Part II: Philadelphia

Chapter 2: A Warm Welcome

They've been driving for half an hour, Lisa and the unknown man in front, and his car in hot pursuit behind, and are on the western outskirts of Philadelphia when Lisa takes the exit off the interstate rather suddenly, drives down a large tree-lined avenue, and comes to a halt at the gatehouse of a large fenced-in compound. He brakes and draws up at the side of the road, watching as Lisa and her companion are waved through by the security guard and the barrier is lowered behind them. Then he gets out of the car and walks over to the gatehouse, aware of the guard's suspicious scrutiny and the blind stare of the security camera mounted on top of the gatehouse, but undisturbed by either. The road continues for about another quarter of a mile beyond the gatehouse, cutting straight through an expansive and well-tended park. Chestnut and beech trees are dotted along grassy expanses through which paths meander aimlessly; it is idyllic and peaceful, and if this were England, there would be a Georgian manor house of yellow sandstone situated on the slight rise at the end of the lane. Here a rectangular edifice looms over the grounds, its stark structure silhouetted against the setting sun, grey, impenetrable, threatening. The large signboard at the gate reads: Mayfield Psychiatric Institution.

Form follows function, he thinks. A sense of disquiet and unease overcomes him as he gazes at the imposing edifice, and abandoning any plans he may have had of following Lisa and her unknown companion into the grounds, he turns back to his car.

The guard pops his head out of the gatehouse. "Can I help you, sir?"

"No. No, I don't think so."

When he reaches the car, he automatically makes for the left-hand door. He stops to consider this: when he'd borrowed Gavin's car in Bristol, he had also moved towards the left-hand door first, which in that case had been the wrong one. At the time, he had put his mistake down to the fact that on the rare occasions these past years that he'd gone by car he had always been a passenger. But now that he's in America, he can't help noting that having the steering wheel on the left side seems more natural to him, and driving on the right side of the road requires less concentration than trying to steer Gavin's car along the left side of Bristol's roads.

There's also the ease with which he purchased the wreck he is now driving; one look in the classified section of the local papers and he had known what part of town to go to and which code words to say in order to obtain a car as cheaply as possible with no paperwork attached, the last being a precondition to the purchase because he still possesses no valid licence. (There had been rather a nasty scene at the DVLA agency in Bristol, where he'd been told that - there being no record that he'd ever possessed a licence - he'd need to pass the practical and the theory test, present a medical certificate, etc., etc., the official wondering aloud whether an amputee with amnesia could be considered physically and mentally fit enough to participate in motorised traffic, upon which he had pondered at an equal volume whether being cretinous was a standard requirement for employment at the DVLA or merely an additional qualification.)

He can't help feeling some sort of skewered male pride at the ease with which he communicates with the local criminal element, yet it's undeniable that with every further indication that his past was indeed American, proof is piling up that it was also on the left side of the law. The sensible thing to do would be to return to Bristol and take up his life as a model British citizen again, but that isn't an option. It hasn't been ever since he disembarked at La Guardia to find that everything felt familiar, from the accents assailing his ears to the candy bars and the quarters he needed to extract them from the vending machines.

Normally, he'd contact the police authorities or some agency specialising in missing persons, have his data, fingerprints and a DNA sample taken, and see whether they come up with a match. Thing is, he really doesn't want to spend the next years in a Texas death row cell. That is undoubtedly the worst case possible. But even less pessimistic scenarios see him in a prison cell, because there's a good chance that there's still an open warrant waiting for him somewhere. The alternative to the official route is to employ a private detective, but his finances aren't up to that. In fact, his finances aren't up to much of anything, so he'll have to get a job soon, the kind where employers overlook the absence of work permits, green cards and the like. The only reason he's sitting here on the outskirts of Philadelphia in a car trailing Lisa is because he's at a loose end for the time being, with no job and thus no money to pursue his primary aim. So until his finances kick off, he's solving the mystery that is Dr Lisa Cuddy.

He wasn't surprised at all when her enthusiasm at seeing him in Philadelphia was limited. He had figured that she compartmentalised her life, and that he was tucked away in a bottom drawer that had a lock on it and a label that read, 'Secret Life: Not for the eyes of friends and colleagues!' so he was prescient enough to not announce his arrival in advance, but to wait until the coach spat him out near the Pennsylvania Convention Center before he phoned her.

"You are - where?"

"Philadelphia," he repeated patiently, "at the ... well, I've reached the Reading Terminal Market now."

"Don't come here!" she instructed. He assumed 'here' to mean her hospital. "I'll meet you there. There's a sort of coffee shop on the north side. I'll be there in about an hour." During her lunch break, he supposed.

She was there ninety minutes later, stressed (which was to be expected), tense (also to be expected, since he'd picked the lock to the mental drawer she'd been keeping him in and jumped out), angry (fair enough, since his presence could be interpreted as an attempt to root around in the drawers labelled 'Personal life' and 'Professional life'), and - scared. (And try as he would, he had - and still has - no satisfactory explanation for her fear.) She did her best to disguise her fear with annoyance and anger, but her widened eyes and shallow breathing gave her away.

She slid into the seat opposite his. "What are you doing here?" Not in a tone of polite inquiry, let alone one of surprised pleasure.

"Nice to see you, too."

Yes, he'd got the message that her attitude towards men and relationships was ambivalent, and that she distrusted his type - the sharp, funny, unpredictable ones. But if she was fine spending half the night cuddled up against him on his couch, why should sitting across from him at a table in a crowded coffee shop spook her to the extent that her shaking hands would hardly allow her to hold her cup without spilling its contents? So since it couldn't be his mere presence that was freaking her out, then it had to be his presence in her Philly life specifically; and there was only one reason why he should appear more threatening here than on his home ground in Bristol: there was something here that she feared might turn him from an unprepossessing model citizen (well, almost) into a raging green Hulk, and that something could only be Another Guy. Conversely, it was possible that the knowledge of his existence would transform the Other Guy into a raging green Hulk. Or, worst case, both of them would morph into raging green Hulks.

"Pete, you can't just turn up here and ..."

"I can. I did." He got up. "Forget it. This was a bad idea."

"Where are you staying?" she asked, a dollop of guilt topping off her spooked weirdness.

Not with you, it seems, he felt inclined to say, but he'd never expected to stay with her, not when she had arrhenphobia and a kid. So he said, "Not sure yet."

She leaned her forehead on both her hands. "You shouldn't have come."

Which was so bloody flattering that he said, "Don't worry, I won't bother you any longer." He considered reassuring her that if it was him she was worried about, she could relax. He felt no desire to punch the other man's lights out - or hers, for that matter. He had known all along that she had some major problem, and that the problem was another guy shouldn't have come as a surprise. Not that it mattered much - he'd just shake Philadelphia's dust off his feet and begin his search somewhere else.

So he walked out on her (and on the tab), picked up his suitcase from the coach station lockers and set off to find a cheap hotel in a central location.

That evening - he was on his bed, fully dressed, legs crossed and hands clasped behind his head - his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen; it was Lisa, so he ignored it. A few minutes later it beeped - a text message that read: 'We need to talk.'

Do we? He tossed the phone onto the bedside table without answering the message. Half an hour later - he was just wondering whether to check out the bars to see if the drinks tasted familiar - another message came in: 'Please.'

Oh, okay, if she was going to be polite about it ... He texted her the hotel's address and his room number, and then he went for a quick shower and shave. He doubted that his interview with Lisa would last long - she was a woman of few, sharp words - or lead to any change in his plans, and he was reasonably sure that it would leave him with a desire for a strong drink and uncomplicated female company, which would be a lot easier to obtain if he smelled and looked clean. He was barely dressed when there was a knock at the door. He opened it, but held onto the leaf with one hand while he leaned on the frame with the other, effectively barring her way. From there, he glowered down at her. She was dressed casually in jeans and flat shoes, so she must have come from home.

She took a deep breath. "Can I come in?"

His point made, he stood aside. She came in and looked around, unable to hide her dismay. It was definitely not the Brunel, and he couldn't say that he was enthusiastic about having to share the bathroom with a colony of roaches, but he was pretty sure that he must have seen worse in his previous life.

"I'm sorry I overreacted," she said, coming straight to the point. "I didn't expect you here."

"I got that," he replied, looking at her wryly. "You've got 'responsibilities'." He made the word sound like an insult. "A job, a daughter, a model boyfriend. Your holiday flirt doesn't fit in."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she said, "There's no boyfriend."

"Girlfriend, then. Someone you don't want me to meet, and the fear that I could do so almost made you pee your panties today."

That got her bristles up. "You - aren't my boyfriend. Even if there was someone else - but there isn't - I'd have nothing to feel guilty about."

"You spend hundreds of dollars to see me for a few days, you adjust your working schedule accordingly and organise a babysitter, you spend every waking moment and quite a few sleeping ones with me when you're in Bristol, and then you quibble about terminology? You should go for the Oval Office; you're predestined for it!"

She chewed her lower lip. "You and me - it wouldn't work. We'd just hurt each other."

"You mean if we had a real relationship with sex, saw each other regularly, lived together," he posited, striking up a 'reasonable' tone.

She looked at him warily, mistrusting his seeming understanding, before she assented, "Yes, exactly. It - it would work for some time but then ..."

He didn't let her complete her thought. "But this, this doesn't hurt: you coming to see me in Bristol, spending time with me, leading me on, and then pushing me away when I upset your comfortable life here?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. When she reopened them, they glistened. She placed a hand on his arm. "I've hurt you. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he muttered, placing his hand over hers. And he meant it. Compared to what he'd done to Sharon, her record was as good as spotless. She had all along tried to dampen his expectations, pretending that she was in England on business until he had called her bluff, refusing to get involved in anything sexual after that first time, not divulging personal information and showing little interest in his private life. It had been clear to anyone who had wanted to read the signs that she'd had no intention whatsoever of admitting him into her life, no matter how far he opened up his to her. If he'd chosen to ignore all the warnings, then the blame was on him. Anyway, there wasn't much harm done - a dead end in Philadelphia wasn't the end of the world. Even if she had been more welcoming he doubted he would have stayed more than a week. He'd just take off straightaway; that was all.

He was about to say something soothing to that effect when he noticed that her whole stance, her body language had changed. She was white as a sheet, looking at him as though she'd seen a ghost.

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly, softly, so as not to increase her agitation.

"I ...no!" And she turned round, practically running from the room. Which was a pity, because he hadn't wanted the conversation to end without pointing out that he wasn't heartbroken and that she was overestimating her meaning in his life. And it was odd, very odd, because she was not really the type to run away. She was more the 'punch the guy in the guts, grind your heels into his intestines, and then walk away while he's writhing on the ground' type.

And that is why he's here, outside a nuthouse named Mayfield, trying to figure out whether the puzzle actually exists or if Lisa Cuddy is just plain loopy. She could be paranoid and an outpatient, but what outpatient comes in on a Sunday just before eight p.m. for treatment? And then there's the guy with her. If she was the patient being brought by him, wouldn't he have been driving? Who is the man, anyway?

He'd got a reasonably good look at him when the man got into Lisa's car. Medium height, thick brown hair, about the same age as Lisa, features that must have been too handsome to be true when he was younger, but are going to seed now in middle age. Well-dressed: his idea of Sunday casual is a pair of linen pants, a light shirt and a blazer, and expensive loafers. A style that a career woman like Lisa doubtless appreciates: he isn't anything to be ashamed of at work-related dinner parties or at a Sunday brunch.

Although he'd been keeping watch outside since noon, he didn't see the man arrive at Lisa's place, which means that he's been there since morning at the very least. Maybe he lives with Lisa, although the name plate next to the doorbell only mentions Lisa and her daughter Rachel.

He decides to go back to the apartment to reconnoitre. Whatever Lisa and the man are here for, it's unlikely to take less than an hour. After programming the Satnav (which cost him more than the entire car) he's off.

Back in Lisa's street he roots around in the car for some excuse to go up to her apartment. The only object that will serve is a medical book on neuro-psychology that he brought along to kill time while he waited. He grabs it and goes to the front door of the old red-brick building. He had her down for a detached house sort of person, but if the story about the collapsing house is true, she may have opted for something more solid this time around. There's a difference between this house and the surrounding ones, other than the colour of the door. While all of the surrounding houses have a series of four steps leading up to the front door, this one has a ramp, wheel-chair access. He rings Lisa's bell, just to be on the safe side, but no one answers. Then he tries the door. It won't open, of course. In this sort of neighbourhood the residents won't want riff-raff off the streets waltzing in and out the doors. So he rings the neighbour's bell, hoping that they'll trustingly open the door with the buzzer.

But a female voice calls out through the intercom, "Who is it?"

He gets out his British accent and dusts it off. "My name is Thomas Lawrence. I want to drop something off for Dr Cuddy."

There's a buzz, and he can push the door open. It opens into a dark hallway, with a carpeted flight of stairs leading up, but in the gloom at the end of the hall there's the silver glimmer of an elevator. He takes it to the top floor.

Any hope he has of being able to break into Lisa's place fades when he leaves the elevator. The neighbour, a woman about his age, overweight, with a perm and a pair of atrociously colourful glasses, is standing in her doorway waiting for him.

"Hello," she says, but it's a question. Bloody neighbourhood watch.

"Good evening," he answers. He has decided on the 'fellow professional' routine, with a bit of British foppishness thrown in. The more intriguing he is, the longer this neighbour will talk to him and the greater his chance of gleaning bits of information. "I'm a colleague of Dr Cuddy's, Lawrence is my name. I was to drop something off for her today," he waggles the book, "but I'm afraid I'm a tad late."

"If you like you can leave it with me, and I'll give it to her when she comes," the woman says.

"That would be lov-el-eh," he says. "Absolutely topping." He's laying it on too thick, sounding like the offspring of a Wodehouse twat and an Enid Blyton brat, but the neighbour loves it. She beams at him as she holds out her hand.

"Are you from England?" she asks. "I love the accent!"

"Yes, just over for the hols. It's awfully awkward that I've missed Lisa. Do you know when she'll be back?"

There's a scraping from inside the woman's apartment and a shape appears behind her. A wheelchair, a very small one, with a child inside: a girl, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with oddly familiar features. "Louisa, who is it?"

"Someone for your mom," Louisa answers. "Go back inside, honey."

His brain whirrs, synapses connecting, information being sifted, even as his mouth says, "You, my dear child, must be Rachel. How d'you do?" Now he sounds like Willy Wonka, only creepier. Lisa's child is a cripple?

"Who are you?" the child asks, staring up at him warily.

"I'm a pal of your mother's. But I fear I have been remiss, appearing tardily despite her warning that she would egress from her abode." He waggles his eyebrows at the child. Anything to keep those two out here where he can talk to them.

"You talk funny."

"I'm late; she's gone," he summarises.

Rachel giggles. "She's bringing Wilson back to Mayfield."

"And Wilson is your feline friend. Your cat," he pretends to surmise.

"No!" Rachel is slightly indignant. "Wilson is a 'person' name."

"Oh, reall-eh!" he says. "I wouldn't call my son 'Wilson'. I'd give him a normal name, like Tom, or Dick, or Harry."

"You mean, like Harry Potter?" Rachel beams.

He nods. "Precisely!"

"Rachel," Louisa reprimands, "not everyone wants to talk about Harry Potter all day long."

"Wilson is called James, like Harry's dad," Rachel says, scowling at Louisa.

He decides that Harry Potter is an underestimated fount of useful mental associations and of great benefit to the conversational powers of seven year olds.

"Go back inside, Rachel," Louisa says, thrusting the book into the girl's lap. She watches the girl wheel herself away, and then she turns back to him. "Poor kid!" she says. It's plain that she has sent the child away so she can talk with him.

He leans in a little. He has seen that gleam in women's eyes before and it begs to be exploited. Who the hell is James Wilson? But he'll have to approach the question elliptically. "Was the child born that way?" He scratches an eyebrow, suggesting curiosity along with a dose of British reticence.

"Oh, no! The ceiling of her room collapsed on her when she was three. She'll never be able to walk again. But she's very brave about it, very brave indeed!"

"Ah, yes. Lisa didn't mention that. None of my business, of course," he adds, managing to convey hurt that he isn't in Lisa's confidence.

"Oh, she doesn't talk about it." She lowers her voice conspiratorially and leans towards him. "Lisa's ex-boyfriend drove into their house with his car, you know. He was very moody, apparently, and he didn't deal very well with the separation. I guess she feels guilty about it, though I really don't see how that's her fault. I mean, no one reckons with that sort of a thing when they get into a relationship!" Louisa looks back furtively into her apartment, and then she steps out, closing the door behind her. "The child doesn't know though. The official story is that a hurricane brought the roof down."

He's looking at her somewhat sceptically. If Lisa doesn't talk about it - and he can't see her confiding in Louisa - and Rachel doesn't know, how the hell does this garrulous hen know about it?

Louisa notices his gaze. "Lisa's mother told me all about it; she lives in Princeton and comes over every month or so to babysit. Terrible business, it must have been. Lisa ran a whole hospital in Princeton - you may have heard of it: Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It's quite renowned, apparently." She looks at him questioningly.

He remembers only just in time that he's posing as a doctor and nods sagely, which suffices to keep Louisa talking. "He was one of her employees - owed her a lot, Arlene says - but then he nearly killed her and crippled her daughter. She had to quit her job, because the poor child was in hospital for such a long time. Lisa is a wonderful woman, but she does have a terrible taste in men."

She looks at him expectantly, as if expecting assent from him for this sweeping statement. He says, "Well, everyone can make a mistake."

"Oh, Arlene says Lisa has always been like that - the guys she's dated were always the rotten eggs in the basket. I met that James Wilson today - they were coming in when I was just going out ..."

That was probably no coincidence, he thinks.

" ... and he seemed so nice, so polite - holds the door for me and greets me in such a friendly manner - but do you know what Mayfield is?" She puts in a rhetorical pause. "It's a psychiatric institution, a loony bin. That man is mad! Now you tell me, what sensible woman would bring home a man like that, with a child in the house?"

"Louisa! I know you're talking about me!" Rachel calls, her voice muffled through the door. "I don't like it when you talk about me. You're not to talk about me to strangers!"

"That child," Louisa says, rolling her eyes, "is too old for her age. But what can you expect, when she can't run around like other kids? Well, I hope to see you again, it was nice meeting you."

He nods a goodbye and goes back to the elevator, mulling over what she told him.

The hotel doesn't have wireless LAN access, so he has to take his laptop somewhere where he has free access. He finds a diner that'll fulfil his needs and spends an interesting three hours researching James Wilson and the tentacles he extends into Lisa Cuddy's life.

It's James Wilson MD, to be precise, and the guy is quite a big shot in oncology, it seems. He has any number of papers to his name, is a much-sought conference speaker, head of department in a teaching hospital - that just happens to be PPTH, Lisa's former hospital. And he's been there some seventeen years, which means Lisa gave him the job. A former employee of Lisa's - what a coincidence! PPTH's oncology home page informs patients and other interested persons that Dr Wilson is on a sabbatical and that Dr Chung has taken over his duties as temporary head of department until further notice.

His next address is, a site that rates physicians and allows patients to leave comments on their medical providers. James Evan Wilson has an astounding number of reviews and rates 4.5 of 5 stars. A close examination of his reviews reveals that there was a drop in popularity from 4.9 of 5 (about four years ago) to less than 4.0 during the course of the last year. Had previous reviews ranted of his medical competence, his ability to listen, his personal care of his patients, his empathy with patients and their loved ones, etc., more recent ones complained that he seemed tired, unmotivated and absentminded. One patient remarked quite openly that he 'reeked of alcohol at 10 a.m.'

He scrolls back to check when the downward streak began - about two years ago. Alcoholism normally takes some time to reach the point that patient care suffers. James Wilson has probably been drinking considerably longer than that - over five years, maybe? There's one review that catches his eye: the patient, a female, sings Dr Wilson's praises to the heavens and hopes that after three disappointing ventures into matrimony he will find a loving, caring person who appreciates his wonderful qualities. There's little doubt about who the patient thinks that 'loving, caring person' should be. But, three disappointments? The man has been married and divorced thrice? Some kind of a Bluebeard, undoubtedly.

Next he googles 'car crash Princeton 2011'. It's distressing, how carelessly people drive; he has to narrow down the roughly 1.3 million hits, so he adds 'house', and then 'injury' and 'child'. A bit of weeding and pruning, and he has two articles from August 2011 from an online newspaper with a searchable archive:

Hurricane Irene lashes Princeton
Hurricane Irene whipped through the streets of Princeton last night, leaving behind a trail of devastation and injury. There was severe flooding in several parts of the city, and hundreds of trees were downed, leaving residents without power for hours. There has also been one case of severe injury as part of a house collapsed, trapping a three year old under it. The child was brought to Princeton General Hospital where her condition is said to be critical, but stable.

And so on ...

Two days later:

House collapse that cripples child possibly not connected to Hurricane Irene
The house that collapsed in suburban Princeton two days ago during Hurricane Irene, crippling a three year old, may have had structural weaknesses. As we reported in May, the house, residence of the dean of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, was the target of an act of domestic violence that shocked the whole community: an employee of PPTH drove his car into the walls of the house, injuring himself severely and causing large-scale damage to the wall. The house was subsequently cleared for habitation by a construction company, but after this week's incident, there has been wide-spread criticism of the company for not recognizing that the supporting beams of the child's bedroom were damaged by the incident. The owner's solicitor has been quoted as saying that he is considering legal steps against the construction company.
According to unconfirmed reports, the car assault that damaged the building was not motivated by workplace issues, but by private tensions between the employee, an internationally renowned physician, and the dean, with whom he is said to have been involved in a personal relationship. Neighbors and colleagues of the dean have expressed their sympathy and support.
Mr Sanford Wells, CEO of Biotech Princeton and chairman of the PPTH board, said, "Our prayers are with Dr Cuddy, her wonderful daughter and her family, and Dr Cuddy may be assured of our full support."
Asked what consequences the board drew from this case regarding the hospital's fraternizing policy, Mr Wells stated, "This is not, and I repeat, not the time to debate the advisability of mixing private and professional relationships. I think we are all agreed in condemning domestic violence in every form. Should the person in question be convicted, the hospital will take all necessary steps to terminate his contract. As long as there is no verdict, however, the hospital will not comment."
According to Mr Wells, by suspending the employee in question the hospital is not pre-empting his possible conviction, but reacting to long-term issues related to substance abuse. Mr Wells denied that there would be consequences for the hospital's employee selection process, saying that the board and leading hospital staff were unanimous in agreeing that although the alleged perpetrator's mental state was fragile before the incident, there had been no indication of incipient violence. He also refuted the suggestion that Dr Cuddy's personal involvement with her employee, who has a reputation for being brilliant but difficult, had helped him to obtain employment at the hospital. "Dr ...'s (name withheld for legal reasons) contract with the hospital predates his relationship with Dr Cuddy by roughly ten years. And anyone who knows Dr Cuddy is aware that she does not shy away from employing challenging persons as long as their skills and abilities enrich the hospital."

When he returns to his hotel room, Lisa is inside waiting for him. If this were the Brunel, he'd congratulate her on some smooth talking, but the teen downstairs at reception looks as though ten bucks would convince him to hand over the spare key to the Queen of Darkness, should she say she was his wife.

She's livid. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She's a sight to behold when she's really, truly mad, but he isn't really in the mood to appreciate the view. What he has found out is too depressing. "You're a moron," he says as he places the backpack with his laptop on the table.

"Right," she says, brushing it aside. "You nearly ran me off the road, and then you interrogated my daughter. Stay. Out. Of. My. Life!"

"I was nowhere near you - I kept a safe distance. And what's wrong with me having a nice chat with your kid?"

She laughs - a low, sarcastic chuckle. "You don't do nice. You have an ulterior motive for everything. And here's news for you: being stalked by creepy oddballs makes other drivers nervous, and then bad things happen. Like car crashes."

"Hmmm." He screws up the lower part of his face as though considering this. "So what do you think made James Wilson nervous when he crashed through your house?"

If he was in any doubt about the veracity of his theory, it vanishes at the sight of her reaction. All the tautness that anger lent to her frame vanishes in a sudden puff; she sinks into herself, seeming to lose inches of her height within seconds, and all that self-assured confidence turns into trembling uncertainty. It's not a pretty sight, this disintegration of her persona, this strip-tease of her soul. She sinks down onto the bed swallowing hard, her hands kneading her purse. When she looks back up at him, it is with hunted eyes.

"That ..." She swallows again, in so strained a manner that her whole throat quivers. "That's not what happened."

"You're right: he wasn't nervous; he was drunk. Here's what happened: you're dean of a dinky teaching hospital that's surrounded by bigger, better, richer ones. You need to give your hospital a cutting edge over the others, otherwise it'll soon be over: your teaching accreditation will be withdrawn, funding will decrease, before you know it you'll be fusing with Princeton General or, God forbid, Trenton. So you woo a promising young oncologist. You promise him his own department, a reasonable number of fellows, a reasonable amount of freedom. And you ignore what you know and others know and what is getting him blackballed along the coast: he's got a bit of a drinking problem. Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse, sometimes it leads to a divorce. But it doesn't bother you because you aren't thinking of marrying him - yet. And in the hospital you manage to keep him under control.

"He's a damn handsome guy; he's clever and he's funny; he's a brilliant oncologist who is popular with the patients. You have lunch with him on occasion, you grow closer; sometime after his third divorce you end up in bed with him. It's one of his dry periods, and for a time everything goes well. But then he relapses, and when he's drunk, he's different. He isn't the sweet caring guy you love; he's edgy, unpredictable, and violent. You've got a kid and very little patience, so you dump him. But he won't let it go, will he? He stalks you, and one day he sees something that sets him off: you with another guy. And he crashes his car into your house, nearly killing your kid."

She has been staring at him in horror, clutching the mattress with her hands, her knuckles stark and white, but at that she interrupts for the first time. "You're totally wrong. And Rachel's injury has nothing to do with it."

"No," he says mercilessly, "she was hit by Hurricane Irene and human stupidity, but neither would have mattered if James - or do you call him Jim? - hadn't damaged the structure. And though rationally you may know that it isn't his fault, emotionally it's difficult to separate what he did from what happened to Rachel, isn't it? Just as you find it difficult to separate what you did - dumping him - from what he did to you by wrecking your house. Because if you didn't, if you could see his behaviour objectively for what it is, you wouldn't be harbouring him again."

She buries her face in her hands at that, her shoulders shaking.

"With what fairy tale do you fool yourself? That he's finally getting treatment and is better? That he didn't mean to hurt you? That he has changed? That he has been punished enough?" He looks down at her dispassionately. "People don't change, Lisa."

"You've got it wrong," she says quietly from the bed. "Wilson didn't drive his car through my house." So that's what she calls him. "And he's just a friend."

He doesn't know why he's trying. Victims of abuse are prone to fall back into patterns of behaviour that perpetuate the abuse. They'll make excuses for the abuser, blame themselves, blame the circumstances, but they won't look the truth in the face: that they have wasted years of love and sacrifice on someone who doesn't deserve it. He walks over to the window and looks out blindly. She'll take James Wilson in again, at first as a friend, but sooner or later the hormones, pheromones and what-have-you will take over and they'll be an item again. And things will go well for a while, until he relapses, she freaks and the cycle starts all over again. And one day she'll have pushed her luck too hard and she'll end in the morgue. Morosely he recalls something he read once on a site called Stupid Statistics: getting married is one thousand times more likely to end lethally than jogging alone in the woods.

"Right! This is all one big coincidence: he was your employee, he has substance abuse issues, you feel obliged to help him although you don't work in the same place any more." He shrugs. "It's not my problem ..."

"You're damn right it isn't!" She is recovering from her shock.

" ... but you know as well as I do how this will end. You know that he'll turn ballistic again, otherwise you wouldn't be so worried about him meeting me. If you honestly thought that this friendship thing could work or that he has changed, you wouldn't be in a panic because I've turned up here. But how long can you keep this up - building your life around not freaking him out? Next time it could be something totally harmless - just someone you smile at by chance. Or he decides that your child is a threat to your relationship. Or your job."

He perches his ass on the narrow ledge that poses as a window sill and musters her. She has extracted a tissue from her purse and is dabbing at her eyes. If he were nice, he'd tell her that her make-up is smudged and that she looks like a racoon, but she'll notice soon enough when she sees herself at home in her bathroom mirror. She stands up from the bed.

He scratches the side of his nose and focuses on a stain on the ceiling. "You know that there are self-help groups for victims of abuse."

"Are you ... advising me to join a self-help group?" You'd think he'd suggested something esoteric, like laying cards or reading the entrails of a ritually slaughtered sheep.

"It's said to be helpful." His experience with group therapy in Maudsley Hospital was that it was anything but helpful, and she doesn't seem the type to listen patiently to others whining about their problems, but on the other hand she isn't likely to greet the only other sensible option with any more enthusiasm. Still, he has to try. "Or you should consider therapy," he says. And waits for the inevitable explosion where she tells him that he's the psychopath who needs his head examined.

"I am in therapy, you idiot!"

He tears his eyes off that interesting stain to look at her. She is planted in front of him now, looking at him with wonder. Now that he's half seated, they are practically eye-to-eye. "You are?" he croaks.

She counts off on her fingers, "A car drove into my house while I was in it, it collapsed on my daughter during a hurricane, my daughter was in hospital for two months and came out a paraplegic, I lost my job - of course I'm in therapy!"

"And what does your therapist say about Wilson?"

She acknowledges the hit with a quirk of her eyebrow. "She says that I'm an idiot." She puts a tentative hand on his arm. "You care, don't you? You're a sweet guy." She sighs. "But you're wrong about Wilson."

He leans his cheek against the cool window pane and squints out. Outside, a car honks. In the next doorway, during a casual handshake between two strangers, a packet furtively changes owners. Two houses down, garish neon lights advertise an establishment with table dance.

Wilson's a lucky guy to inspire such unfailing trust and confidence, a very lucky guy.

She says so quietly that he almost doesn't hear it, "And I think you're wrong about people not changing."

When she reaches up to give him a farewell hug, he pulls her in to him and buries his face in her neck. It's the saddest thing he can remember doing in the three years of his existence, because he knows that for the sake of her safety this can't continue - any of this, including her visits to Bristol -, and chances are that the next he hears of her will be her obituary.

Contrary to what rumour may say, I do not bite reviewers.