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called
Loot
and sold houses and cars to people who had no money to buy them. He lowered the paper. 'There was something. You were standing there by the barriers.' He gestured towards them, scowling, looking as baffled as the Cherub had the night before. Michael saw that he needed a shave. 'That's it. You were drunk.' The guard's lip curled, and he lifted up his paper. He looked pretty and petulant and butch, all at once. 'You were right out of it, mate. So that explains it then. All right?' He stared stonily at his paper. Conversation over. They waited for the lifts to arrive.
    I didn't drink anything. Michael reconstructed the entire night and day in his mind. He hadn't been to the pub. He hadn't drunk a thing.
    The guard rocked himself away from the wall on which he was leaning, and punched big silver keys. The lift door opened.
    I must be going nuts, Michael thought.
    'Sleep tight,' said the guard and gave him a cheery, leery grin.
    There were smiling Japanese tourists in the lift. You are bowing to a crazy man, Michael told them in his mind.
    I made the whole thing up. I had a bad experience in the sauna, my life is shit, I've been depressed for years without doing anything about it, and now I've gone and broken my brain.
    Christ. Michael remembered the feel of Tony's skin, its smell, its taste. It increases your respect for schizophrenics, really. They're not just a bit muddled. All those brain cells get tickled up, and they start making brand-new sentences of sight and sound and touch. The new sentences are lies, but they feel like the real thing.
    You lose a certain kind of innocence when you go crazy. You used to take it for granted that your brain shows you what's actually out there. Now all you've got left is doubt, Michael.
    But then, science is built on doubt.
    The train bounced and rattled him, like life.
     
    At the lab, Michael strolled through his normal routine as if sleepwalking.
    He fed his smartcard into the reader at the front door. He said hello to the security guard Shafiq and showed him his pass. He went down the line of offices, one by one. None of them had windows.
    Hello, Ebru! Hello boss! It amused Ebru to call him boss.
    Hiya Emilio, how's the system? Why you ask? It's great like always!
    He heard their voices, as if in his own head, as if no one were really speaking.
    In his own office, Michael slipped into his entirely symbolic white lab coat. He asked Hugh to check the thermostat readings in the darkroom. 'If the temperature goes much under or over thirty-eight, give me a shout.'
    And he sat down and he had no idea what to do. His desk stared back at him, as orderly as his notebooks. There were three new things in his in tray, and the out tray was empty. On his PC would be a timed list of things to do.
    What the fuck do I do now?
    Look in the
Yellow Pages
for psychotherapists? Do they section people right away? Should I be writing my letter of resignation? What do you do when you realize you're seeing things?
    You might just try to see if it's going to happen again. Look, I'm still capable. I can say maybe it won't happen again, maybe it was just a one-off, something that only happened once. Maybe I'm better already.
    Put another way: just how badly broken am I?
    The door opened and the sound was as sudden and as loud as if he made it up, and Michael jumped up and turned around.
    It was Ebru. 'First day post.' She always made English sound like something delicious to eat: post almost became pasta. She passed him five different coloured files – his sorted mail.
    'Thank you, Ebru,' said Michael. He felt like a bad actor, awkward on the stage, with a fixed grin. She read him out a list of messages. He didn't really listen. He just kept smiling. Finally she left, bouncing and strong in blue jeans, a picture of wholeness.
    Then Michael stood up, and looked from side to side as if there were someone watching. He padded carefully to the lab's one WC.
    It was a single tiny room with sink and toilet