Will Adams: The Lost Labyrinth

'Doctor Mansfield,' he nodded. 'This is a pleasure.'

'Not for me, I assure you.' She gestured curtly for the guard to remain inside the room, then invited Mikhail to take one of two facing chairs. She waited until he was seated, then put down her briefcase by the other chair, produced a micro-cassette recorder that she placed on the floor between them, and sat opposite him. Then she brought out a set of papers on which she began to make notes on with a bulbous green fountain pen, glancing at him every few moments, like an artist working at a portrait, hoping no doubt to pique his curiosity. But Mikhail refused to bite. He folded his hands loosely in his lap and waited. It was perhaps five minutes before she sighed and rocked forward, passed two stapled pages to him, along with a blunt stub of pencil, as though he couldn't be trusted with her pen. 'Look at these for me, would you?'

'Why?'

'Do you really have so many better things to do?'

Mikhail shrugged and took the two pages, ran his eyes down the list of questions, gave her a dry cold look. But he didn't mind playing. The opposite, if anything. He knew it would tear at her all the more when his family's army of lawyers finally got him out, which they would any day now; because without a body the police had nothing, and everyone knew it. Failure to conform to social norms.

An easy starter. It never failed to astonish Mikhail that anyone should conform. Tick. Regular bouts of irritability and aggression. Tick. Impulsiveness. Tick.

She had a nice figure, this shrink. He had to give her that. Terrific legs. Tan and shapely, long and smooth. Yet muscled, too. A ballerina's legs. Ideal for clasping tight around a man's waist. Making the most of them too, as far as professionalism would allow, at least, with her high heels and a slit in her skirt that showed rare flashes of thigh, and constantly drawing attention to them by folding one over the other, or allowing them to part just wide enough to offer a glimpse of the shadows beneath. Not much else to write home about, unfortunately. A face like a toad, with flared, upturned nostrils, and her complexion still raw from the ravages of teenage acne. Disregard for the safety of others. Tick. Irresponsible behaviour. Tick. Multiple short-term marital relationships. Tick.

Her manner didn't do her any favours either, all snorts and squints, as if her main ambition in life was never to let anyone get the better of her. But she was young and female, when all was said and done; and Mikhail had learned long ago to take what pleasures he could in institutions like these. Lack of regard for promises, deals and agreements. Tick. Manipulative. Tick. Lack of empathy.

Mikhail paused. He'd always been slightly perplexed by questions about empathy. It was like colour-blindness. People who couldn't distinguish between red and green, that was one thing; but how to know that his perception of yellow was the same as everyone else's? Empathy was like that, almost impossible to judge relatively. Over the years, a number of psychologists had shown him pictures of people's faces, as though they thought he suffered from Asperger's syndrome or something. But Mikhail had never had any difficulty distinguishing happy from sad, surprised from intrigued, angry from lustful; and he understood what each of those emotions were too, having experienced them himself. Besides, people kept accusing him of being manipulative, and how could he manipulate people if he lacked empathy? He could be a bully, yes, or excessively demanding; but manipulative? Surely that demanded a certain level of fellow-feeling. So he'd always thought the real question was, did he give a fuck? With empathy, he reckoned you were supposed to give a fuck. He thought that was probably the whole point of it. And the answer was no. He didn't give a fuck. But here was the nub: How could he be sure that that made him unusual? How did he know that other people gave a fuck (or at least, any more of a fuck than he did)? He only had their word for it. Perhaps he was just more honest than they were. The way he saw it, no one truly gave a fuck how other people felt. Not truly. All they gave a fuck about was how other people felt about them. That's why they postured and pretended concern, because they thought other people would respect them or love them more. But, what the hell, he knew the answer she wanted. More to the point, it was the one that would gnaw at her most when he walked out of here a free man. Lack of empathy. Tick. Lack of remorse. Tick.

Though he'd never really seen what the fuss was about remorse, anyway. Such a dishonest emotion. If you couldn't live with the consequences of your actions, do something else, don't wail about it. More to the point, don't get caught. Mikhail couldn't remember the last time anyone expressed remorse before they got caught? No, best left to politicians and TV evangelists. Often in trouble as a juvenile. Though it had never been his fault. Tick. A parasitic lifestyle.

He bridled a little at the choice of word. He was no parasite; people just understood that they owed him, because of the kind of man he was. But fuck it, he was on a roll: Tick.

He looked up at her. 'Where do you live?' he asked. 'Somewhere around here?'

'Just finish the list.'

'Only we should get together for a drink when I get out.'

'I don't make dates fifty years in advance.' Pathological dishonesty. He'd be lying if he said otherwise. Tick. Cruelty to animals and other people.

'When you say cruelty,' he asked, 'do you mean physical violence? Or do you include mental cruelty as well?'

'Would it make a difference?'

Fair point. Tick. Considers themselves outside or above the law. Tick.

He glanced up sharply enough to catch her staring at him. He smiled knowingly, and she tossed her head and looked away, haughty as a rich girl's pony, as though she thought Mikhail was so far beneath her, it was an ordeal even to be in the same room as him, as though she had to steel herself. But he hadn't forced her to visit. Nor had the court, not this time. No. She'd come here on her own account. Rampant fantasies of personal prowess and triumph.

Yes, he thought. Last night I dreamed about coming after you, you bitch. Tick. Exaggerated sexuality.

He paused again. 'Do you mean that I exaggerate my sexuality? Or that my capacity for sex is uncommonly large?'

She smiled thinly at him, reluctant to give him anything. 'The latter.' Exaggerated sexuality. Tick.

'Is that why you've been masturbating over me?'

'Just finish the list.'

'When you masturbate over me, do you imagine me naked?'

'The list, please, Mister Nergadze.'

'Mikhail, please.' Demands immediate and complete compliance from those around them. Tick. Superficial charm.

He hesitated over this one, too. 'Superficial?' he asked.

She frowned, surprised he'd stumbled over such a common word. 'Superficial means, er, like, er, on the surface.'

Mikhail felt himself being lifted up by a gentle wave of anger, that his Eastern European roots and accent had yet again been mistaken for stupidity. It had happened so many times during his years of exile in England and America that perhaps he should have grown used to it, but it still had the power to catch him by surprise. On the other hand, gaol had taught him to keep his safety-catch on, to bide his time for the chance that would soon come. He waited for the wave to subside again before replying. 'I know what it means,' he said. 'What I'm asking is what you mean. Charm is, by definition, superficial, wouldn't you say? I think the word you're looking for is "false", isn't it?'

She coloured a little. 'I suppose false would…yes, that would be fine.'

He crossed out 'superficial', wrote in 'false' instead. Tick. Envious of others.

He frowned. Would he really switch places with anyone else? To get out of here, maybe. But what the hell. Tick. Often bored. Tick.