and combinations of activity that are theoretically possible in each of our heads exceeds the number of elementary particles in the universe.’
I pause and let the numbers wash over them. ‘Welcome to the great unknown.’
‘Dazzling, old boy, you put the fear of God into them,’ says Bruno, as I gather my papers. ‘Ironic. Passionate. Amusing. You inspired them.’
‘It was hardly Mr Chips.’
‘Don’t be so modest. None of these young philistines have ever heard of Mr Chips. They’ve grown up reading Harry Potter and the Stoned Philosopher.’
‘I think it’s “the Philosopher’s Stone”.’
‘Whatever. With that little affectation of yours, Joseph, you have everything it takes to be much loved.’
‘Affectation?’
‘Your Parkinson’s.’
He doesn’t bat an eyelid when I stare at him in disbelief. I tuck my battered briefcase under my arm and make my way towards the side door of the lecture hall.
‘Well, I’m pleased you think they were listening,’ I say.
‘Oh, they never listen,’ says Bruno. ‘It’s a matter of osmosis; occasionally something sinks through the alcoholic haze. But you did guarantee they’ll come back.’
‘How so?’
‘They won’t know how to lie to you.’
His eyes fold into wrinkles. Bruno is wearing trousers that have no pockets. For some reason I’ve never trusted a man who has no use for pockets. What does he do with his hands?
The corridors and walkways are full of students. A girl approaches. I recognise her from the lecture. Clear- skinned, wearing desert boots and black jeans, her heavy mascara makes her look raccoon-eyed with a secret sadness.
‘Do you believe in evil, Professor?’
‘Excuse me?’
She asks the question again, clutching a notebook to her chest.
‘I think the word “evil” is used too often and has lost value.’
‘Are people born that way or does society create them?’
‘They are created.’
‘So there are no natural psychopaths?’
‘They’re too rare to quantify.’
‘What sort of answer is that?’
‘It’s the right one.’
She wants to ask me something else but struggles to find courage. ‘Would you agree to an interview?’ she blurts suddenly.
‘What for?’
‘The student newspaper. Professor Kaufman says you’re something of a celebrity.’
‘I hardly think…’
‘He says you were charged with murdering a former patient and beat the rap.’
‘I was innocent.’
The distinction seems lost on her. She’s still waiting for an answer.
‘I don’t give interviews. I’m sorry.’
She shrugs and turns, about to leave. Something else occurs to her. ‘I enjoyed the lecture.’
‘Thank you.’
She disappears down the corridor. Bruno looks at me sheepishly. ‘Don’t know what she’s talking about, old boy. Wrong end of the stick.’
‘What are you telling people?’
‘Only good things. Her name is Nancy Ewers. She’s a bright young thing. Studying Russian and politics.’
‘Why is she writing for the newspaper?’
‘ “Knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.” ’
‘Who said that?’
‘A.E. Housman.’
‘Wasn’t he a communist?’
‘A pillow biter.’
It is still raining. Teeming. For weeks it has been like this. Forty days and forty nights must be getting close. An oily wave of mud, debris and sludge is being swept across the West Country, making roads impassable and turning basements into swimming pools. There are radio reports of flooding in the Malago Valley, Hartcliffe Way and Bedminster. Warnings have been issued for the Avon, which burst its banks at Evesham. Locks and levees are under threat. People are being evacuated. Animals are drowning.
The quadrangle is washed by rain, driven sideways in sheets. Students huddle under coats and umbrellas, making a dash for their next lecture or the library. Others are staying put, mingling in the foyer. Bruno observes the prettier girls without ever making it obvious.
It was he who suggested I lecture- two hours a week and four tutorials of half an hour each. Social psychology. How hard could it be?
‘Do you have an umbrella?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll share.’
My shoes are full of water within seconds. Bruno holds the umbrella and shoulders me as we run. As we near the psychology department, I notice a police car parked in the emergency bay. A young black constable steps from inside wearing a raincoat. Tall, with short-cropped hair, he hunches his shoulders slightly as if beaten down by the rain.
‘Dr Kaufman?’
Bruno acknowledges him with a half-nod.
‘We have a situation on the Clifton Bridge.’
Bruno groans. ‘No, no, not now.’
The constable doesn’t expect a refusal. Bruno pushes past him, heading towards the glass doors to the psychology building, still holding my umbrella.
‘We tried to phone,’ yells the officer. ‘I was told to come and get you.’
Bruno stops and turns back, muttering expletives.
‘There must be someone else. I don’t have the time.’
Rain leaks down my neck. I ask Bruno what’s wrong.
Suddenly he changes tack. Jumping over a puddle, he returns my umbrella as though passing on the Olympic torch.
‘This is the man you really want,’ he says to the officer. ‘Professor Joseph O’Loughlin, my esteemed colleague, a clinical psychologist of great repute. An old hand. Very experienced at this sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘A jumper.’
‘Pardon?’
‘On the Clifton Suspension Bridge,’ adds Bruno. ‘Some halfwit doesn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.’
The constable opens the car door for me. ‘Female. Early forties,’ he says.
I still don’t understand.
Bruno adds, ‘Come on, old boy. It’s a public service.’
‘Why don’t you do it?’
‘Important business. A meeting with the chancellor. Heads of Department.’ He’s lying. ‘False modesty isn’t necessary, old boy. What about that young chap you saved in London? Well-deserved plaudits. You’re far more qualified than me. Don’t worry. She’ll most likely jump before you get there.’
I wonder if he hears himself sometimes.
