‘He was called away on other business, so you’ll have your session with me today.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I hope that’s all right with you.’

Dr Lindstrom eyed him over a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles that did nothing to hide her pretty features. It might be easier, Vidor mused, to bare his soul to an older woman. One in possession of a greater store of well-honed wisdom than this fresh-faced girl. Not that he had any intention of baring anything, but he doubted this young doctor knew much about the trials of life.

A tiny red light winked at him from a panel on the wall. ‘Am I being recorded?’

‘Dr Gessen asked me to tape our session while he was away.’ She scratched a note on a yellow pad. ‘I was just about to mention it.’

This was a new development. ‘Don’t you need my permission to do that?’

‘Of course we do. Patient rights are paramount here.’ She made another note. ‘You signed a release on admission allowing us to record your sessions as needed. But rest assured,’ she smiled again, ‘all recordings are strictly confidential, to be viewed only by Dr Gessen and myself.’

As with the other documents, he had no memory of signing a release form. Nothing at all of being admitted. Impossible to accept that such a large swathe of his memory had been erased. Or the events never stored at all. Unless they were lying to him.

She opened a file with his name, Kiraly, V., clearly labelled at the top, and extracted a single sheet of paper.

‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’ As she passed him the document, he felt a flutter of déjà vu. Hadn’t Gessen recently asked him the same question about another set of forms? Deprived of his normal routines, his presence and personhood had grown warped and hazy. Vidor studied the loops and slashes of the name. The jagged V, the K like a claw. It looked like his signature, but it could easily have been forged.

‘I don’t remember signing this.’

‘I can assure you that you did. I handled your admission, and you signed this in my presence.’ Her eyes, a disconcerting cobalt blue, were fixed on his. ‘You’re ill, Mr Kiraly,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘But we’re here to help you. If you would only trust us, things could go much more smoothly.’

Trust? Not something that came easily to him, and he hadn’t a clue what approach might work in this case. A paternal stance, a charm offensive? Her stern expression and buttoned-up manner made it clear she would brook no impertinence.