I’m sorry for the circumstances when we last caught up: I was in a dark place. Now I’m contacting you again because I have another favour to ask. I have a student who has been expelled from university. His name is Cormac Gibbons and to say he is remarkable is an understatement. Long story short, I believe Cormac could have an extraordinary career as a psychologist. The trouble is, he decided that it would be wise to write sixteen papers for other students in various courses – I should add they all earned A or A+ marks but that is beside the point. Most of the students have been punished in one way or another but the university had no choice but to move Cormac on. I don’t understand people the way you do, Margot, but I know that Cormac was smart enough to comprehend the risks and consequences of his actions for a relatively small reward, and yet he still did it. He must have known he would get caught. This begs the question why would a student on a full scholarship risk his education for such a modest amount of money? It’s risk-seeking behaviour at the least – it’s almost as though he wanted us to throw him out. I’ll leave it up to you, being the professional.

Cormac has agreed to see you and I’ll be paying his fees if you can find time for the boy.

Can you help?

All the best,

Adam

I continue the session. ‘And how did you get caught?’

‘Someone came to me, I guess she knew what I was doing. She paid me for an essay and when I wrote it she took it to the head of department. Entrapment, you could call it.’

‘So you blame her?’

‘No,’ he says.

His eyes move about the room. The vintage red cedar wardrobe I found in a store in Brisbane. The scrolled desk, tidy now but this morning it was cluttered with notes and bills. The small lockable filing cabinet where I keep recent notes from patients. And then his eyes settle on the painting on my wall. It’s boring, but they’re supposed to be boring. A landscape, rural Victoria, a dark barn in the distance. He turns back to me when I begin to speak again.

‘Well, who do you blame then?’

‘Why are you asking? Am I supposed to admit that I blame myself? You want me to accept responsibility. I told you, I do blame myself.’

‘But do you really believe it or are you just telling me that?’

His eyes find the window now and fix there. ‘Of course, I do.’

He smiles and it’s clear he’s used to the power of that smile, a Hollywood smile – strong jaw, generous lips, eyes a deep green – he knows what it can do, the doors it can open. But it doesn’t work here.