He looked away over my shoulder to a point from where a woman’s voice descended as if from the ether, saying, ‘Dr Beckerminster, forgive me, but it hardly seems “ethical” to be discussing someone’s life, his history and destiny, right under his nose, while behaving as if he wasn’t even in the same building. Isn’t that right Peter?’ She placed her hands on my shoulders and leaned forward to show me a stiff smile. She was dark-haired, middle-aged, no, twenty-something, I’ve really no idea. ‘I’m afraid’, she said, ‘that it’s part of our operational and budgetary directive to take a case such as Peter’s.’ She stood in front of me, cupping a hand over my temple and squinting into my eyes. ‘You don’t mind if I just have a look at you, do you, Peter?’ She stood behind me again and lifted my arms above my head, lowered them and lifted them several times until my joints began to burn. From a bag on the desk she took a pair of dividers and rolled up my trouser leg to pinch and measure the thin ribbon that passed for a calf muscle. She prodded my carotid then stood back, looking thoughtfully at me. ‘What kind of creature are you, Peter?’ she asked. ‘How do we describe your state, your malady? Are you psychotic? Traumatized? Hysterical? A sad case? Or are you simply having us all on? Tell me, Peter, are you, perhaps, nothing more than an old fraud?’

‘Really!’ said Beckerminster. ‘There’s no need for that. The man has feelings . . .’ ‘Does he?’ the woman retorted. ‘We had a similar case only last year. Our techniques proved a resounding success. The details were well chronicled. The Kaufmann case. Have you heard of it, doctor?’ ‘Yes,’ said Beckerminster, ‘and I also heard of the man’s subsequent suicide.’ ‘Mm,’ said the woman. ‘Unfortunately the after-care service didn’t match the acute stages of the treatment.’ Beckerminster, this good, owlish man, looked dismayed, the features of his tired face lined like stone. The woman turned to the Head Nurse. ‘When did he last bear his own weight?’ Then, before waiting for an answer, she leaned into me, sliding her hands under my armpits and, with an unexpected strength, she hauled me from my seat, hugging me to her, my head lolling on her shoulder as she wriggled her arms about my waist, bouncing me up and down on my flailing feet before tiring and dropping me heavily, back into the chair. Her forehead was moist, like my own, and she inhaled quietly, deeply, unsuccessfully attempting to hide her momentary fatigue. ‘I’m not happy,’ said Beckerminster. ‘Not happy at all.’ ‘I can insist,’ said the woman. ‘You know that. And surely,’ she said, ‘surely you could use the bed? Is the world not littered with mildly depressed unfortunates, all sobbing into their pill bottles, pleading for sanctuary in a nice place like this? Such patients can be “cured”, you know that. And what happy statistics they make when they’re sent home, never to darken your door again. And think, are you not being negligent in your service of the best interests of this patient by refusing him the only method of treatment available for such as him? What more can you possibly do for him here?’