“Yes. Well, actually only sat down with him once—we talked about academics. Heard lots of stories about him, of course. Lots of things he did I saw with my own eyes.”

“Like what?”

“Well, when he first came to the clinic in Glasgow . . .”

“By ‘clinic’ you mean asylum, I take it?”

“Yes. He was qualified of course, but he was young. At any rate he, uh, bought this carpet—nothing special, just a cheap old thing, actually—and laid it out in his room. Left the door open. Naturally all sorts of certified loonies began waltzing in, sitting on the carpet, having a chat. Reputedly the “old guard” didn’t much approve, but they couldn’t do anything about it. On his own time, you see. Of course, after a few months, there were more sane loonies wandering around than loony ones. Laing said most disturbed people were only adjusting to the environment, they just needed someone to talk to and be interested in them. He had such a great mind. It might have been the effect of being in his company—their recovery, I mean. ‘Satsang’ they call it in the East.”

“What’s that?”

“Satsang? ‘Noble company’, I believe.” Miss Grey knocked and came in with the tray.

“Shall I be mother?” asked Jack with a smile when the nurse had left. “So tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, brilliant student, brilliant surgeon. Developed a bit of a booze problem. Until one of my superiors turned me on. Then I had a bit of a drug problem.”

“Really. Turned you on to what?”

“A subtlmayse—Fentanyl. ‘Pop a little of this under the skin,’ he told me, ‘we’re men of medicine—alcohol’s no good for the kind of pressure we’re under.’ Surgeon to surgeon talk, don’t you know. But this was a new league—like going from stock cars to Formula One.”

“And?” Jack picked up a snap and dipped it into his tea.

“Suppose I was at it a year. Started to not recall ops. Then, in the middle of one, I fixed up with the wrong stuff. They found me in the scrub-up room, stiff as a zealot.”

“What happened?”

“Not much. Head of the hospital told me to clean up my act. I promised to go to a rehab centre, and he put me on the ‘impaired’ list.”

“Which means what?”

“Business as usual, really—didn’t even have to take regular urine tests.”

“My God.”

“Don’t look so shocked. Signing the oath nowadays is like becoming a member of the royal family.”

“You got away with it, in other words.”

“Nothing to get away with. Drugs are our game.”

“Do you feel guilty—for your profession?”

“Not really.”

“Did you have pressure before you went into medicine?”

“Did I drink, do you mean? No, I felt pressure, but I ran, I was sort of an athlete.”

“But you’re cured now?”

“No, I’m not cured, I’m clean—I have a few years of being sober. I’ll never be cured. I take life one day at a time, like everyone else in recovery.”