‘“Inexplicable conjunction of words”,’ gasped Martin. ‘“Cheetah”! Perhaps the patient felt that the examiner was a cheater, making him do an IQ test while he was psychotic, perhaps he cheated on someone, or someone in his family was a cheater, we don’t know, but we know that it’s a communication. As to lake turning into Loch, what could be more explicable? Of course, the mind of such a person contains monsters that may be real or may not be, like the Loch Ness monster. Perhaps he thinks he’s a monster for eating bacon, the flesh of another animal, or he comes from a tradition in which pork is forbidden, or he feels like dead meat. We don’t know, but it’s a communication that could be deciphered by someone who is prepared to pay attention.’

‘Of course you’re right, darling,’ said Lizzie, ‘but it’s easier to just give them more anti-psychotics.’

‘To cheat them like the cheaters that we are.’

‘Are you all right, Lucy?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I had a brain scan yesterday and the results came in this morning.’

‘Oh god,’ said Martin, ‘and I’ve been ranting. What’s going on?’

‘I wish the evidence from my scan was being as outrageously misrepresented as the evidence from those IQ tests, but it turns out I have a brain tumour.’

For the rest of the day, the Carrs helped to look after Lucy in their loving and generous and sane way. Lizzie said that although it was against the recommendations of psychotherapy for them to talk formally, given how well they knew each other, she was of course available as a friend, and could guide her towards a colleague, if Lucy wanted professional help. After a quick sketch of Hunter’s personality, they all agreed that keeping her medical news private was essential to spending the next few days in his company.

That decision was one of the only firm reference points in Lucy’s mind as she arrived at Farnborough airport to pick up her boss. She waited, making every effort to work up some enthusiasm for their days together. Before long, she saw Hunter striding across the tarmac in a pink shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots and, despite the cool morning, a brown suede jacket hooked over his shoulder. At six foot four, he was an indisputably big presence, with his square jaw and his broad shoulders. After his passport had been glanced at and his luggage loaded in the boot, the two of them settled in the back of the car and set off for Oxford.

‘I remember you saying that you used to live here,’ said Lucy, with mechanical brightness.

‘One thing you should know about me, Lucy, is that I’m a present tense kind of guy,’ said Hunter, ‘more tense perhaps than present at this precise moment but, in any case, not lost in beachcombing my memories.’