Michael Robotham - Suspect

Before the summer we seemed to be getting somewhere. Then Bobby disappeared for three months and I thought he was gone for good. He turned up five weeks ago, with no appointment or explanation. He seemed happier. He was sleeping better. The nightmares were less severe.

Now something is wrong. He sits motionless, but his flicking eyes don't miss a thing.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing."

"Is something wrong at home?"

He blinks. "No."

"What then?"

I let the silence work for me. Bobby fidgets, scratching at his hands as though something has irritated his skin. Minutes pass and he grows more and more agitated.

I give him a direct question to get him started.

"How is Arky?"

"She reads too many magazines."

"Why do you say that?"

"She wants the modern fairy tale. You know all that bullshit they write in women's magazines-telling them how to have multiple orgasms, hold down a career and be a perfect mother. It's all crap. Real women don't look like fashion models. Real men can't be cut out of magazines. I don't know what I'm supposed to be-a new age man or a man's man. You tell me! Am I supposed to get drunk with the boys or cry at sad movies? Do I talk about sports cars or this season's colors? Women think they want a man but instead they want a reflection of themselves."

"How does that make you feel?"

"Frustrated."

"Who with?"

"Take your pick." His shoulders hunch and his coat collar brushes his ears. His hands are in his lap now, folding and unfolding a piece of paper, which has worn through along the creases.

"What have you written?"

"A number."

"What number?"

"Twenty-one."

"Can I see it?"

He blinks rapidly and slowly unfolds the page, pressing it flat against his thigh and running his fingers over the surface. The number "21" has been written hundreds of times, in tiny block figures, fanning out from the center to form the blades of a windmill.

"Do you know that a dry square piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than seven times," he says, trying to change the subject.

"No."

"It's true."

"What else are you carrying in your pockets?"

"My lists."

"What sort of lists?"

"Things to do. Things I'd like to change. People I like."

"And people you don't like?"

"That too."

Some people don't match their voices and Bobby is one of them. Although a big man, he seems smaller because his voice isn't particularly deep and his shoulders shrink when he leans forward.

"Are you in some sort of trouble, Bobby?"

He flinches so abruptly that the legs of his chair leave the floor. His head is shaking firmly back and forth.

"Did you get angry with someone?"

Looking hopelessly sad, he bunches his fists.

"What made you angry?"

Whispering something, he shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that."

He mouths the words again.

"You'll have to speak up a little."

Without a flicker of warning he explodes. "STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD!"

The noise echoes in the confined space. Doors open along the corridor and the light flashes on my intercom. I press the button. "It's OK, Meena. Everything's fine."

A tiny vein throbs at the side of Bobby's temple, just above his right eye. He whispers in a little-boy voice, "I had to punish her."

"Who did you have to punish?"

He gives the ring on his right index finger a half turn and then turns it back again as if he's tuning the dial on a radio, searching for the right frequency.

"We're all connected-six degrees of separation, sometimes less. If something happens in Liverpool or London or Australia it's all connected…"

I won't let him change the subject. "If you're in trouble, Bobby, I can help. You have to let me know what happened."

"Whose bed is she in now?" he whispers.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The only time she'll sleep alone is in the ground."

"Did you punish Arky?"

More aware of me now, he laughs at me. "Did you ever see The Truman Show?"

"Yes."

"Well sometimes I think I'm Truman. I think the whole world is watching me. My life has been created to someone else's expectations. Everything is a facade. The walls are plywood and the furniture is papier-mache. And then I think that if I could just run fast enough, I'd get around the next corner and find the back lot of the film set. But I can never run fast enough. By the time I arrive, they've built another street… and another."

Muhammad Ali has a lot to answer for. When he lit the flame at the Atlanta Olympics there wasn't a dry eye on the planet. Why were we crying? Because a great sportsman had been reduced to this-a shuffling, mumbling, twitching cripple. A man who once danced like a butterfly now shook like a blancmange.

We always remember the sportsmen. When the body deserts a scientist like Stephen Hawking we figure that he'll be able to live in his mind, but a crippled athlete is like a bird with a broken wing. When you soar to the heights the landing is harder.

It's Wednesday and I'm sitting in Jock's office. His real name is Dr. Emlyn Robert Owen-a Scotsman with a Welsh name-but I've only ever known him by his nickname.

A solid, almost square man, with powerful shoulders and a bull neck, he looks more like a former boxer than a brain surgeon. His office has Salvador Dali prints on the walls, along with an autographed photograph of John McEnroe holding the Wimbledon trophy. McEnroe has signed it, "You cannot be serious!"

Jock motions for me to sit on the examination table and then rolls up his sleeves. His forearms are tanned and thick. That's how he manages to hit a tennis ball like an Exocet missile. Playing tennis with Jock is eighty percent pain. Everything comes rocketing back aimed directly at your body. Even with a completely open court he still tries to drill the ball straight through you.

My regular Friday matches with Jock have nothing to do with a love of tennis-they're about the past. They're about a tall, slender college girl who chose me instead of him. That was nearly twenty years ago and now she's my wife. It still pisses him off.

"How is Julianne?" he asks, shining a pencil torch into my eyes.

"Good."

"What did she think about the business on the ledge?"

"She's still talking to me."

"Did you tell anyone about your condition?"

"No. You told me I should carry on normally."

"Yes. Normally!" He opens a folder and scribbles a note. "Any tremors?"

"Not really. Sometimes when I try to get out of a chair or out of bed, my mind says get up but nothing happens."

He makes another note. "That's called starting hesitancy. I get it all the time-particularly if the rugby's on TV."

He makes a point of walking from side to side, watching my eyes follow him. "How are you sleeping?"

"Not so well."

"You should get one of those relaxation tapes. You know the sort of thing. Some guy talks in a really boring voice and puts you to sleep."

"That's why I keep coming here."

Jock hits me extra hard on my knee with his rubber hammer, making me flinch.

"That must have been your funny bone," he says sarcastically. He steps back. "Right, you know the routine."

I close my eyes and bring my hands together-index finger to index finger, middle finger to middle finger, and so on. I almost manage to pull it off, but my ring fingers slide past each other. I try again and this time my middle fingers don't meet in the middle.

Jock plants his elbow on the desk and invites me to arm wrestle.

"I'm amazed at how high-tech you guys are," I say, squaring up to him. His fist crushes my fingers. "I'm sure you only do this for personal satisfaction. It probably has nothing to do with examining me."

"How did you guess," says Jock, as I push against his arm. I can feel my face going red. He's toying with me. Just once I'd like to pin the bastard.