‘Competition, of course,’ Vidor said, relaxing his shoulders. ‘The son coming up from behind. The father sensing his power diminish with age. It’s all over the Greek myths. Surely you’ve heard of Oedipus?’

Gessen acknowledged the joke with a smile. ‘I might have come across the name.’ He sipped from a glass of water and studied the chessboard before making a move. ‘It sounds very cosy, your family life. I can picture you at home with your mother and sisters. Your father at his work, out in the world. Comfortably settled into your new life, after the terrible trauma you’d suffered.’

The sound of cowbells, very faint, came through the window, opened a crack to freshen the air. Vidor returned to his chair and frowned at the chessboard, as if he had forgotten their game and only now realised that he was in peril. Having taken Vidor’s queen and in a position to topple his king, Gessen leaned over the board until their faces were close, so close that Gessen could smell the peppermint on Vidor’s breath from the tea he’d drunk.

‘That’s a very charming story.’ Gessen moved his knight into position and tapped Vidor’s king. ‘But I don’t believe a single word you’ve said.’ He held his opponent’s gaze. ‘Checkmate.’

10

As Vidor rounded a corner of the path through the Zen garden, he came upon a girl he’d never seen before, occupying his bench by the fountain. It wasn’t his personal bench, of course, but ever since his arrival he’d considered it his own. Each day, after breakfast, he would sit in this particular spot in a secluded corner of the garden, notebook in hand, to jot down ideas for an article he planned to write on the neural circuitry of grapheme-colour synaesthesia.

The girl’s hair, the colour of summer wheat, framed her thin face. Her arms were clasped across her abdomen, and her shoulders hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. She must be new. Unless she was visiting one of the patients here, though it was his understanding that visitors were discouraged, if not outright forbidden.

She dabbed her nose with a tissue and dashed the tears from her eyes. Should he slip away? He always felt crippled in the presence of a crying female. So many ways it could go wrong. Once, he’d made the mistake of patting a young student on the shoulder when she came to his office in floods of tears over a failed exam, but the glare she gave him made it clear his paternal overture might be construed as assault.

If he sat next to her, chances were high he would scare her away. In her place, he certainly wouldn’t want some stranger – a malodorous creep, for all she knew – disturbing his solitude. Poor thing. She was clearly suffering.