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idea. Everyone speaks highly of the Park, and I didn't know where to turn. I would have come to you if I'd known.’
    ‘Who referred you to me?’
    ‘A consultant at the Park. I was living in such a fug that I had no idea what was best for me. He stopped my meds and told me to go to you.’
    ‘What were they giving you?’
    ‘Pretty much everything. Truxal and fluspirilene, but mainly flupentixol.’
    Truxal, fluspirilene and flupentixol were standard antipsychotic drugs. The clinicians at the Park knew what they were doing.
    ‘And none of them helped?’
    ‘The symptoms got worse. Even after I stopped taking the medication, it took weeks to find my feet. In myopinion, that's proof enough that drugs aren't the solution to my particular condition.’
    ‘What's different about your condition?’
    ‘I'm a novelist.’
    ‘So you said.’
    ‘It's probably best if I give you an example.’ Her eyes, which until now had been fixed on him unwaveringly, shifted to an imaginary object in the distance. During his years in practice, Viktor had opted for face-to-face discussions instead of the traditional analyst's couch. Ms Glass's behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary. Patients tended to avoid his gaze whenever they were endeavouring to give an accurate account of an important and traumatic event. Or when they were lying.
    ‘The first thing I ever wrote was a short story for a competition. I was thirteen years old at the time. The competition was open to secondary school pupils throughout Berlin and the subject was “The Meaning of Life”. My story was about a group of young people who set up a scientific experiment. I submitted the manuscript, and that's when the problems started.’
    ‘What kind of problems?’
    ‘I was at a party at the Four Seasons hotel in Grunewald. My best friend had just turned fourteen and her parents had hired out the ballroom. I slipped out to the toilet and saw her in the lobby. She was waiting at reception.’
    ‘Your best friend?’
    ‘No, Julia.’
    ‘Julia who?’
    ‘Julia. A character in my story. I introduced her in the opening paragraph.’
    ‘Let's get this straight: the woman in the lobby resembled a character in your story?’
    ‘No.’ Ms Glass shook her head firmly. ‘She didn't look like Julia; she was Julia.’
    ‘What makes you think that?’
    ‘Because she repeated word-for-word the first line of the story.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    She lowered her voice and looked Viktor in the eye. ‘Julia leant over the counter and said to the man at reception: “Listen honey, I'm going to do something special. How about you fix me up with a room?”’
    Viktor met her searching gaze. ‘Didn't it occur to you that it might be a coincidence?’
    ‘Sure. I gave it an awful lot of thought. But it seemed too much of a coincidence, given what happened next.’
    ‘Namely?’
    ‘Julia did exactly as I described. She stuck a pistol in her mouth and blew her brains out.’
    Viktor stared at her, aghast.
    ‘You're not . . .’
    ‘Serious? I'm afraid so. Julia was the beginning of a nightmare that has been haunting me for nearly twenty years. Some phases are more intense than others. But I'm a writer, Dr Larenz. It's my curse.’
    Viktor knew exactly what was coming next; he could have predicted every single word.
    ‘My characters come alive. I only have to imagine a person, and I see them, hear them and sometimes even speak to them. I create them, and they walk into my life. Call it schizophrenia if you will, but that's the nature of my condition, my own particular mental tick.’
    She leant towards him. ‘And there you have it. I decided to come to you.’
    Viktor looked at her and refrained from saying anything. There were too many conflicting thoughts, too many emotions.
    ‘Well, Dr Larenz?’
    ‘Well, what?’
    ‘Are you interested in my case? I've come all this way to ask you to treat me. Say you'll agree.’
    Viktor checked his watch. The five minutes were over.

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