized that he was sleeping at the office. She had discreetly exited and re-thought her own bad behaviour, and Connie’s future. The psychologist assessing Connie was getting nowhere – she was refusing to even speak to him, or the social worker. The CT scans showed that there was nothing neurologically wrong with Connie’s brain. Emma knew, in fact, that she had come a long way with her, that things were progressing. There had been reported a noticeable change in Constance’s behaviour at the clinic; no incidents recently, which meant no fitting, no public urination or defecation, no fights, no inappropriate sexual behaviour. She was taking her medication. If Emma was taken off the case, her assessment would have to begin all over again. It was one tiny lapse that no one need know about. She felt resolved. She hadn’t had a drop to drink since then.

‘In four hundred yards turn right . . .’

But Connie hadn’t escaped or done any of those things Emma might have imagined; she had been kind and tender. And Emma had been quite thrown when Connie cried. This was progress; she was feeling. The sound she made was what had shocked Emma, that ghastly soul-wrenching sob, as if her body knew what she had done even if her mind couldn’t remember it. Emma had wanted to take her in her arms, hold her, rock her and tell her everything was going to be OK. But it so evidently wasn’t. In fact, everything was going to get a lot worse; so instead, she had scuttled out like a rat.

‘In three hundred yards turn right on to . . .’

She found herself looking forward to their sessions. Connie’s company, although unsettling, was strangely exhilarating. She wondered whether it was because Connie didn’t lie. The rest of us are all plausible liars. When she was with Connie she felt like she was following a straight line in a world of angles. She couldn’t veer from it now; she’d gone too far down it to turn back. Now she found herself conscious of the lack of her; she missed Connie’s ruthless, rasping commentary.