Psychiatry is all about electricity. Little pathways in the mind that are burnt-out or need rewiring. Inside the psych unit is where we rewire them. More dopamine here, less dopamine there. A current through this part, but not that part. Fix those little electrical pathways, the ones that allow people to smile. Maybe they’ll smile again, maybe they won’t.

The place where the Smiling Assassin lies now. Probably not smiling.

What is it, I wonder, that causes us to tip over the edge? All it takes is one trauma, one bad trip, one too many stresses, an illness, a death, or—and this is what’s scariest—nothing at all to send someone tumbling into the void.

I think about Fabien, skiing down that fantastic mountain. That’s the very opposite of the abyss—the wonderful peaks of the Swiss Alps, a paradise where things like shock therapy and shackles are far, far away. Fabien always told me that he doesn’t care where he is or what he does, so long as he is happy.

What is happiness, anyway? It’s just some electricity and some dopamine, I think viciously. You can get that shit in a pill and an electrode. All it really takes is a prescription and a broken spirit.

I hear my voice speaking, lifting me out of the rabbit hole I’ve found myself falling into.

‘Listen, Max, if there’s something you want to talk about …’

He gives me a sharp look. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, anything. You seem a bit flat.’

‘So do you,’ he points out. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

I’m so close to opening my mouth I can see the words floating into the air. Yes, I shout, yes! I heard the Smiling Assassin giving the Joker a blow job in the theatre change rooms even though she didn’t want to, and now she’s tried to kill herself and I feel like if I’d told someone I could have stopped her. I’m a pathetic coward and I don’t know how to fix it.

‘Not really,’ I say, hating myself. ‘You know, just work getting me down.’

He nods. ‘Me too.’

We sigh simultaneously.

‘Don’t forget I’m going on annual leave next week,’ he reminds me, looking happier for an instant.

‘That’s right—Europe!’

He grins. ‘I can’t wait. I’m gone for a month.’

‘Make sure you get regular STI checks!’

‘Maybe you can take me to the airport,’ Max says, his grin broadening as he walks towards the gate.

‘If you’re lucky!’

He waves as he disappears up North Avenue. I wish I was going to Europe with him. I want to be sitting in a little bar with Max in Greece, drinking cocktails and talking about the hospital as if it was just a vague, distant memory.

Reality, I think to myself as I unlock the door, is seriously overrated.