“Ask him what?”
“Why he’s here and what he wants,” said Dr. Pinner. “I don’t know about you, but I would very much like to know.”
Floyd turned to Mike. It felt a little strange to be talking to someone he knew wasn’t really there, but the Mike by the window seemed as real and solid as he always had.
“What … what do you want?” he asked.
Mike, however, did not answer. Still staring at Dr. Pinner, he gave no indication that he had even heard the question.
“What did he say?” asked Dr. Pinner. He was sitting at his desk, ready to take notes.
“He didn’t say anything. He hasn’t moved. He’s just sitting there, staring at you.”
Dr. Pinner nodded. “He’s probably trying to decide if he can trust me or not,” he said. “So, for the record, I will just repeat that he’s safe to say anything he wants in this room. Nothing will ever be repeated outside it without your consent.” He paused. “Now … can he tell us why he’s here?”
Mike seemed to consider this, but then glanced across at Floyd and shook his head.
Floyd felt a brief burst of frustration. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, why not?”
But Mike did not respond to that at all.
“No reply?” asked Dr. Pinner.
“No,” said Floyd. “I’m not sure he even knows.”
“Oh, he knows,” said Dr. Pinner thoughtfully. “He’s just not ready to tell us yet.”
Mike appeared at all of Floyd’s sessions with Dr. Pinner after that. Sometimes he would be waiting there when Floyd arrived, more usually he would turn up at some point after the session had started. Not that Floyd ever actually saw him appear. Instead, he would be talking to Dr. Pinner and suddenly realize that Mike was sitting at the window, or lying stretched out on the carpet behind him, or just standing by the bookshelves, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long black coat, whistling silently to himself.
But although he was always there, Mike never spoke. At some point in each session Dr. Pinner would suggest repeating the questions about what Mike wanted and why he had appeared, but Floyd’s “friend” always refused to be drawn in. He would either turn away, or shake his head, or simply ignore the questions altogether. For nearly a month, he did not utter a single word.
As the weeks passed, Floyd found it increasingly frustrating. Roehampton was getting closer daily and, as far as he could see, the psychologist was making no progress at all. Mike was still there, all too visible—at least to Floyd—and if he was around at the time of the championship, and still liable to walk out onto the court and disrupt a game …
The sessions themselves were also a considerable inconvenience. When you included the travel time to and from the clinic, they took up a sizeable chunk of an already busy week. They disrupted training, and the previous week they’d meant that Floyd had had to withdraw from a tournament in Grenoble—his last opportunity, before Roehampton, to play against Barrington Gates.
Barrington, at that time, was receiving his first real attention as the rising star of British tennis. Tall, good-looking, usually to be found with a girl on one arm—or on both—he had recently gotten to the finals of two Under-18 European championships and was, according to Floyd’s parents, the only serious rival he would be facing at Roehampton. Whether by chance or design, Floyd had only ever played against him on three occasions, and none of those had been in the last eighteen months. Grenoble would have been the ideal opportunity to see him in action and to look for any unexpected strengths or weaknesses.
But instead of flying out to France, Floyd had stayed in England so that he could sit in a chair and talk to Dr. Pinner. He did not mind sitting in a chair and talking, but he did mind that it didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere. Nothing had changed. There was still no resolution to the problem that threatened all of his carefully laid plans and … well, in that case, was there really any point in going on?
Then, a little over four weeks after Floyd had started at the clinic, Mike did say one sentence.
It was a Saturday morning, and Floyd was telling Dr. Pinner about his parents’ plan to move to America if, as they hoped, Floyd won the championship at Roehampton. A friend of Floyd’s father, Daniel Rowse, ran a tennis school in Florida and had offered Floyd a place there. The weather would mean he could train all year-round and the coaching would be the best in the world, but Floyd was not sure he wanted to go.
Dr. Pinner asked him why.
“I don’t know.” Floyd found it difficult to put his reasons into words. He just knew there was something about the whole idea that made him … uncomfortable.
“Is it the money?” asked Dr. Pinner. “You’ve spoken several times about how much your parents have spent on your coaching and training …”
“I don’t think it’s that,” said Floyd. “Dad’s always said the money’s not a problem.”
“I suppose it would mean saying good-bye to all the people you know in England,” said Dr. Pinner. “Is that something that bothers you?”
But it wasn’t really that either. Playing tennis as much as he did, Floyd had never had time to make the sort of friends who would keep him from moving to a different country.
“Perhaps it’s your parents you’d miss,” suggested Dr. Pinner. “That would be understandable. You are very close to them.”
“No, no.” Floyd shook his head. “They’d come with me.”
“Both of them?” Dr. Pinner looked surprised. “But who’s going to look after the business?”
“They’ll sell it,” said Floyd. “It’s what they always planned and, once I go pro, I’ll need someone to manage travel arrangements, hotels, equipment, sponsorship, press releases, and so on. Mum and Dad’ll do all that.”
“I see,” said Dr. Pinner. “Have you told them you’re not entirely happy about all this?”
And Floyd was about to reply when Mike interrupted.
“Tell him about Mr. Crocker,” he said.
“What?” Floyd was rather startled.
“Your parents,” said Dr. Pinner, “I was wondering if you’d discussed …”
“No, I was talking to Mike,” explained Floyd. “He says I should tell you about Mr. Crocker.”
“Does he, now?” Dr. Pinner reached for his notes. “You’ll have to remind me. Who was Mr. Crocker?”
“He was my first tennis coach.”
“I thought your first coach was a man called Palliser.” Dr. Pinner was riffling through the pages of his notebook. “The old guy with the glasses who taught you how to do a drop shot. You’ve never said anything about a Mr. Crocker.”
“No,” said Floyd. “I forgot.”
And it was true. Until Mike had said the name, Floyd had completely forgotten about Mr. Crocker.
When Floyd was six, his father told him that it was time he had a coach. Someone properly qualified, who could help him develop his game. They were particularly lucky, Mr. Beresford said, that the official coach for their county was none other than Gerald Crocker, a man who had trained three of the U.K. champions of the last twenty years. Normally, he only worked with children over the age of ten but he had agreed to make an exception in Floyd’s case after seeing him at the Sandown. So, once a week, every Thursday after school, Floyd was taken to the county tennis courts in Sheffield for a lesson with three other children.
Mr. Crocker might have known a great deal about tennis and about coaching, but Floyd found him rather frightening. He was a big man, with a booming voice that echoed around the windy tennis courts when he shouted, and he seemed to spend a good deal of his time shouting.
Some days, Mr. Crocker didn’t just shout. When his students were slow to grasp what he was explaining or failed to do the shot he wanted them to practice, he would express his irritation with a quick smack of his hand on the back of their heads. Although he never used his full strength, it could still be painful.
He never hit Floyd, or Caroline, who was the only girl in the group, but if e
ither of the older boys started playing up or fluffed a shot that Mr. Crocker thought they should have returned with ease, the voice would roar out and the burly figure would come striding across the court, and the hand would smack on the back of a head as he told them what they had done wrong.
Floyd tried to remind himself it was a privilege to be taught by the man who had trained three British champions. But however much he reminded himself, he did not enjoy going to the tennis coaching on a Thursday and on three occasions made up an excuse not to go. The first time he said he had a stomachache, the next time that he had an aching wrist—his father was always careful to ensure that he didn’t overstrain his young muscles—and on the third occasion he claimed that he had a headache. This time, however, his father ignored the excuse, drove him to the courts, and left him with Mr. Crocker, who, it soon became clear, was in a particularly impatient mood.
He was angry with the ball gun that didn’t seem to be working properly. He was angry with one of the older boys who had forgotten to bring a spare racket, and he was angry with Caroline, who was complaining of the cold and wanted to be allowed to wear her sweat suit. She seemed to be mistiming every one of her practice serves even though he had explained to her very forcefully how important it was to relax. When she missed a simple volley in the game that followed, he came striding across the court toward her, bellowing in frustration, and actually had a hand raised to give her one of his little clips on the back of her head.
Caroline flinched, but the blow never landed because at that moment Mr. Crocker realized he was being watched. There was someone standing on the path that ran along the back of the courts, and Mr. Crocker changed the movement of his hand to a cheery wave of greeting.
Floyd turned around and saw his father, a deep frown on his face, staring across at them from behind the wire mesh.
“Hello, there, Peter!” Mr. Crocker boomed cheerfully. “You decided to stay and watch?”
Mr. Beresford did not reply, but opened the gate in the side of the wire mesh that surrounded the court and walked over to his son. Completely ignoring Mr. Crocker, he looked down at Floyd.
“You look cold,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Floyd walked over to the side to pick up his bag and sweater. Behind him, he could hear Mr. Crocker, his voice no longer booming, but sounding uncharacteristically apologetic.
“Look, Peter, I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. They just need a little prod occasionally, that’s all.”
His father did not reply. He did not even look at Mr. Crocker but stood there, waiting in the middle of the court, until Floyd had collected his things. Then, without a word or a glance at the coach, he took Floyd’s hand and walked him back to the car.
On the way home, they stopped off at an Italian restaurant for some garlic bread and melted cheese, which was Floyd’s favorite food, and then followed it with some ice cream.
They didn’t talk about tennis until, as they were leaving, Mr. Beresford said, “I think in the future we’ll skip the lessons with Mr. Crocker. Go back to just you and me, playing at home. Is that all right?”
Floyd agreed that, yes, that would be all right.
“The most important thing about tennis,” said his father as they walked toward the car, “is that it’s supposed to be fun. That’s when any of us do our best at something. When we’re having fun.” He looked down at his son. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?” asked Floyd.
“I want you to promise me that the day tennis stops being fun, you’ll tell me and we’ll stop doing it, OK?”
Sitting in the office with Dr. Pinner, Floyd found that for some reason the palms of his hands were damp with sweat, and he wiped them on the side of his trousers.
“He’s a good man, your dad.” Dr. Pinner was lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I can see why you admire him so much.”
“He’s brilliant,” said Floyd. “I’d do anything for him.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Pinner. “I’m beginning to realize that.”
The next day, when Floyd was playing in a simple single-elimination tournament in Bournemouth, Mike made an appearance on court during a game. It was the first time he had appeared anywhere outside Dr. Pinner’s office since Floyd’s sessions with the psychologist had started, and in an almost exact repeat of the incident at Scarborough, Mike walked out onto the court and stood beneath the umpire’s chair, with a vague look of dissatisfaction on his face.
Floyd knew better than to complain and ask for him to be taken away this time. He simply ignored him and continued with the game, which he won, but it left him feeling, as he told Dr. Pinner on the following Monday, both annoyed and frustrated. There were, he reminded the psychologist, less than two weeks until the championship at Roehampton and, despite the fact that they had been meeting three times a week for over a month, they were still no nearer to finding out what was going on. Or getting rid of Mike. Or finding out why he had appeared in the first place.
What was particularly annoying, Floyd thought, as he made his complaint, was that Mike himself was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, nodding sagely in agreement.
“Did you tell your parents about it?” asked Dr. Pinner when Floyd had finished describing the incident.
“About Mike?” said Floyd. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to worry them. I mean, there’s nothing they can do, is there?”
“Maybe not.” Dr. Pinner was sitting at his desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. “But tell me … if you’d strained a muscle in this tournament, would you have told your parents about that?”
“Yes, obviously, but …”
“So you’d tell your parents about something like a strained muscle—even though there’s probably nothing they could do, except make sure you rested—but you don’t tell them when someone only you can see walks onto the court while you’re playing. I wonder why.”
There was something in the psychologist’s tone of voice that Floyd found distinctly irritating.
“I told you. I didn’t want them to worry.”
“You’re sure that’s all it was?”
“Of course I’m sure! What else would it be?” Floyd’s annoyance was reflected in his voice. “Look, I’ve been coming here for over four weeks now, and as far as I can see all this sitting around and talking isn’t getting me anywhere. Mike’s still here, he’s still distracting me at tournaments, I still have no idea who he is, or what he’s doing—”
“You don’t know who he is?” Dr. Pinner interrupted. “Really?”
“No, of course I don’t!” Floyd looked at the psychologist suspiciously. “Do you?”
“Well …” Dr. Pinner gave a little shrug. “It’s not that difficult to work out, is it?”
“Yes, it is!” said Floyd. “At least, it is for me. I’m not a psychologist, remember? I’m a tennis player.” He paused. “So who is he?”
“It’s best if you work these things out for yourself,” said Dr. Pinner, “but I can give you a couple of clues, if you like.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “We’re talking about someone that only you can see, that only you know exists, and whose name … is Mike.” He paused again. “Does that help?”
“No,” said Floyd. “It doesn’t.”
“OK,” said Dr. Pinner. “Second clue. What’s your name? Your full name.”
“Floyd Michael Beresford,” said Floyd, and it took a second for the penny to drop.
“Me? You think he’s me?”
“Well, I don’t see how he could be anyone else really, do you?” said Dr. Pinner. “He’s not all of you, obviously. But a part.” He looked curiously at Floyd. “You really didn’t know?”
“In psychology,” said Dr. Pinner, “we call it projection. It’s when a part of the mind is projected out onto something or someone in the outside world. I’m sure you’ve come across this idea in
books, or heard about it in school?”
“No,” said Floyd. “Never.”
“Well, perhaps I can give you an example …” Dr. Pinner drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment before continuing. “Let’s suppose that there’s a part of you that wants something really badly, but you can’t come out and say that’s what you want, because it would be too dangerous. In fact, the whole idea is so dangerous, you can’t even allow yourself to think it, so as a defense your mind decides to hide the idea somewhere else. One way it can do that is by ‘projecting’ it onto another person.”
“What sort of dangerous idea?” asked Floyd.
“Well, one example might be that you were gay, and you lived—”
“I’m not gay,” said Floyd.
“But if you were,” said Dr. Pinner, “and you lived in a society that put people in prison or even killed them for being gay, you would have very strong reasons for denying those feelings in yourself. Simply to survive, you might need to push them away, to hide them. And, as I said, one way to hide them is to project them onto someone else. That way, you get to pretend they’re not your feelings at all and you can disapprove of them like everyone else does.”
Floyd stared at him blankly.
“Sometimes, however,” the psychologist continued, “there isn’t anyone suitable for you to project the feelings onto. There’s no one around who can represent this ‘dangerous’ idea and, in those cases, the mind can sometimes actually invent somebody—a completely imaginary person—and make them responsible for whatever it is they don’t dare think themselves. Small children do it all the time. Instead of admitting they knocked over the milk or broke the plate, they’ll say their imaginary friend did it.”
“You think Mike is an imaginary friend?”
“A sort of grown-up version of that, yes.”
Floyd glanced across at Mike, who was standing at the window, looking out at something in the gardens and showing no interest whatever in the talk going on behind him.
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