“It wasn’t my fault,” he says.
“What?”
“Whatever it is you think I’ve done.”
“You kicked a woman unconscious.”
“Yes. That’s all. Nothing else.” Light flares off the gold frames of his glasses.
“Hostility like that has to come from somewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an intelligent young man. You get the idea.”
It’s time to confront Bobby to see how he reacts under pressure.
“How long have you been my patient? Six months. You disappeared for half that time. You’ve been late for appointments, you’ve turned up unannounced and you’ve dragged me out of bed at four in the morning…”
He blinks rapidly. My tone of voice is so polite that he isn’t sure whether I’m criticizing him or not.
“Even when you are here, you change the subject and prevaricate. What are you trying to hide? What are you so frightened of?”
I pull my chair closer. Our knees are almost touching. It’s like looking into the eyes of a beaten dog that doesn’t know enough to turn away. Some aspects of his functioning I see so clearly— particularly his past— but I still can’t see his present. What has he become?
“Let me tell you what I think, Bobby. I think you are desperate for affection, yet unable to engage people. This started a long while ago. I see a boy who is bright and sensitive, who waits each evening to hear the sound of his father’s bicycle being wheeled through the front gate. And when his father comes through the door in his conductor’s uniform, the boy can’t wait to hear his stories and help him in the workshop.
“His father is funny, kind, quick-witted and inventive. He has grand plans for weird and wonderful inventions that will change the world. He draws pictures of them on scraps of paper and builds prototypes in the garage. The boy watches him working and sometimes at night he curls up to sleep among the wood shavings, listening to the sound of the lathe.
“But his father disappears. The most important figure in his life— the only one he truly cares about— abandons him. His mother, sadly, doesn’t recognize or excuse his grief. She regards him as being weak and full of dreams, just like his father. He is never good enough.”
I keep a close eye on Bobby, looking for signs of protest or dissent. His eyes flit back and forth as though dreaming, but somehow he stays focused on me.
“This boy is particularly perceptive and intelligent. His senses are heightened and his emotions are intense. He begins to escape from his mother. He’s not old enough or brave enough to run away from home. Instead he escapes into his mind. He creates a world that others never see or know exists. A world where he is popular and powerfuclass="underline" where he can punish and reward. A world where nobody laughs at him or belittles him, not even his mother. She falls at his feet— just like all the others. He is Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one. Redeemer. Revenger. Judge. Jury. Executioner. He can dispense his own brand of justice. He can machine gun the entire school rugby team or have the school bully nailed to a tree in the playground…”
Bobby’s eyes glitter with connected memories and associated sounds— the light and dark that shade his past. The corners of his mouth are twitching.
“So what does he grow into, this boy? An insomniac. He suffers bouts of sleeplessness that jangle his nerves and have him seeing things out of the corner of his eye. He imagines conspiracies and people watching him. He lies awake and makes lists and secret codes for his lists.
“He wants to escape to his other world, but something is wrong. He can’t go back there because someone has shown him something even better, more exciting, real!”
Bobby blinks and pinches the skin on the back of his hand.
“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison’?” I ask him.
He acknowledges the question almost without realizing it.
“It could be a description for human sexuality and how each of us has different interests and tastes. The boy grew up and as a young man he tasted something that excited and disturbed him in equal measure. It was a guilty secret. A forbidden pleasure. He worried that it made him a pervert— this sexual thrill from inflicting pain.”
Bobby shakes his head; his eyes magnified by each lens.
“But you needed a point of reference— an introduction. This is what you haven’t told me, Bobby. Who was the special girlfriend who opened your eyes? What did it feel like when you hurt her?”
“You’re sick!”
“And you’re lying.” Don’t let him change the subject. “What was it like that first time? You wanted nothing to do with these games, but she goaded you. What did she say? Did she make fun of you? Did she laugh?”
“Don’t talk to me. Shut up! SHUT UP!”
He clutches the cuffs of his coat in his fists and covers his ears. I know he’s still listening. My words are leaking through and expanding in the cracks and crevices of his mind like water turned to ice.
“Someone planted the seed. Someone taught you to love the feeling of being in control… of inflicting pain. At first you wanted to stop, but she wanted more. Then you noticed that you weren’t holding back. You were enjoying it! You didn’t want to stop.”
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
Bobby rocks back and forth on the edge of the chair. His mouth has gone slack and he’s no longer focused on me. I’m almost there. My fingers are in the cracks of his psyche. A single affirmation, no matter how small, will be enough for me to lever his defenses open. But I’m running out of story. I don’t have all the pieces. I risk losing him if I overreach.
“Who was she, Bobby? Was her name Catherine McBride? I know that you knew her. Where did you meet? Was it in hospital? There’s no shame in seeking help, Bobby. I know you’ve been evaluated before. Was Catherine a patient or a nurse? I think she was a patient.”
Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses perch. He reaches slowly into his trouser pocket and I suddenly feel a twinge of doubt. His fingers are searching for something. He has eighty pounds and twenty years on me. The door is on the far side of the room. I won’t reach it before he does.
His hand emerges. I’m staring at it, transfixed. He is holding a white handkerchief, which he unfolds and lays in his lap. Then he takes off his glasses and slowly cleans each lens, rubbing the cloth between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe this slow-motion ritual is buying him time.
He raises the glasses to the light, checking for any smudges. Then he looks past them and stares directly at me. “Do you make up this crap as you go along, or did you spend all weekend coming up with it?”
The pressure is dispelled like air leaking from a punctured raft. I have overplayed my hand. I want to ask Bobby where I went wrong, but he’s not going to tell me. A poker player doesn’t explain why he calls a bluff. I must have been near the mark, but that’s a lot like NASA saying its Mars Polar Lander achieved its target because it crashed and went missing on the right planet.
Bobby’s faith in me has been shaken. He also knows that I’m frightened of him, which is not a good basis for a clinical relationship. What in God’s name was I thinking? I’ve wound him up like a clockwork toy and now I have to let him loose.
19
The white Audi cruises along Elgin Avenue, in Maida Vale, slowing as it passes me. I continue limping along the pavement, my tennis racket under one arm and a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my right thigh. Ruiz is behind the wheel. He looks like a man who is willing to follow me all the way home at four miles an hour.