It’s not about love; it’s about being forgotten. We only exist if others think about us. It is like that tree that falls in the forest with nobody around to hear it. Who the fuck cares except the birds?
18
I once had a patient who was convinced that his head was full of seawater and a crab lived inside. When I asked him what happened to his brain he told me that aliens had sucked it out with a drinking straw.
‘It is better this way,’ he insisted. ‘Now there’s more room for the crab.’
I tell this story to my students and get a laugh. Fresher’s Week is over. They’re looking healthier. Thirty-two of them have turned up for the tutorial in a brutally modern and ugly room, with low ceilings and walls of fibreboard bolted between painted girders.
On a table in front of me is a large glass jar covered in a white sheet. My surprise. I know they’re wondering what I’m going to show them. I have kept them waiting long enough.
Taking the corners of the fabric, I flick my wrists. The cloth billows and falls, revealing a human brain suspended in formalin.
‘This is Brenda,’ I explain. ‘I don’t know if that’s her real name but I know she was forty-eight when she died.’
Putting on rubber gloves, I lift the rubbery grey organ in my cupped hands. It drips on the table. ‘Does anyone want to come down and hold her?’
Nobody moves.
‘I have more gloves.’
Still there are no takers.
‘Every religion and belief system in history has claimed there is an inner force within each of us- a soul, a conscience, the Holy Spirit. Nobody knows where this inner force resides. It could be in the big toe or the earlobe or the nipple.’
Guffaws and giggles confirm they’re listening.
‘Most people would opt for perhaps the heart or the mind as logical locations. Your guess is as good as mine. Scientists have mapped every part of the human body using X-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs and CAT scans. People have been sliced, diced, weighed, dissected, prodded and probed for four hundred years and, as yet, nobody has discovered a secret compartment or mysterious black spot or magical inner force or brilliant light shining within us. They have found no genie in a bottle, no ghost in the machine, no tiny little person madly pedalling a bicycle.
‘So what are we to draw from this? Are we simply flesh and blood, neurons and nerves, a brilliant machine? Or is there a spirit within us that we cannot see or understand?’
A hand is raised. A question! It’s Nancy Ewers- the reporter from the student newspaper.
‘What about our sense of self?’ she asks. ‘Surely that makes us more than machines.’
‘Perhaps. Do you think we’re born with this sense of self, our sense of ego, our unique personalities?’
‘Yes.’
‘You may be right. I want you to consider another possibility. What if our consciousness, our sense of self, stems from our experiences- our thoughts, feelings and memories? Rather than being born with a blueprint we are a product of our lives and a reflection of how other people see us. We are lit from without, rather than within.’
Nancy pouts and sinks back into her seat. People are scribbling furiously around her. I have no idea why. It won’t be in the exam.
Bruno Kaufman intercepts me as I leave the tutorial.
‘Listen, old boy, thought I could interest you in lunch.’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
I picture Ruiz and tell him no. Bruno falls into step beside me. ‘Terrible business on the bridge last week, absolutely dreadful.’
‘Yes.’
‘Such a nice woman.’
‘You knew her?’
‘My ex-wife went to school with Christine.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been married.’
‘Yes. Maureen has taken it quite hard, poor old thing. Shock to her system.’
‘I’m sorry. When did she last see Christine?’
‘I could ask her, I suppose.’ He hesitates.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It would mean calling her.’
‘You don’t communicate?’
‘Story of our marriage, old boy. It was like a Pinter play: full of profound silences.’
We descend the covered stairs and cross the square.
‘Of course all that’s changed now,’ says Bruno. ‘She’s been calling me every day, wanting to talk.’
‘She’s upset.’
‘I suppose so,’ he ponders. ‘Oddly enough, I quite enjoy her calls. I divorced the woman eight years ago, yet find myself living and dying by her opinion of me. What do you make of that?’
‘Sounds like love.’
‘Oh, heavens no! Friendship maybe.’
‘So you’re saying you’d rather snuggle up to a post-grad student half your age?’
‘That’s romance. I try not to confuse the two.’
I leave Bruno at the bottom of the stairs, outside the psychology department. Ruiz is waiting at his car, reading a newspaper.
‘What’s happening in the world?’ I ask.
‘Usual death and destruction. Some kid in America just shot up a high school. That’s what happens when you sell automatic weapons at the school canteen.’
Ruiz hands me a takeaway coffee from a tray resting on the seat.
‘How was your room at the Fox amp; Badger?’
‘Too close to the bar.’
‘Noisy, huh?’
‘Too tempting. I got to meet some of the locals. You have a dwarf.’
‘Nigel.’
‘I thought he was taking the piss when he said his name was Nigel. He wanted to take me outside and fight me.’
‘He does that all the time.’
‘Does anyone ever hit him?’
‘He’s a dwarf!’
‘He’s still an annoying little fuck.’
I have an appointment to see Veronica Cray at Trinity Road Police Station in Bristol.
‘Are you sure you want me to come?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Why not?’
‘Job’s done. You got what you wanted.’
‘You can’t go back to London- not yet. You’ve only just arrived. You haven’t even seen Bath. You can’t come to the West Country and not see Bath. It’s like going to LA and not sleeping with Paris Hilton.’
‘I can pass on both of those.’
‘What about Julianne? She’s coming home this afternoon. She’ll want to see you.’
‘That’s more tempting. How is she?’
‘Good.’
‘How long has she been away?’
