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hundred words of which appeared to be copied verbatim from an earlier attack on the Church by Stephen Kent, a professor of sociology at the University of Alberta in Canada. It seemed a pretty reckless act, knowing how eagle-eyed the Scientologists were reputed to be. Other incidents of plagiarism subsequently came to light and he was found guilty and suspended from practicing psychiatry for three months.
    Humiliatingly for Dr. Raj, the scrutinizer of celebrities’ personality disorders became the scrutinized.
    “Is Persaud a narcissist,” opined The Guardian , “or a man so plagued by self-doubt that he doesn’t obey the rules of academia because he doesn’t think he belongs in it?”
    Now he no longer appeared on TV or in the newspapers. Brian seemed quietly pleased with his success.

     
    “I’m interested in the idea,” I said to him, “that many of our leaders suffer from mental disorders. . . .”
    Brian raised his eyes slightly at the words “mental disorders.”
    “But first,” I said, “I wanted to make sure that I can depend upon those people who do the diagnoses. So, do you have anything big on the go at the moment that you believe will prove to me that psychiatrists cannot be trusted?”
    There was a silence.
    “Yes,” said Brian. “There’s Tony.”
    “Who’s Tony?” I asked.
    “Tony’s in Broadmoor,” said Brian.
    I looked at Brian.
     
     
    Broadmoor is Broadmoor psychiatric hospital. It was once known as Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum. It was where they sent Ian Brady, the Moors Murderer, who killed three children and two teenagers in the 1960s; and Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who killed thirteen women in the 1970s, crept up behind them and hit them over the head with a hammer; and Kenneth Erskine, the Stockwell Strangler, who murdered seven elderly people in 1986; and Robert Napper, who killed Rachel Nickell on Wimbledon Common in July 1992—stabbed her forty-nine times in front of her toddler son. Broadmoor is where they send the pedophiles and the serial killers and the child murderers, the ones who couldn’t help themselves.
    “What did Tony do?” I asked Brian.
    “He’s completely sane!” said Brian. “He faked his way in there! And now he’s stuck. Nobody will believe he’s sane.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “He was arrested years ago for something,” said Brian. “I think he beat someone up or something, and he decided to fake madness to get out of a prison sentence. He thought he’d end up in some cushy local hospital but instead they sent him to Broadmoor! And now he’s stuck! The more he tries to convince psychiatrists he’s not crazy, the more they take it as evidence that he is. He’s not a Scientologist or anything but we’re helping him with his tribunals. If you want proof that psychiatrists are nuts and they don’t know what they’re talking about and they make it up as they go along, you should meet Tony. Do you want me to try and get you into Broadmoor?”
    Was all this true? Was there really a sane man in Broadmoor? I automatically started thinking about what I’d do if I had to prove I was sane. I’d like to think that just being my normal, essentially sane self would be enough, but I’d probably behave in such an overly polite and helpful and competent manner I’d come across like a mad butler with panic in his eyes. Plus it turns out that when I’m placed in an insane environment, I tend to get almost instantly crazier, as evidenced by my recent shrieking of the word “YEAL!” onboard the Ryanair flight to Gothenburg.
    Did I want to meet Tony?
    “Okay,” I said.
     
     
    The Broadmoor visitors’ center was painted in the calming hues of a municipal leisure complex—all peach and pink and pine. The prints on the wall were mass-produced pastel paintings of French doors opening onto beaches at sunrise. The building was called the Wellness Centre.
    I had caught the train here from London. I began to yawn