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has resulted in psychological delusion, making you a danger to yourself or to others. And, three, conventional therapies have failed to help you.”
    A hand goes up.
    “Yes, Mikey,” the Director says. She doesn’t need to ask his name, then.
    “What’s that?” He leans right forward in his chair, leans abruptly back again; starts gnawing at a thumbnail like he’s trying to rip it clean off.
    “What’s what, Mikey?”
    “What you said.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Psycho-thingy.”
    “Psychological delusion. Is that what you mean?” The boy nods, irritated; of course that’s what he means, his expression says. Dr Pollard adjusts her glasses. Then, like it’s any kind of an explanation, “Well, Mikey, that’s what we’re all here to find out over the next two months.”
    Shiv swaps glances with Caron, lip-reads the older girl’s mouthed “WTF?”
    The Director, meanwhile, has taken the top folder off the stack she set down on the desk. “Now, before I hand over to Assistant Webb,” she says, “I’d like to make one other thing absolutely clear: whatever your experience of treatment has been so far – whatever form of counselling or therapy or, heaven help us, medication you’ve received – you will start with a clean slate here at the Korsakoff Clinic.”
    She raises the folder, gives it a little flourish, like a conjuror about to perform a trick. Shiv can see that it is thick with papers.
    “This is one of the files we request from those under whose care you have been until now,” the Director says. “Your case notes.” Then, glancing at the cover, “Which one of you is Lucy?” The plump girl next to Shiv raises a hand. Addressing her directly, Dr Pollard says, “I have read your notes, Lucy – of course I have… I have read all of your notes,” she adds, taking in all six residents with a sweep of her free hand.
    She pauses.
    “And this is how much bearing they will have on your treatment here.”
    Dr Pollard goes to a corner and drops Lucy’s folder with a whumph into a large bin. She picks up the next file and does the same. Then the next and the next.
    Assistant Webb’s presentation is more orthodox.
    He explains the rules and regs of the clinic, the dos and don’ts . This is a psychiatric institution, he stresses; as such, certain restrictions apply. By day, they are largely free to move around inside the building and most areas of the grounds – when they’re not in scheduled therapy sessions, that is. But by night – from Lights Out at 10.30 p.m. to Wake Up at 7a.m. – they will remain in their bedrooms. For fire-safety reasons, their doors will not be locked at night but they are alarmed – so, if anyone tries to leave his or her room between these hours it will trigger the alarm and bring the late-duty security guy running. Same goes for any attempt to leave the building during “Shut Down”, as Webb refers to it.
    “You have an intercom panel in your room for use in an emergency .” He stresses the last word. “The intercom will also sound the Wake Up buzzer and enable us to broadcast any announcements to you all at the start of each day.”
    There are CCTV cameras inside the building and at various points around the gardens and grounds, he adds, before emphasizing that these and the other security measures are to “ensure the residents’ safety”.
    “This is not a prison. You are not prisoners.”
    He hands out copies of the timetable – the schedule for the first month of their stay. It’s the same every day, six days a week. Sunday is a rest day; also laundry day.
    As he outlines the daily activities, Shiv wonders if the others are as distracted as she is. By the papers and folders still protruding from the waste bin in the corner. Or by Dr Pollard, who has taken her seat and is watching them intently, gaze shifting from resident to resident. She has removed her glasses and set them down on the desk, the lenses aimed at the six of them like a