The Holy City by Patrick McCabe Page A

out.
    â€” Then he shouldn’t have tried to trick me, should he? I said to Mike.
    And what reply could there possibly be to that?
    â€” It was just a pity, though, Chris. I mean — boiling water, for Christ’s sake.
    And I know it’s true — and I deeply regret it, I genuinely do. Trickster or not, none of that ought to have been necessary with Dr Mukti.
    I was kept in the White Room for quite a considerable period of time, don’t ask me how long — I lost all track. Then one day, quite unexpectedly, when I was chewing my nail in the corner and thinking, to be honest, mainly about nothing, the most extraordinary thing happened. At the very first indication of that soft and faint, very measuredtapping behind the ventilation grid I inclined my ear forward, my initial consideration being that it might be a small creature: a mouse, for example — or a timid little bird. And persisted in thinking that — excitedly, I have to say — as I inspected the serrated grid for a sign. An indication.
    The curved whisker of a rodent, perhaps, I considered, or a small distended avian claw.
    Then I heard another sound — this time different, soft but resolute nonetheless. It suggested a thin wooden panel sliding back sharply. Barely perceptible, but indisputably
real.
I started backwards in expectation, but, in fact, nothing happened. With nobody — or nothing — appearing for quite some time. It had all the hallmarks of some kind of subtle charade. Like someone was trying to ‘take a hand out of you’, as the old farmers used to say long ago. But then, after another short while this small brown hand, hardly even the size of a doll’s, appears out of the ventilation grid, so positively, absurdly and quite ridiculously tiny that you could not help but be amused.
    And before you could say anything at all, whose head appears — I could scarcely believe what I was seeing myself — none other than that of Dr Mukti himself, the noted head psychiatrist of St Catherine’s Hospital. But a psychiatrist unlike any I had ever seen before — one who could not possibly have been more than six inches in height, handsomely attired in his buttoned-up Nehru-style jacket, a little blue cotton cap perched on his head like a boat. With some old ancient Hindu nonsense scribbled on it. He looked so content, almost blissfully so.
    Which explained why, initially, I was on the verge of greeting him in that same familiar, almost affectionate manner we’d been accustomed to when we first met. Before hostilities opened up between us. But I was soon to be disabused of any such facile intentions.
    For his expression already had grown grave and darkly formal. As he waved his finger and chastised me formidably for my recent undignified, unworthy behaviour. Repeating harshly:
    â€” You’re just about the rudest man I’ve ever known, Christopher John McCool. Saying those things to me that day in my office. Have I not at all times told you the truth? You cannot deny the fact that I have. Why then, don’t you ask yourself, would I bother to go to the trouble of deceiving you in this instance? Can’t you see it’s your own innate weakness, your complete failure to put your trust in those who might be able to help you that has been causing you all these unfortunate problems? You really are your own worst enemy, McCool!
    I knew now what he meant. And that, probably, in all likelihood, his accusations contained a lot of substance.
    Apart from the bit about the Catholic priest, anyway. Which only served to show how little, just like Pandit, in spite of all his much-vaunted experience, he actually knew. And how hastily he himself tended to jump to conclusions and embrace stereotypes. He’d been labouring, it soon became clear, under the illusion I’d assumed his visitor that day — on the ‘day of the boiling water’, I supposeyou might call it — had