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Chapters (63)
  1. 1
  2. 2
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  63. Acknowledgements

He flinched in the bright lights and shuffled his notes, frowning through a brief moment of confusion – why was he here? – before launching into his prepared remarks. He began with Newton’s famous quote about standing on the shoulders of giants, sure to be a crowd pleaser. But his words stalled and juddered as he thanked his colleagues and students, pausing to remind the esteemed members of the audience about the slow and painstaking nature of scientific progress. One step forward, two steps back. He meant to offer them a pithy line, frequently quoted in his field, but couldn’t locate the phrase in his notes. Did he not write it down?

Sweat streamed from his brow. Before him, the disembodied heads expanded to ghoulish proportions, then receded like deflating balloons. He struggled to read his notes, and when he looked up, he spotted a man slipping through the doors and taking a place at the back of the hall. Arms crossed, jutting chin. A sinister, jeering figure, with black eyes that glowed like embers.

Blood rushed to his face. Him again. How dare he? Choking with rage, a strangled cry escaped his lips.

‘Monster. Traitor! You’re supposed to be dead.’

Blind with fury, Vidor leapt from the stage and raced down the aisle to lunge for the intruder’s throat. The satisfying crack of the man’s skull hitting the stone floor gave him a brief moment of pleasure.

Amidst the rising tide of chaos and clamour, someone wrenched his arm back. A sharp cry, a stab of pain. Darkness fell upon him like a shroud.

2

Clinique Les Hirondelles
Saint-Odile, Switzerland
23 October 2008

Ten minutes past the hour, and Gessen’s first patient of the day had failed to appear. After a night of broken sleep, he’d opened his eyes in the waning darkness, trying to hold onto the remnants of a dream. Lost in a forest, obscured by shadows, he’d thrashed for what seemed like hours through the deepening gloom. Only to stumble through a hedge of thorns, scratched and bleeding, to find the ruins of a once glorious city, razed to the ground.

A classic anxiety dream, Gessen mused. Brought on, no doubt, by yesterday’s report from his accountant on the dire state of the clinic’s finances. But he had no time to worry about money today. As always, his attention was focused on the individuals in his care, and this particular patient, an angry young man admitted against his will, was proving to be a difficult nut to crack. After six weeks of little progress, their treatment sessions had turned into a battlefield.