I asked Nat to write down all the thoughts that entered his mind in a fixed period of time. He brought me the results on a pitiful shred of paper, written in pencil. With the use of a magnifying glass I found the result was a stream of consciousness of which Joyce would have been proud. Although it was fascinating reading—1950s, plastic-face, sky-wall, mentalhead, coral-brain etc. etc.—none of it gave any real clue as to the source of his disturbance.

The next attempt was the completion of another list, this time of twenty sentences each beginning “I am”. I also undertook to fill out my own potted biography, as it were. His list took in a vast cosmic sweep, scarcely revealing his self-image at all, it was so defensive. Again it seemed of no help. One sentence, however, still intrigues me: “I am hidden”. I kept his list. He glanced over mine, which in stark contrast to his was very matter of fact: I am a G.P., a teacher, selfish, thirty-three, short, kind, a good cook, an amateur art historian, a psychologist, Zen Buddhist, single etc. etc. It showed off all my achievements, and I was a little hurt when he said he didn’t want to keep it. “Renaissance man”, he chortled.

The next game we played was sitting on the floor taking it in turns to look at one another for sixty seconds. Nat was clearly even more self-conscious than usual, and looked anywhere but at me for the whole minute. It was the longest time in all our meetings without him looking in any way at me.

SAT DEC 1

I’ve come to care a lot for Nat. I’m worried, as we don’t seem to be getting anywhere and his death wish is as strong as ever. He has taken to not shaving or washing. His mother had informed me of this when I met her in the village last week; yes, I had already noticed. She spoke about herself being an only child. I told her that I was too, and through therapy had managed to overcome the feeling I’d had, that I was such a terrible disappointment to my parents that they’d chosen not to have any more children. Her childhood was much better balanced, and she had enjoyed the freedom known solely to the only child.

During one session, I gave Nat a mirror and asked him what he felt about the person he saw there. He smiled. His teeth have taken on a particularly worrying luminous shade of yellow. Despite their uncanny glow, there is, thankfully, no accompanying halitosis.

“Kill him”, came the chilling reply.

“You callous bastard”, I heard myself shout. Then a little more sympathetically, I asked him to tell me how he felt. “It doesn’t matter if it sounds like a cheap nineteenth-century novel; it doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. Come on, Nat! At this moment I’m able to run intellectual rings round you. Are you always like this?”