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somebody of your eminence … A chair is not even a sideways move; you have far bigger fish to fry …”
    Dr. Fairbairn frowned. Was it possible that Irene did not know what a singular honour it was to be asked to become a chair? What did she think chairs were for? Sitting in?
    “There will be a great deal for me to do in Aberdeen,” he said slowly. “They would specifically like to raise their profile in psychotherapeutic studies. They know about …” He paused, as if modesty prevented the mention of his book, but decided to continue. “
Shattered to Pieces
. It has, I believe, been used as a textbook in Aberdeen.”
    Irene snorted. “Aberdeen! What do they know in Aberdeen?”
    Dr. Fairbairn’s expression now began to show signs of irritation. “A great deal, I would have thought,” he said. “It is one of our most distinguished pre-Reformation universities. It is a very prestigious institution.”
    “Oh, I know all that,” said Irene quickly. “It’s the place I was thinking of.”
    “And the city too,” said Dr. Fairbairn. “As a city, Aberdeen has an illustrious history. It’s a very significant place.”
    “And very cold too,” Irene interjected.
    For a few moments nothing was said. Irene reached out and picked up a pencil that was lying on Dr. Fairbairn’s desk. “Of course there are other considerations,” she said, almost casually.
    Dr. Fairbairn watched her. He said nothing.
    “I would have thought that you would have rather too many commitments in Edinburgh to leave,” she said.
    He waited. Then, in a hesitant voice, “Such as?”
    “Oh, your practice?” said Irene airily. “Your patients. Wee Fraser …” She was not going to mention Bertie … yet.
    “Wee Fraser is no longer a patient,” said Dr. Fairbairn defensively. “He is a former patient with whom I have not had any dealings for some considerable time.”
    That was not true, of course, and he knew it; but by dealings he meant professional dealings, and the punch to the jaw that he had administered – in a moment of madness, and in response to being head-butted by the now adolescent Wee Fraser – on the Burdiehouse bus did not count as a professional dealing.
    Irene knew about his burden of guilt. She knew fullwell – because he had, in a moment of weakness, told her all about it – she knew of how he had gently smacked Wee Fraser when the boy, then three, had bitten him in the course of play therapy involving small farm animals. Dr. Fairbairn had suggested to Fraser that the miniature pigs with which the small boy was playing (or, more correctly, enacting his inner psychic dramas) were upside down. Wee Fraser had obstinately insisted that the pigs’ legs should point upwards and, when corrected again by Dr. Fairbairn, had bitten the psychotherapist. Anybody, even St. Nicholas of Myra, the patron saint of children, might be tempted to slap a child in such circumstances – and Irene conceded that; indeed there was an entire school of psychotherapy, Cause-Effect Theory, which held that people needed to know that unpleasant consequences flowed from unpleasant acts. This theory, however, had been widely discredited, and Dr. Fairbairn should never have raised a hand to the biting child. That was crystal clear. Psychotherapists did not slap their patients, and the metaphorical rucksack of guilt that Dr. Fairbairn carried with him was entirely his own fault.
    “Well, Wee Fraser is neither here nor there,” said Irene, adding, “perhaps.” Irene’s knowledge of Dr. Fairbairn’s guilt gave her some leverage over him; she would not want Wee Fraser to be completely forgotten.
    Dr. Fairbairn said nothing. He was looking out of the window, in the direction of Aberdeen, which lay several hours to the north. There would be a great deal of psychopathology in Aberdeen, he imagined, but people might be unwilling to talk about it very much. If Californians were at one end of the spectrum of willingness to talk about personal