That evening they walked together in the grounds, the first time Jennifer had ventured outside the clinic: her first unguarded outing, in fact, since the murder. It was her suggestion, seized by the psychiatrist, whom she pointedly told she didn’t want to come with her. Just Hall: just the two of them. Jennifer held his right hand tightly in her left and reached across herself to clutch at his arm with the other, so that he was always close, their bodies touching. There was still a faint shimmer from the heat of the day encouraging insect clouds: encouraging, too, other patients out into the grounds. Hall started out carefully to avoid getting recognizably close to anyone before realizing Jennifer was being just as cautious, always keeping anyone else at a distance. He noticed, too, that in whichever direction they went she always kept the buildings in sight, needing their reassuring nearness.
‘Jane isn’t here.’
‘No reason to think about her then: nor talk about her.’ It had been a prompt from Julian Mason, before they’d set out. There had been others. He felt her shrug, beside him.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘What?’
‘Being normal. Ordinary.’ It was blissful, almost as if she was floating. She tried to hold the sensation, her own special drug blocking out the reality of the unreal.
He squeezed the hand holding his arm against his body, rehearsing what he was going to say, not wanting to break her mood with the wrong word. ‘It’s a good feeling. I’d forgotten it.’
She squeezed back. ‘Were you angry at me?’
‘When?’
‘At the beginning, when I said I didn’t want you: that I wanted a