That’s the trick.

101

The place hasn’t changed at all in thirty years. The wood. The coldness. The lack of personality. The way you know you are in a psychiatrist’s office. It’s not about making you feel comfortable or safe. It’s about remaining critical.

‘Please come and sit down, Detective.’ Artaud extends an open hand into his office.

‘Retired.’

‘Of course.’

The old man sits on the couch that faces Dr Artaud’s desk.

‘I was about to leave, my appointments have finished for the day, Mr Levant. How exactly can I help you? We don’t have any time booked in…’ He lets it hang.

‘I know. I know. I … I just wasn’t sure what to do. You see … you helped me before. A long time ago. My partner was killed and it triggered a reaction in me. You probably don’t remember.’

‘Mr Levant. I remember. The shock manifested itself as blackouts, am I correct?’ He knows it is correct. He wants to settle the old man. He can feel his anxiety and doesn’t want him to black out on the sofa because he has a book, a cigar and a bottle of wine waiting at home.

Old Levant relaxes into the chair and explains about his nephew and the event on Chelsea Bridge and how his condition seems to have re-emerged and he can’t deal with it.

‘Ah. Well, firstly, I am very sorry for your loss, Mr Levant. It was a terrible incident. I would be happy to discuss this with you when we can find a time that suits both of us. I really have to leave,’ he lies. ‘I have retained your files, as I do with all the police personnel that I work with. Are you still contactable at the same number and address? It has been some time.’

He is.

Same flat. Same phone number. Same phone.

The old man has never been anywhere or done anything.

‘And financially, are there any issues? Rossi and Erickson offer pro-bono work, but I’m sure the police would subsidise you, so that we could continue together, as this is an issue that stems from your time as a detective.’

The Old Man stumbles. ‘I do have some money.’ He elongates some, trying not to give away an idea of how much that might be.

‘I am happy to talk to them for you tomorrow and then I will call to arrange something as soon as possible. How does that sound?’

The old man thanks him, sincerely. He didn’t really know what would happen. But he knows that he wants the blackouts to stop.

They talk off the record for ten minutes or so. The Old Man leaves, unties the cold dog from the post and retraces his steps back to his apartment.

Artaud returns to the lonely home that he loves. He opens a bottle of Merlot that he can tolerate, he lights a Cohiba that he adores, and he opens a copy of PG Wodehouse’s The Luck of the Bodkins, that he is trudging his way through.