“It wasn’t one of his best calls. Where have you been Bobby?”
“I got scared.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I had to get away.”
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
I don’t bother pointing out the contradiction. He’s full of them. Restless hands look for somewhere to hide and escape into his pockets, pushing them out of shape.
“Do you want to take off your coat?”
“It’s OK.”
“Well at least sit down.”
He looks at the chair suspiciously and then folds himself down into it, with his knees facing sideways toward the door.
Apart from my own notes, there is very little paperwork in Bobby’s file. There is a letter from a GP in north London who first picked up the case after Bobby complained of “disturbing nightmares” and a sense of being “out of control.” He was then sent to Jock Owen, one of London’s finest neurologists and my oldest friend. Jock did all the scans and could find nothing wrong, so he referred Bobby to me.
His exact words to me were: “Don’t worry, he’s insured. You might actually get paid.”
The notes tell me that he’s twenty-two years of age, with no history of mental illness or habitual drug use. He has above average intelligence, is in good health and lives in a long-term relationship with Arky, his fiancee. Apart from that I have a basic history— born in London, educated at government schools, O levels, night classes, odd jobs as a delivery driver and clerk. He and Arky live in a tower block in Hackney. She has a little boy and works at the candy bar in the local cinema. Apparently it was Arky who convinced him to seek help. Bobby’s nightmares were getting worse. He woke screaming in the night, hurtling out of bed and crashing into walls, as he tried to escape his dreams.
Before the summer we seemed to be getting somewhere. Then Bobby disappeared for three months and I thought he was gone for good. He turned up five weeks ago, with no appointment or explanation. He seemed happier. He was sleeping better. The nightmares were less severe.
Now something is wrong. He sits motionless, but his flicking eyes don’t miss a thing.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Is something wrong at home?”
He blinks. “No.”
“What then?”
I let the silence work for me. Bobby fidgets, scratching at his hands as though something has irritated his skin. Minutes pass and he grows more and more agitated.
I give him a direct question to get him started.
“How is Arky?”
“She reads too many magazines.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She wants the modern fairy tale. You know all that bullshit they write in women’s magazines— telling them how to have multiple orgasms, hold down a career and be a perfect mother. It’s all crap. Real women don’t look like fashion models. Real men can’t be cut out of magazines. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be— a new age man or a man’s man. You tell me! Am I supposed to get drunk with the boys or cry at sad movies? Do I talk about sports cars or this season’s colors? Women think they want a man but instead they want a reflection of themselves.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Frustrated.”
“Who with?”
“Take your pick.” His shoulders hunch and his coat collar brushes his ears. His hands are in his lap now, folding and unfolding a piece of paper, which has worn through along the creases.
“What have you written?”
“A number.”
“What number?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Can I see it?”
He blinks rapidly and slowly unfolds the page, pressing it flat against his thigh and running his fingers over the surface. The number “21” has been written hundreds of times, in tiny block figures, fanning out from the center to form the blades of a windmill.
“Do you know that a dry square piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than seven times,” he says, trying to change the subject.
“No.”
“It’s true.”
“What else are you carrying in your pockets?”
“My lists.”
“What sort of lists?”
“Things to do. Things I’d like to change. People I like.”
“And people you don’t like?”
“That too.”
Some people don’t match their voices and Bobby is one of them. Although a big man, he seems smaller because his voice isn’t particularly deep and his shoulders shrink when he leans forward.
“Are you in some sort of trouble, Bobby?”
He flinches so abruptly that the legs of his chair leave the floor. His head is shaking firmly back and forth.
“Did you get angry with someone?”
Looking hopelessly sad, he bunches his fists.
“What made you angry?”
Whispering something, he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”
He mouths the words again.
“You’ll have to speak up a little.”
Without a flicker of warning he explodes. “STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD!”
The noise echoes in the confined space. Doors open along the corridor and the light flashes on my intercom. I press the button. “It’s OK, Meena. Everything’s fine.”
A tiny vein throbs at the side of Bobby’s temple, just above his right eye. He whispers in a little-boy voice, “I had to punish her.”
“Who did you have to punish?”
He gives the ring on his right index finger a half turn and then turns it back again as if he’s tuning the dial on a radio, searching for the right frequency.
“We’re all connected— six degrees of separation, sometimes less. If something happens in Liverpool or London or Australia it’s all connected…”
I won’t let him change the subject.
“If you’re in trouble, Bobby, I can help. You have to let me know what happened.”
“Whose bed is she in now?” he whispers.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The only time she’ll sleep alone is in the ground.”
“Did you punish Arky?”
More aware of me now, he laughs at me. “Did you ever see
“Yes.”
