paid promptly. In June 1995 he moved to Britain to take up an advisory post at the secretive government listening and monitoring installation GCHQ
.
In 1993, his wife, Leah, died in car crash when he was driving
.
Dr Terence Goel now resides in Cheltenham. In December 1995, he made a five-year deed of covenant for £600 to theImperial Cancer Research Foundation. He’s a pretty caring guy
.
He has joined a local chess club. He drives a Ford Mondeo 16 valve – it’s a bit of a comedown from an Infinity, but he finds it suitable for the narrow Gloucestershire roads
.
He has just applied to join Mensa and taken the home test. His IQ was 175. (I’ve been modest there, mine is higher.)
His e-mail address is [email protected]
He has a neat website
.
Terence Goel is the kind of guy I could become really good friends with. I am confident he will serve me well. But first, I must make absolutely sure that he is the right man for me. I’m going to submit him to the most important test
.
I’m going to flip a coin
.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘Georgia On My Mind’ was playing on the Volvo’s radio as Michael drove up the rhododendron-lined drive of the Sheen Park Hospital. He mouthed the words and turned it up loud.
It was coming up to eight thirty. The song was still playing when he pulled into the car park and he kept the ignition on, listening to it, not wanting it to end, shutting his window in case his colleagues wondered if he had finally flipped.
And he was wondering whether Amanda had got his email. He was thinking hard about whether he should have sent it.
It had been an impulse. That was how he had felt. And still felt. He was missing her. Badly.
And Georgia was on his mind. In his heart, his soul, the beat of the song was the beat of his heart. The slow, husky voice of Ray Charles was making his heart ache.
It was a fine morning. Amanda had played this song, it had been on a CD some time during the hours they had sat talking. He hadn’t heard it in maybe twenty years and now he was hearing it twice within a few hours. Some kind of omen?
He didn’t believe in omens, but he didn’t disbelieve in them either. It was just that if there was a God, Michael thought He had better things to do than fart around arranging crows into strange patterns in the sky, or sending black cats scurrying across roads in front of people to spook them, or fixing ladybirds to land on people’s bare arms so they’d think they were going to win the lottery. Or maybe that was what God got his kicks doing. Just farting around,messing with people. He had taken Katy away and now maybe He was going to give Michael Amanda instead. Or maybe He wasn’t.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport
.
He entered the front of the building and immediately got jumped on by one of his colleagues, Paul Straddley, who had a patient suffering from a fear of vomiting. He wanted Michael’s advice.
‘He has anxiety or a real vomit phobia?’ Michael asked, barely making any attempt to conceal his irritation. All he wanted right now was to get to his office, to see whether Amanda had replied to his e-mail and have some strong coffee.
Paul Straddley was a neurotic little man with a permanently anxious face and ragged hair. Dressed today in a brown polyester suit that was too short in the sleeves and legs, he looked more like a 1950s back-room boffin than an eminent psychiatrist with an impressive list of publications to his name.
‘He’s frightened to eat – he’s afraid that food might get stuck in his gullet. Everything has to be liquidised and even then he doesn’t trust it, he has to check and recheck it. He’s losing weight and I’m very concerned about him.’ Straddley looked at Michael with desperation. The man was wonky himself, Michael had always thought, probably more fucked up than most of his patients. But so were a lot of psychiatrists.
He probably was too.
We’re all barking. These poor sods come
.
In 1993, his wife, Leah, died in car crash when he was driving
.
Dr Terence Goel now resides in Cheltenham. In December 1995, he made a five-year deed of covenant for £600 to theImperial Cancer Research Foundation. He’s a pretty caring guy
.
He has joined a local chess club. He drives a Ford Mondeo 16 valve – it’s a bit of a comedown from an Infinity, but he finds it suitable for the narrow Gloucestershire roads
.
He has just applied to join Mensa and taken the home test. His IQ was 175. (I’ve been modest there, mine is higher.)
His e-mail address is [email protected]
He has a neat website
.
Terence Goel is the kind of guy I could become really good friends with. I am confident he will serve me well. But first, I must make absolutely sure that he is the right man for me. I’m going to submit him to the most important test
.
I’m going to flip a coin
.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘Georgia On My Mind’ was playing on the Volvo’s radio as Michael drove up the rhododendron-lined drive of the Sheen Park Hospital. He mouthed the words and turned it up loud.
It was coming up to eight thirty. The song was still playing when he pulled into the car park and he kept the ignition on, listening to it, not wanting it to end, shutting his window in case his colleagues wondered if he had finally flipped.
And he was wondering whether Amanda had got his email. He was thinking hard about whether he should have sent it.
It had been an impulse. That was how he had felt. And still felt. He was missing her. Badly.
And Georgia was on his mind. In his heart, his soul, the beat of the song was the beat of his heart. The slow, husky voice of Ray Charles was making his heart ache.
It was a fine morning. Amanda had played this song, it had been on a CD some time during the hours they had sat talking. He hadn’t heard it in maybe twenty years and now he was hearing it twice within a few hours. Some kind of omen?
He didn’t believe in omens, but he didn’t disbelieve in them either. It was just that if there was a God, Michael thought He had better things to do than fart around arranging crows into strange patterns in the sky, or sending black cats scurrying across roads in front of people to spook them, or fixing ladybirds to land on people’s bare arms so they’d think they were going to win the lottery. Or maybe that was what God got his kicks doing. Just farting around,messing with people. He had taken Katy away and now maybe He was going to give Michael Amanda instead. Or maybe He wasn’t.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport
.
He entered the front of the building and immediately got jumped on by one of his colleagues, Paul Straddley, who had a patient suffering from a fear of vomiting. He wanted Michael’s advice.
‘He has anxiety or a real vomit phobia?’ Michael asked, barely making any attempt to conceal his irritation. All he wanted right now was to get to his office, to see whether Amanda had replied to his e-mail and have some strong coffee.
Paul Straddley was a neurotic little man with a permanently anxious face and ragged hair. Dressed today in a brown polyester suit that was too short in the sleeves and legs, he looked more like a 1950s back-room boffin than an eminent psychiatrist with an impressive list of publications to his name.
‘He’s frightened to eat – he’s afraid that food might get stuck in his gullet. Everything has to be liquidised and even then he doesn’t trust it, he has to check and recheck it. He’s losing weight and I’m very concerned about him.’ Straddley looked at Michael with desperation. The man was wonky himself, Michael had always thought, probably more fucked up than most of his patients. But so were a lot of psychiatrists.
He probably was too.
We’re all barking. These poor sods come
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