department to tell me a ghost story?’
‘The ghost was your son, Congressman.’
My father is as thunderstruck as I am.
Akiko Kato flicks her hair. ‘And I assure you he is a ghost who is very much alive. In Tokyo and looking for you.’
My father says nothing for the longest time. ‘Does he want money?’
‘Blood.’ I opt to bide my time while Akiko Kato cuts more rope to hang herself later. ‘I can’t dress up what I have to say. Your son is a crack addict who vowed to me that he would kill you for his stolen childhood. I’ve come across many a damaged young man in my time, but I’m afraid your son is salivating psychosis on two legs. And it isn’t only you he wants. He says he wants to destroy your family first, to punish you for what happened to his sister.’
Voorman’s cell is a palace of filth. ‘So, Mr Voorman . . .’ Dr Polonski paces over faeces and flies. ‘How long have you believed yourself to be a god?’
Voorman is in a straitjacket. ‘Let me ask you the same question.’
‘I do not believe I am a god.’ Something crunches under his shoe.
‘But you believe yourself to be a psychiatrist.’
‘Correct. I have been a psychiatrist since I graduated from medical college – with first-class honours – and entered my practice.’ The doctor lifts his foot – a twitching cockroach is glued to his sole. He scrapes it off on fallen masonry.
Voorman nods. ‘I have been God since I began practising my profession.’
‘I see.’ The doctor stops to take notes. ‘What does your profession involve?’
‘Chiefly, on-going maintenance. Of my universe.’
‘So you created our universe?’
‘Quite. Nine days ago.’
Polonski weighs this up. ‘A considerable body of evidence suggests that the universe is somewhat older than nine days.’
‘I know. I created the evidence, too.’
The doctor sits on a shelf-cot opposite. ‘I am forty-five years of age, Mr Voorman. How do you account for my memories of last spring, or my childhood?’
‘I created your memories when I created you.’
‘So everything in this universe is a figment of your imagination?’
‘Precisely. You, this prison, gooseberries, the Horsehead Nebula.’
Polonski finishes the sentence he is writing. ‘Must be quite a workload.’
‘Greater than your puny hippocampus – no offence – could ever conceive. Worse still, I have to keep imagining every last atom, or it all goes “poof”! “Solipsist” only has one l, Doctor.’ Polonski frowns and changes the position of his notebook. Voorman sighs. ‘I know you are sceptical, Doctor. I made you that way. May I propose an objective experiment to verify my claims?’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Belgium.’
‘Belgium?’
‘I don’t suppose even the Belgians would miss it, do you?’
My father says nothing. His head is bowed. He has a full head of hair – I don’t need to worry about baldness. This is a dark, delicious, unexpected turn of events. I will announce my presence any moment now, and expose Akiko Kato as a lying viper – I want to keep my advantage a little longer, and build up my arsenal for the battle ahead. Akiko Kato’s mobile phone rings. She gets it out of her handbag, snaps ‘Call back later, I’m busy,’ and puts it back. ‘Congressman. The general election is four weeks from now. Your face is going to be plastered over every candidate board in Tokyo. You will be on television daily. This is not a time to keep a low profile.’
‘If I could only meet my son—’
‘If he knows who you are, you are doomed.’
‘Everybody has a reasonable side.’
‘He has a criminal record – GBH, burglary, drugs – as long as your wife’s fur rack. He has a very nasty cocaine habit. Imagine what the opposition would do. “Abandoned Ministerial Love-Child Criminal Swears ‘I will kill him!’”’
My father sighs in the flickering darkness. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Liquidate the problem before it turns into your political death.’
My father quarter-turns. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting violence?’
Akiko Kato chooses her words carefully. ‘I foresaw this day. Plans are in place. Accidents happen in the city, and I know people who know people who can make accidents happen sooner rather than later.’
I wait for my father’s reply.
The Polonskis live in a third-floor apartment in an old city house with a gate and courtyard. She hasn’t eaten or slept properly in months. Pale fire shudders in the shade. A convoy of tanks rumbles by. Mrs Polonski slices iron bread with a blunt knife and ladles thin broth. ‘Are you still fretting about that Boorman prisoner?’
‘Voorman. I am