The Quantity Theory of Insanity by Will Self Read Free Book Online Page A

reality if shecan’t see it.’ The voluptuous Mimi was squidged on to the corner of the table. Behind her stood a short woman in her thirties with the hydrocephalic brow and oblique domed crop of an intelligent child. She stared at me with sightless eyes.
    ‘Rachel shouldn’t really be off the ward, considering the medication she’s on.’
    ‘But Zack, it’s a walk down to the parade, ten minutes at most. Give her a break.’
    ‘Oh, all right.’
    ‘Come on then, Rachel, get your coat on.’ Rachel bounced away into one of the bays. Mimi lifted herself off the edge of the table and winked at me in a languid way.
    ‘Come on, Misha, we’ve got an admission for you to see. I’ll leave you at the front desk. Anthony Valuam will pick you up and take you down to casualty.’ We walked out of the women’s dormitory and back to the association area. Tom, my friend from the earlier part of the morning, was back behind the nurses’ station, reading his dog-eared Penguin. Busner despatched me to wait with him by giving me a gentle shove in the small of my back, then he crooked his finger at a scrofulous youth in a tattered sharkskin suit who sat smoking and disappeared with him towards his office. Tom put down his book and treated me to another little conspiratorial exchange.
    ‘Has the good doctor given you a little tour?’
    ‘We’ve been round the ward, yes.’
    ‘Beginning to catch on yet?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Well, who did you get introduced to? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You talked to Clive and then you saw alot of other male patients quite quickly until you ended up scrutinising Hilary’s watercolours.’
    ‘Err … yes.’
    ‘And did Zack come out with his catch-phrase?’
    ‘Yes, when we were talking to Jane Bowen.’
    ‘Thought so. He’s so predictable. That’s one of the truly therapeutic aspects of this place, the unfailing regularity of Dr Busner. What are you doing now?’
    ‘I’m meant to be going down to casualty to sit in on an admission with a Dr Valuam.’
    ‘Tony, yeah. Well, he’s my kind of a shrink, not like Dr B; more practical like, more chemical.’
    A door opened to the right of the nurses’ station which I hadn’t noticed before. A very short man came out of it and with neat movements locked it behind him, using a key that was on an extremely large gaoler’s bunch. He turned to face me. He was a funny little specimen. He had wispy fair hair teased ineffectually around his bare scalp. It wasn’t as if he was going bald, it was more as if he’d never grown any hair to begin with. This impression was supported by the watery blue eyes, and the nose and chin which were soft and seemingly boneless. He wore a stiff blue synthetic suit of Seventies cut and vinyl shoes.
    ‘You must be Misha Gurney. I’m Anthony Valuam.’ His handshake was twisted and rubberised, like holding a retort clamp in a laboratory, but his voice was absurdly mellow and basso. A voice-over rather than a real voice. His foetal face registered and then dismissed my surprise; he must have been used to it. Tom was stifling an obvious giggle behind his paperback. Valuam ignored him and I followed suit. We walked off down the short corridor to the lift. Valuam launched into an introduction.
    ‘It’s very unusual to have an admission through casualty at this time of day. On this ward we deal almost exclusively with referrals, but we know this particular young man and there are very good reasons why he should be treated on Ward 9.’
    ‘And they are …?’
    ‘I don’t wish to be enigmatic, but you’ll see.’
    Valuam fell silent. We waited for the lift, which arrived and slid open and closed and then dropped us down through the hospital to casualty, which was situated in the first sub-basement. The lift stopped on every floor, to take on and drop passengers.
    The architects, interior designers and colour consultants who had made the hospital were not insensitive to the difficulties posed by