Natalie stirred her coffee around and around. The froth had formed a pale layer. ‘When he’s not psychotic, he can be a sweetie. Gentle as a lamb. Funny. Sensitive. Kindly. He has a phenomenal memory, one in a million, or some such statistic—an extraordinary mind—though it doesn’t apply to everything. He enjoys painting. Though you can see,’ she tapped the sheet of thick paper propped against the coffee pot, ‘it’s hard to figure out what his paintings are about. It’s just … When … Well, he suffers these episodes regularly and they are terrifying, for him and anyone around him. As I said before, the attacks make his behaviour rather difficult to …’ She lifted the spoon from her coffee, seemed uncertain what to do with it, and went on stirring.
While Natalie deliberated, Irenya examined the
