‘Did you see him again?’ Maddox asked.

  ‘I ran what was called “The Lecture Society” amongst the students. Invited him back for another. He declined. Said he was too old to do it more than once. “I’ve given you a pointer,” he said. “It’s up to you to see where it goes.” But he invited me to visit him. He lived in an apartment block with a wife who was blind. In Battersea. They used to communicate by ringing bells, he ringing one to indicate where he was, she likewise. He played a game with her while I was there, ringing the bell then moving to another room, she ringing hers, following him, evidently familiar with the humour, it ending with an embrace. Quite squalid, the set-up. Not unlike here. My wife has a dislike of housework. The woman who comes in leaves us in a worse state than when she arrived. Feel obliged to use her. Lone parent. Five children. “Why so many, when the fathers leave you every time?” I ask her. “I like the feeling,” she said, “of being fucked.”’

  He waited for Maddox to respond, inhaled, then exhaled, adding, ‘Laycock’s relevance will eventually be recognised, of course. He delineated the line between what he described as the intrinsic and the extrinsic self, delineated, that is, in order to destroy, no such line, contra almost everyone in his time, existing. A post-Cartesian romance. Most psychiatrists, for instance, have never heard of him. Many, if not most, use his techniques without their being aware of it. His discoveries, if they could be described as such, certainly his insights, have been integrated, if misunderstood, without most practitioners who deploy them being aware of their source. A mythical man, you might describe him.’

  He waved his cigarette in Maddox’s direction, a linear pattern of smoke rising above his curiously featured head. ‘Meet another who likewise has disappeared into the woodwork. Patients still arrive, their problem invariably the same, a suspicion, amounting to a conviction, they don’t exist. Evidence of what, at one time, was referred to as ‘the Laycock phenomenon’. Corporate man, and woman, incorporated to the point where they’ve disappeared. When I assure them, à la Laycock, that this is a reasonable assumption, the tide, to some degree, is turned. Of course, once inducted into the system, since many of them happen to be executives, they have an unfair advantage over their colleagues and subordinates. In no time at all more of the same are knocking at the door. The individual, as you’ve discovered in your case, doesn’t exist, a Cartesian fallacy, he or she a rumour put about by someone else, invariably similarly afflicted parents assuming, inductively, that the shape of a nose or a face, or that a language, or even a race, should make a difference. Laycock, if we’d only known it, put a positive stop to that. Maybe, for instance, your former student is right. He didn’t commit his murders, per se, but his constituency did it for him. Or, as Laycock would have it, as him.’

  The unevenly angled teeth were exposed in what Maddox assumed to be an ingratiating smile. The cigarette, little more than half smoked, was stubbed out in the hearth: an accumulation of stubbed-out remains was visible amongst the books and papers scattered there.

  ‘Laycock’s greatest problem was pain. Who feels it? Us or I? Cellular differentiation never quite worked. Particularly if you had toothache, or were lined up to be shot. Even then, he transposed perception at what he called the unicellular level into something which, at extremes, could be registered as what he termed universal fusion. Hence his singling out of Christ, an anti-Semitic response from which he and his reputation never quite recovered. “We are all Nazis”. Nevertheless his conception of Christ as “collusional disfavour” was, for me, the most convincing of his studies. Similarly, Taylor’s response to what, no doubt, he no longer perceives to be himself. As for Laycock, the poor bugger died with his recognition registering zero. If not minus. Not only ignored but buried. I used to see his widow. She asked me to speak at his funeral. He believed in a God, but not one, as he described it, that anyone would wish to put about. In addition, she saw anti-psychiatry as a travesty of what he represented, and reproached me for being involved. I said, “We only disagree on form, not content.” That she wouldn’t buy. Nevertheless, I spoke at her funeral, the only medical person present. Laycock, you see, I couldn’t match. For one thing, I’m too lazy. For another, unlike him, I hate being ignored.’

  His laughter was answered by a banging at the door, to which, still laughing, he called out, ‘Come,’ raising his thigh with two hands and setting both slippered feet on the floor.

  ‘Are you finished?’ The door remained shut, the voice evidently that of his wife.

  ‘Not for a long time. Why don’t you listen to the radio?’ he responded.

  Silence he registered by raising his hand. ‘She doesn’t want to,’ he added. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

  ‘Who was the patient who followed me in last time?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ His laughter having subsided, he examined Maddox with a frown. ‘Why?’

  ‘You said his name was Cavendish.’

  He felt in the chair beside him, producing the now crumpled packet of cigarettes. ‘I can’t persuade you to try one?’ he asked. ‘Prove at least I’ve done something,’ extracting a cigarette as Maddox shook his head, feeling down, once more, for the matches, adding, ‘I like matches. Something visceral, is it, in striking up a flame?’ doing so as he spoke.

  The expended match he threw in the hearth.

  ‘My partner has him as a client,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck me.’ He examined Maddox through an extending cloud of smoke. ‘A serial analysand. I’ve had them before.’

  ‘A serial complainant,’ Maddox said, ‘as likely. He might not approve of what he sees in here.’

  ‘He shows no sign of it,’ Isaacson said. ‘He brought me a bottle of wine the other day. Cigarettes on several previous occasions.’

  ‘Do you smoke when he’s here?’

  ‘With his permission.’

  ‘How about cavalier views, and swearing?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m responsible for either,’ Isaacson said, suddenly severe.

  ‘He’s the one who’s reported her to the Medical Council.’

  ‘No expletive, you notice.’

  ‘Under a different name.’

  ‘I see. Or, rather,’ he said, ‘I don’t. What would Laycock have made of that? He, too, you know, was taken off the Register. Prescribing drugs in inordinate amounts, some for his wife, often taking them himself. Relatively common, in those days, but frowned upon, rather, since. “If Sigmund got away with it,” he complained, “why not I?” Like royalty, in that respect. Never underestimated his own potential.’

  He leant back in his chair, the springs creaking, the wooden structure groaning. ‘Look here,’ he continued, ‘I haven’t billed your brother, as he requested. Nor you. Mark this one down to a friend of the family. Viklund, and all that. Anything else I can help with? In the sixties I was much criticised for the number of suicides amongst my patients. Frequently I took on cases no one else would touch. I only take stable people at present, stability measured by executive status, or the wife of – quite a lot of those. Self-destruction as a way of life not as a terminal event very much my present line. I don’t want someone like you on my hands. Think of the tabloid reaction. Patient of Isaacson dead again. At one time I appeared more frequently at coroners’ courts than I did at psychiatric clinics. I was even tempted to buy a house close to the one at St Pancras in order to save on travelling. I’ve had my dose of what, once, was referred to as the Roman way. Romantic is far more like it. As for Cavendish. Is he citing you in his complaint?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he recognise you when you saw him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll look an arsehole appearing for two psychiatrists. “One I fuck, the other I talk to.” Can see it all over the national press. You’ll be able to sell serialisation, if Cavendish hasn’t beaten you to it.’

  He coughed: phlegm rattled in his chest; moments later a laugh emerged, a ruminative sound, harsh, derisive.

  ‘What are his motives?’

  ‘You tell me. I only know him to talk to.’ He waved his cigarette, smoke moving in a band around his head. ‘Some collect stamps. Others, Cavendish, for instance, defamations. I can see the temptation. Rich area to move in. Keeps you busy. Can talk about yourself, a different one each time. Daytime study up symptoms. A lot to choose from. Night-time write up complaints. Background study on Medical Council procedures. Post-traumatic shock is popular at present. Though, in my experience, is being overtaken by non-traumatic inertia. Accidie, so-called, at one time. Cachexia, by others, anoesis the one I prefer, consciousness without awareness. An awful lot around. Pollution, the media, additives, too many people, asteroids, terrorism.’ He waved his hand.

  ‘Would you like my partner to get in touch with you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She’s hired a detective.’

  ‘Good.’ Incredulity displaced by amusement.

  ‘Cavendish has at least one other analyst he goes to.’

  Some other grievance caused Isaacson to look away: he hoisted himself up in his chair, grimacing, the structure creaking once more beneath him.

  ‘Not Jewish?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Enlightenment, even where defamation is concerned, ensures today a broader target. Has anything happened to your partner?’

  ‘Her lawyer suggests she’ll be called before the Preliminary Proceedings Committee.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Cavendish calls himself Norman.’

  ‘His given name with me.’

  ‘His surname with her.’

  ‘Any other disasters I might facilitate?’ He was hauling himself forward, stooping, bending, pressing upwards, groaning with the effort, waving Maddox away, however, as he rose to help. ‘I’m part of the post-pre-post-pre-Raphaelite-post-philistine revival,’ crossing to the cupboard behind the door, swinging round from that, saying, ‘She’s been in here before me,’ turning to his desk, opening a drawer, taking out a bottle, then a glass, searching the books and papers on his desk, finally extracting a cup and saucer, pouring the contents of the former into the latter, his eyes narrowed against the smoke of the cigarette which now hung in the corner of his mouth. ‘Cognac. All she’s left. Provided by our friend. Another gift. Be registered, I imagine, as a bribe. Or poisoned. A drunk as well as a psychiatrist. Do you think he sports a hidden camera? How about it?’ handing Maddox the glass into which he poured a measure, pouring rather more into the cup, raising it and declaring, ‘To Laycock. And his successors. That’s both of us. Good health!’

  18

  ‘I was wondering,’ Viklund said, ‘how you got on,’ Maddox moving the phone to his other ear.

  ‘I should have called you earlier. I’ll come over,’ Maddox said, setting off a few minutes later: freedom and senility: no accountability to anything: tidy up, adjust, correct: peace that passeth credibility no more in question – Viklund coming to the door when he rang the bell: dark suit, white shirt, his (incongruous) club tie, the pink and grey echoed in the colours of the handkerchief hanging from his breast pocket.

  His manner and appearance were improved from when Maddox had last seen him, he thrusting out his hand, shaking Maddox’s firmly, with scarcely a tremble, the idiosyncratic grasp that Viklund used on these occasions, gripping the thumb in a gesture suggesting intimacy as well as circumspection, affording him the opportunity either to draw the other person to him or hold them off.

  Unlike his previous visit, Ilse came up directly from the kitchen. ‘We’ve guests, this evening. The cook,’ Viklund said, indicating her as she appeared in an apron, ‘is preparing the roast.’

  ‘Roast, nonsense,’ Ilse said, embracing Maddox. ‘And I’m not,’ she added, ‘the cook. I’m supervising.’

  The sound of the girl’s singing came from below.

  ‘Everything all right, Matt?’ she enquired, a concern echoing back over several decades, he, in some respects, an ambivalently cherished surrogate son. ‘I was hoping to have finished before you arrived. I’ll get you tea or coffee. Which do you prefer? Ignore anything Daniel has to suggest.’

  ‘Oh, we know Matt well enough. Tea,’ Viklund said, a lightness in his manner which had not been there, Maddox suspected, before his arrival. ‘I’ll have tea as well.’

  ‘And how is Simone?’ he added, after Ilse had gone, his eyes, unlike his manner, lightless, Maddox’s intention to keep his friend distracted, one urged on him by Viklund himself.

  ‘Coping,’ he said, and added, ‘She relishes a challenge. It brings her into focus in an alarming way,’ continuing a moment later, ‘Though not exactly true. It undermines her. She’s coming and going the whole of the time, like a light switching on and off for no apparent reason. Though in this case, of course,’ he paused again, ‘there’s reason enough,’ struck by the conflicting nature of what he was saying as well as by the realisation that much of it had been prompted by Viklund himself, the strengthening conviction of the need to distract him.

  ‘You’ll have to bring her,’ Viklund said. ‘No more excuses. There may not be many opportunities left. I’d like to meet her. See in whose hands you are at present. Ilse is determined to keep me busy. Disinclined to let me think. Reflect. An ambition I share. I’m more than half convinced she is in fact aware,’ coming to the point abruptly, ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Improving.’ He waited for Viklund to sit before he sat himself. ‘To the extent I’ve decided to give up the day-hospital. I find it too predictable. It drains me, rather than reassures. I make them uncomfortable. I make myself uncomfortable. I’m too impatient. As for Simone, the process is underway. She’s hired a lawyer and a detective. Her principal accuser may turn out to be a fake. A serial analysand if not serial complainant.’ Pausing to examine Viklund’s look, he finally enquired, ‘And you?’

  ‘I alternate between good and bad days,’ Viklund said, ‘not surprisingly,’ sitting, legs crossed, arms propped on those of the chair, his hands clenched, tensely, beneath his chin. ‘Today not good. I feel much brighter, however, seeing you. You mustn’t mind Ilse appreciating these visits. She sees me with a long face far too often. I endeavour to distract her, as she does me. But, the fact of the matter is, I’m frightened. A difficult thing to describe. Particularly since fear, curiously, has played no part in my life at all. Not of dying, but of the curtailment of the senses. Tell me how your former student is.’

  Unsure which of Viklund’s entreaties he should respond to, he said, ‘I went to see him in the town, as it turned out, where I used to be at school. School-life and prison-life curiously blended, Taylor a product not of the relatively recent but the distant past. Other than geographically, however, they have nothing in common.’

  ‘Other than being insititutions.’

  ‘Other than being embodiments, to my mind, of the industry around. The collieries, for instance, have gone, several of the mills, plus the warehouses by the river. What they appear to have thrown up is Taylor. Residue or product, I’ve yet to find out.’

  Viklund, sitting at an angle to him, by the fireplace, in his usual chair, had turned towards him: his eyes had narrowed, his lips tightened, as if he were preparing to smile but not succeeding.

  ‘I’ve decided not to write about him,’ he added.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know him. Even less, what he’s become. Chasing history, so to speak, no longer seems worthwhile.’

  ‘What will you chase instead?’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘that’s chasing me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Viklund said, ‘I should start you off.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Your nihilism. Your millenarianism. Philistinism writ large. Taylor, in your scenario, the final throw. Conceptualism no other place to go.’

  Now he was smiling, reminding Maddox, curiously, of Isaacson. The door had opened: the girl came in with a tray: without a glance at either of them she poured the tea, indicating the milk, a plate of biscuits and, finally, with a smile at Maddox, was gone.

  ‘You have no alternative.’ Viklund’s smile had broadened. ‘Your dernier cri. Unstoppable. Much better than a tube train line.’

  ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘there’s a choice,’ crossing to the tray, taking up a cup in its saucer, declining Viklund’s invitation to take a biscuit, pouring the milk, returning to his chair. ‘How well did you know Isaacson?’ he added.

  ‘Michael?’ Viklund was surprised, perhaps shocked, certainly distracted. ‘In the recent past,’ he added, ‘scarcely at all. I thought he’d retired.’

  ‘My brother arranged for me to see him. He thought it might do some good. I’ve seen him twice.’

  ‘Did he mention me?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘I liked him very much.’

  He waited for Maddox’s reaction.

  ‘He, too, is visited by the man who has complained to the Council about Simone.’

  ‘Michael’s been threatened with being struck off more times than I can count,’ Viklund said. ‘I appeared at one of his hearings – I even provided him with a lawyer who succeeded in getting him off. Did you find him any good?’

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘But don’t know why.’

  ‘He was sectioned once, and allowed, for no reason I can understand, to go on teaching. Forty years ago he was perhaps the best-known psychiatrist in the country. He went in for what was referred to contemptuously as reverse therapy. The patient did the questioning, he providing the answers. A disingenuous way of getting the patient to unbend. He belonged to what became known as the anti-psychiatry alliance, a curious band of psychiatrists who disclaimed belonging to anything. Following in the wake of Laycock’s theories of indifferentiation whereby we are all expressions of processes indifferent to ourselves in a universe where the self, as a recognisable entity, does not exist. Unicellular cohesion, another of his dictums. He had a maverick influence on younger psychiatrists, most of whom were recoiling from, and endeavouring to rationalise “The Process”, as it was called. Laycock was a leading influence. Mickey, as he was then affectionately known, acquired a similar reputation. His study of incest I took to be a search for his own lost family. Presumptuous.’ He smiled. ‘There was also the number of his patients who committed suicide. I guess your brother wasn’t aware of that.’