Girl on the Landing

by Paul Torday

  I stepped forward and took the packet from her hands, hesitating only for an instant, before I said, ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ and threw the packet into the waste bin. Then we went next door and I told her about the trip to Rome, and for a while all thoughts of Serendipozan were banished.

  12

  Their Brains Are Not Like Ours

  For a while Mikey was inconsolable about the loss of Rupert. I don’t mean that he wept or tore his hair. He just looked ill, pale, almost gaunt. I tried to make him eat more, but his appetite had gone for the time being. I tried to cheer him up; and he did his best to be cheered up, but I wasn’t convinced. I looked on the internet and found some pictures of scruffy but charming rescue dogs, which I showed to Mikey; all he did was shake his head.

  None of this helped. It wasn’t even as if he talked about Rupert very much; he just glanced from time to time at the empty basket in the corner of the kitchen, as if expecting to see Rupert raise his black head and thump his tail. The only thing Mikey actually said about Rupert was, ‘I suppose he only had a year or so left anyway. He was nearly twelve.’

  After a few days, however, his mood began to lift. I said something to that effect but didn’t quite catch his reply, which sounded like, ‘I’m learning to unlearn love.’

  It sounded like nonsense, so I let it go.

  Mikey’s new warmth towards me remained the same. If anything, losing Rupert strengthened his need for me. He hugged me at night, almost clung to me, as if he needed reassurance that I had not vanished the way Rupert had done. When we awoke in the morning he sometimes looked at me with a mixture of surprise and relief that I was still there. It was rather touching; disturbing, too.

  I remember lying in his arms one night, awakened by I don’t know what, some small sound that brought me out of a deep sleep. As I listened to his soft breathing and felt his warmth next to me, I thought, so this is what it’s like to be married, and felt a depth of affection and love that I would never have believed I was capable of before.

  A few days after we arrived back from Rome, I sat in my office and did some research on the internet. It didn’t take me long to find what I needed. I picked up the phone, and called Stephen Gunnerton. I wanted to know why Mikey had been treated by him, and what for. I simply didn’t know how to ask Mikey any more questions about it, at least not yet. I needed some clues; some sense of what the changes in him were all about. The man I now lived with was so different to the man I had married, and perhaps the man I had married was different again from the man who had been sent, presumably by Alex Grant, to be treated by Stephen Gunnerton. Was it depression? Was it something that had gone away and might come back? Or was it, as I hoped, something that had been cured, a problem that had been dealt with, which meant I need never ask Mikey about it again?

  I needed to know whether my new marriage was going to last.

  It was a nightmare getting an appointment. His secretary kept saying things like, ‘Mr Gunnerton will only see people who have been referred by their GP,’ and it took several calls before she realised I wasn’t going to go away, and was persuaded to take a note with my name through to the great man. That produced a result, and two days later I went to see him.

  Stephen Gunnerton’s consulting rooms were in Harley Street, only half a mile away from Helmsdale Mansions. From the outside the building looked like a private house, but there were two brass plates beside the brightly painted green door. When I pressed the bell I was let in by a buzzer, and then gave my name to a tough-looking woman behind a desk, who I supposed was the secretary. She greeted me without smiling, wrote my name in a book, and then stood up and showed me into a small waiting room, just large enough to accommodate a chair and a small table with a few magazines on it. I picked up a copy of Country Life and flicked through it without seeing it. For some reason my heart had started to beat rather fast, and the palms of my hands were damp. What on earth was I doing here? What was I going to say? The name of Stephen Gunnerton had acquired such resonance in my mind that I was almost dreading meeting him.

  Then the entrance to the waiting room opened and a large, grey-haired man of about sixty put his head around the door.

  ‘Mrs Gascoigne?’

  I stood up, and he led me across the corridor into a much larger room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there were two leather armchairs set at an angle to each other, and a large old-fashioned partner’s desk covered in papers. On a low mahogany table was a tray set with coffee cups and pots. Once we were inside, Stephen Gunnerton shut the door behind me and then turned and studied me for a moment. He was a portly man, with that smooth, well-fed look that some men acquire from living well, but without overdoing it. He was dressed in a dark blue wool suit, and wore a check shirt and a badly knotted bow tie. Spectacles hung on a cord around his neck. His face was thinner than the rest of him: sharp featured, with a beak of a nose, and close-set dark brown eyes. He looked exactly as I had imagined him. There was nothing especially sinister or frightening about him at all.

  ‘Coffee, Mrs Gascoigne?’ he asked, gesturing towards the tray.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘just black.’

  He busied himself pouring the coffee for a minute and then waved me towards one of the armchairs, before sitting down opposite me in the other.

  I didn’t know what to say. After sipping his coffee he looked at me over his cup and said, ‘Medical ethics, Mrs Gascoigne, is a subject on which there is much confusion. One gets a constant flow of advice from the British Medical Association, which as you know is our trade union; from the Law Society; and from all sorts of well-informed and well-meaning people. The general idea is that we never speak about our patients except to our patients themselves, and even then we don’t tell them much unless we have to.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask ...’ I began, but Stephen Gunnerton talked over me effortlessly. His voice was rich and rather treacly.

  ‘I have a simple test, myself, or at least it ought to be simple. Am I acting in the best interests of my patient? That is the question we are meant to ask ourselves, but often it is a very difficult question to answer. Two different people might give two different answers, and then where might we be if we ended up in court?’

  He put down his cup and saucer, finally giving me the opportunity to say something, but I had dried up.

  ‘I remember your husband very well, Mrs Gascoigne. It was more than ten years ago since he was last in this room, but I remember him as clearly as if it were yesterday. I can’t tell you details of his case, I’m afraid, or show you his file, or leave the file on my desk and pretend to leave the room for a minute. I don’t know what you were expecting me to do?’

  ‘I just ...’ I began, but he was off again.

  ‘Let’s talk generally, if we may. What do you understand by the term “schizophrenia”?’

  I had a question of my own now.

  ‘What is Serendipozan?’

  Ah,’ he said. ‘We’ll come to that, but we are getting ahead of ourselves. What do you think schizophrenia is?’

  ‘Is that when you have a split personality? Like Jekyll and Hyde?’

  Stephen Gunnerton sat back in his chair. He clearly wanted to lecture me, and if this was the only way he communicated with people like me, then I would have to join in the game.

  ‘Yes, that is a common interpretation of the word, but it is rather more than that: schizophrenia is a generic term for a wide spectrum of conditions, from mild dissociative personality disorder through to extreme forms of psychosis. The question I was asking you was not a trick question: there are so many definitions of what schizophrenia is, or how the brain of a schizophrenic differs from that of a so-called “normal” person, that your answer might well be as good as any other.’ He looked at me as he said this, in a way that made it clear his comment was not intended as a compliment to my intelligence. He steepled his fingers and went on with his lecture.

  ‘When our remote ancestors lived in caves, a long time ago, perhaps s
ixty thousand years ago during the First and Second Ice Ages, humans had to learn to interact in a different way. They had to share shelter, warmth and food in order to survive, and to do this they had to develop a greater awareness of self, and a greater comprehension of others, and the intentions of others.’

  I could not quite see what this had to do with Mikey, except that we were back to the Ice Age again. The words recalled to me the scene in the dining room at Beinn Caorrun.

  ‘The brain evolved, and circumstances favoured brains that were genetically more capable of cognition. Humans developed gene sequences that helped the brain to grow in a certain way, forming synaptic connections that favoured the growth of the conscious mind. Today we call “normality” the brain at the evolutionary cliff edge: the optimal condition of the brain for the social environment it is in, not too little cognition and not too much.’

  He paused to make sure I was following him. I wasn’t sure that I was.

  ‘Schizophrenics and geniuses have this in common: their brains are not like ours. Genetically they have grown in a different way and there are networks and synaptic connections and growths of neurons that we can only guess at. Synaptic connections that one would expect are simply not there. The brain chemistry may be different. It’s like someone rewiring your house without telling you.’

  Stephen Gunnerton smiled at me encouragingly.

  ‘In practical terms a genius is someone who is fortunate enough to be able to control and articulate his different understanding of the world, and become a new Einstein or Isaac Newton. In schizophrenics, these networks mean their experience of the world can be dissimilar to ours, sometimes unimaginably so. They might externalise emotions and data so that their brain presents it to them as a separate person speaking to them from outside. They might actually see people who are not there, or hear voices telling them to do things. The classic schizophrenic condition is one in which the subject thinks he, and he alone, can hear messages coming to him from some unknown source, such as the secret service, or God. In extreme cases, the subject might even fragment into multiple identities, as you have suggested, although that is not common. At the same time schizophrenics are aware that they are not well, are not whole people, and this may lead, in very rare cases, to psychosis and violent acts against themselves or others.’

  Gunnerton put on his glasses and stared at me for a moment, then took them off again. It was a piece of theatre designed to ensure that I listened carefully to what he said next.

  ‘Many forms of schizophrenia include what we call “emotional blunting”. This means there is no capacity for normal human emotions: love, friendship, ambition, desire. The more intelligent sufferers learn to replicate these emotions, just as some types of butterfly or lizard can alter their colours to match their surroundings. But they can’t actually feel the same emotions that normal people do.’

  He stopped speaking. I knew he was talking about Mikey. I also knew that if he was trying to tell me that Mikey did not really love me, then it was a lie. But which parts of the rest of what he had said were particular to Mikey, and which were not, I could not tell. Then he said something that I will remember for as long as I live.

  ‘The truth is, Mrs Gascoigne, we don’t really know everything about the structure of the brain. We know infinitely more than we did a generation ago. We can map electrical and electrochemical activity. We can use probes to stimulate different areas of the brain, and different functions. We can even guess, I think accurately, at where the seat of consciousness lies within the brain. But there is still so much of the brain that carries out functions we do not understand. We look at a map of the brain - picture a map of the London Underground if you like - and think we know what is going on. But now imagine other networks far below the main one, tunnels which interconnect with the tunnels we know of and then lead off, who knows where, into the darkness, perhaps linking up with other cities, and other realities. We just don’t know. When I treat a schizophrenic I work on the assumption that he is experiencing a false reality which it is my duty to delete; but a small part of me asks, is his brain so different from mine that he is actually aware of a different reality to my own? Does he experience something as real as you are to me, sitting in that chair in front of me?’

  ‘Is Mikey suffering from schizophrenia? Was he?’

  Stephen Gunnerton shook his head and managed to glance at his watch at the same time.

  ‘You asked me about Serendipozan just now,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘It’s what we call a neuroleptic. Two hundred years ago, people who were mentally ill were often forced into a straitjacket or abandoned without further treatment. That phrase gives you some idea of the primitive approach to mental health, doesn’t it?’

  I shuddered.

  ‘These new drugs operate on the theory that the genes of schizophrenics are affecting their brain chemistry. Serendipozan is the drug I usually recommend in these cases. Since I prescribed it for your husband, I have used it with great success in dozens of other cases. It has very few side effects: it can be somewhat depressive, but there is as yet no evidence that it damages the patient’s long-term health. We are using chemical engineering to alter the brains and personalities of our patients, in order to help them lead fairly useful lives.’

  So that’s all right, then, I thought. Poor Mikey had been in a chemical prison of one sort or another for God knows how long, but he could still lead a ‘fairly useful life’, arranging golf matches for Grouchers.

  ‘The important thing,’ said Stephen Gunnerton, ‘is that the patient should persist with the medication. Michael, I know, resisted the idea of medication until he realised that without it he would be institutionalised for the rest of his life. But it is a lifelong cure. Without the control of the neuroleptic, regression can be surprisingly fast. If I were related to, or in any way involved with, someone receiving this treatment, I would want to make sure that person kept taking his drugs. Early warning signs in people who abort their medication are personality change, erratic behaviour patterns, impulsiveness, mood swings. In those circumstances the patient must be encouraged to go back to taking the pills as soon as possible. Any other course of action is likely to have ...’ He paused while he searched for the right words, ‘... extremely unfavourable consequences.’ Stephen Gunnerton looked at his watch again and said, ‘I’m sorry to have to bring this to a close, but my next appointment is waiting.’

  He stood up, and as he did so a light on the phone on his desk started blinking. He walked across, picked it up and spoke softly into it. The next thing I knew he was ushering me towards the door.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been of much help, but I’ve said all I can.’

  ‘I think it has been very useful,’ I said, feeling I ought to say something. Then I was outside his room and, a moment later, back in the street, feeling as if I were coming up for air after being too long underwater.

  That night I had to pretend to myself that there was no such person as Stephen Gunnerton, and no such drug as Serendipozan. Despite having taken time off during the day, I made a special effort to get home early enough to cook dinner. I knew Mikey would be late: arrangements for the Grouchers Golf Cup, the last golf tournament of the year, had to be finalised and Mikey had left home in the morning expecting a very trying day on the telephone talking to the club secretary at Muirfield, who was hosting the game, and to the manager of the Marine Hotel in North Berwick, where the Grouchers team were going to stay for three nights. In recent weeks Mikey had shown signs of becoming rather detached from his job at Grouchers. There were a lot of problems, he told me, and he was increasingly fed up with having to worry about it all. But the golf match at Muirfield was the equivalent, in the Grouchers calendar, of Royal Ascot or the Open.

  I didn’t want to cook Mikey anything too special as it would make him ask me what the big occasion was, yet I ended up preparing a rather complicated spicy chicken dish, with lots of side dishes, so that wh
en he came home he gave a low whistle as he smelled the aromas from the kitchen. He went in and looked at all the various pans simmering away and asked, ‘What’s the big occasion?’

  ‘Oh, it started out being very simple and I just got carried away. It’s all out of a cookbook, anyway.’

  Mikey smiled and kissed me.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t that hungry a moment ago, but now I’m absolutely ravenous. Let’s have a drink.’

  I finished chopping up some coriander, and decided that everything would have to fend for itself for five minutes. In the sitting room, Mikey had poured himself a whisky, and handed me a glass of white wine.

  ‘Something odd happened to me today,’ he said.

  Something odd happened to me today as well, I thought, only I don’t know how to talk to you about it, darling.

  ‘I went to see Mr Patel. I was fed up with arranging golf matches and dinners, and all the rest of it. By this stage, it’s too late anyway - either it’s going to work, or else all go horribly wrong. I no longer care. So I rang up Mr Patel, on impulse, and arranged to meet him.’