‘You were here three times a week for over a month, which leaves a lasting impression. You’ve grown out of your nosebleeds, I hope? You were like an old man, always carrying a handkerchief, because you suffered from them so frequently. But the most important question should be is: doyourememberme?’
‘No.’
‘Then what led you here?’
‘Your name was mentioned in notes left by a psychotherapist I saw as a boy.’
That creates a frown line in his unnaturally smooth brow. He removes the lid from a chunky fountain pen and makes some notes in a lined notebook.
‘Do you know what one of the most persistent adverse effects of ECT treatment is, Damon?’
‘Memory loss. So I assume you used ECT on me? Even though I was only a kid.’
‘Let’s bypass the accusatory section of this tête-à-tête and accept that as a given, shall we? And “retrograde amnesia” is the correct terminology. Some patients may have gaps for events that occurred around their time of treatment. But in some cases, that amnesia can stretch back years. Such as yours.’
‘But now my memories are returning.’
His brow arches and he leans forward. ‘Explain.’
‘I witness events that have happened in the past, but only when I die,’ I begin, before recounting everything that’s happened to me since the first time I drowned. He hangs on my every word without interruption and makes furious notes. He only asks questions when he’s sure I’ve finished. It’s the hallucinations that fascinate him the most. He presses me about who I see, what they look like, how obvious their injuries are, how frequently they appear and what they tell me they want from me.
‘“Bleeds”,’ he says when I’ve answered. ‘That’s the name I have ascribed to them. It’s not uncommon. Memories bleeding from your subconscious into your conscious. But what, or whom, you see isn’t tangible.’
‘I’m aware they’re not real,’ I say. ‘I’m still the right side of crazy.’
Only just. And I’m not sure he believes me. I’m also unsure if I care. ‘Are you the reason why I’ve forgotten so much?’ I continue. ‘You used that machine to pick and choose which memories to erase?’
‘No. The fields of neurophysiology and neuropsychopharmacology have yet to advance with such great strides,’ he admits. ‘The hippocampus, located in the brain’s temporal lobe, is where episodic memories are formed and indexed by you to access later. That’s the area I targeted.’
‘“Episodic memories”?’
‘They’re tied to everyday specific events and experiences. Like what you watched on television last night, how you travelled to my house this morning, what snacks you ate in the car. By targeting them with electricity, some of those memories can be erased. But we can’t choose what you retain and what you lose. If we could, there’d be a queue a mile long outside my front door begging me to consign bad behaviours to the past. However, the more cases we treat, the more we learn.’
‘And you’re still treating people?’
He tenses. ‘Not presently.’
The way he says it, almost with indignation, suggests he’s keeping something from me. I hold his gaze and we remain in a stalemate until I suggest, ‘You were struck off.’
He sighs as if responding is tiresome. ‘A common misconception, accepted and disseminated at the time by an uneducated, disingenuous, mainstream media,’ he says. ‘I resigned.’
‘You jumped before you were pushed.’
He ignores me. ‘British medical science once led the world with its comprehensive mental health services. But a lack of continuing government investment, an unwillingness to risk pioneering treatments and a generation of woke, spineless bureaucrats mean we now lag behind many other countries. And when experts such as myself formulate revolutionary ideas that challenge and expand upon current procedures, we are pilloried. When, in fact, we should be celebrated.’
‘For doing what?’
He answers as if the reason is obvious. ‘For helping young people like you!’
‘And how exactly did you help me? Because, from what I can tell, all you’ve done is take things away. Like the truth.’
Something about his expression brightens when I ask him this, as if a spotlight only he can see is now shining upon him. He reclines in his chair.
‘Are you sure you really want to know?’ he asks.
He is toying with me. And I have no choice but to play along. ‘Yes.’
‘I should be celebrated for ensuring you have never killed again.’
