James met the flogger at a self-help group. He’d always been wary about therapy. He could easily imagine men sitting in a circle with the therapist coaxing intimacies and confessions, the men wishing they were somewhere else. You saw it in films. Out of the silence a man speaks up as if he were at a Quaker meeting. He has never spoken about this before, he says, it’s not easy. The man next to him puts an arm round his shoulders rather tentatively. Another sobs. The therapist looks pleased with himself. When the session ends the man hangs around to have another word. There are other scenarios too. A man gets worked up. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouts and storms out, knocking over a chair. He’s back the following week, in a more reflective mood. The therapist looks pleased with himself.

James didn’t plan to become a long-term patient. Not much wrong with him. He was thirty-three and worked for a law firm. He was not unattractive, if anything he looked rather young for his age, needing to shave only every other day. At school they called him baby face. Though he didn’t play any sports he was in pretty good shape. He had some good friends and his social life wasn’t bad though heavy drinking now gave him a headache which lasted a couple of days. A great aunt had left him some money. He’d bought a two-bedroomed flat in Stoke Newington. He was lucky, he knew that.

Since his father died he’d experienced drift, not in any overtly tragic way. He missed being able to call his father on the phone. He hadn’t seen him often but he liked hearing his voice. His father had been a good man. He wanted his son to do well. He wanted his son to be happy. James had done fairly well but he was single and not crazily ambitious though he guessed he had a degree of resilience, not least when it came to law exams, some of which he’d had to do again. He was beginning to feel all those years in front of him were something to endure rather than enjoy.

A Jewish friend said, ‘You become a man when your father dies.’

James, of late, had spent a lot of time looking out of the window. He had found it difficult to focus. His GP put him on a low dose of sertraline.

He saw the leaflet in a Turkish Restaurant. Men Need to Talk, it said, along with other notices advertising yoga and advanced meditation. He took a picture of the email address with his phone and by the time he got home he decided he was going to give it a try. Danny replied immediately. Newcomers welcome. Each session required a ten-pound contribution to help with costs.

James didn’t say anything at the first two meetings. They listened to a guy who’d broken up with his wife. His wife had been screwing someone else and she told him the marriage had run its course. They had two children and George had a sense of foreboding. What if the children drifted away and switched their affections to this new man? He put his head in hands when he said that.

At the third meeting Danny invited James to say why he’d joined the group and James began to explain that since his father had died he felt there was a void in his life. He hadn’t wanted to say void but he couldn’t think of another word so he went ahead and said it.

‘You mean like being in a sailboat and discovering the tiller isn’t working?’ Kevin asked.

James had never been in a sailboat. Nevertheless, he said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’

Kevin looked pleased with himself and Danny smiled. No one had much to say apart from ‘Have you ever considered rock climbing?’

As they piled out of the deconsecrated church Victor put a hand on James’ shoulder. ‘Care for a drink?’ Victor took him to a pub around the corner and fetched him a gin and tonic. Victor drank bottled water.

‘You’re not drinking?’ James asked.

‘Not when I’m working. These days I’m working round the clock.’

Victor was wearing a suit, which made him look like a manager rather than a man in need of therapy. He had never spoken about himself in the sessions but sometimes offered suggestions after a patient had spoken. He used words like ‘Balance’ and ‘Control’ and ‘Bracing’. On one occasion he said, ‘There’s no shame in suffering pain.’

‘I’m Victor by the way.’ He had a strong grip.

Victor was urbane and black and spoke with a Nigerian lilt. ‘I was brought up in Abuja,’ he explained.

At school James had had a crush on a boy. James was sixteen, Solomon a couple of years older. They’d fooled around a couple of times but Solomon made it clear it wasn’t really his thing and James blushed every time he saw him after that. Solomon won a scholarship to Oxford, the first black boy to win a scholarship to that college, and James hadn’t seen him since. At university James began a relationship with a girl who was studying psychology.

It was pleasant talking to Victor. His questions were purposeful. James guessed he was in his early forties.

‘What do you think about Danny’s sessions?’ Victor asked.

‘They’re rather as I’d imagined. There’s a formula.’

‘Do you think you’ll find what you’re looking for?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to stick at it a while.’

‘I think you’re wasting your time,’ Victor said.

Victor looked at his watch and said he had an appointment. It was nearly nine o’ clock. It seemed late for an appointment but James wanted to get home too.

‘Take this card,’ Victor said, ‘there’s a number on the back.’

Victor wasn’t there at the next self-help group, nor the one after. James’ sailboat with its broken tiller became the focus of the discussion. Kevin had taken the idea to his heart and was exploring it in a number of ways.

‘When the wind stops blowing you’re in the doldrums. You’re like a child on a three-legged rocking horse that’s going nowhere. Is that how you feel James?’

James couldn’t remember being on a rocking horse, three-legged or otherwise, but he said ‘Yes, that’s spot-on Kevin.’ Kevin smiled and a new face said, ‘Have you ever thought of going on a pilgrimage? You don’t have to believe in God. You don’t have to believe in anything.’

Kevin continued. ‘Do you see the oil tanker getting nearer and nearer.’

‘Yes,’ James said. ‘It’s getting nearer by the day.’

Danny leant forward, ‘Have you thought about mending the tiller?’

There was silence after that.

That night James took out the card Victor had given him and examined it. On one side it said Treatments, on the other it said Build a Life that Stays the Course. Just as Victor had said there was a number too. James decided to call it. Victor answered straightaway.

‘I thought you’d call.’

Pleasant to hear his voice.

James said, ‘You’ve not going to the group anymore?’

‘I don’t think there’s much more I can do there. I’ve found another one in Crouch End.’

James wanted to ask what he was looking for but thought better of it.

‘Kevin was right,’ continued Victor, ‘you’re just bobbing around. I think you’re adrift. I’m not saying Danny isn’t a good man.’

‘He has interesting ideas,’ James said.

‘Ideas need to be converted into actions,’ Victor said. ‘You need a sharper focus. Have you looked at my card?’

James looked at the card again which was in his hands and he said out loud, ‘Build A Life That Stays The Course. It’s ambitious Victor, I’ll give you that. Cryptic even. I can only suppose you charge a fee. Can you give me more information?’

‘I’m not in this business to make money James. I’d call it a vocation.’

James felt sheepish.

‘I have to cover my costs but we can go through that on another occasion. The best thing is to come round and get a feel for it. Once you understand my approach I don’t think you’ll find it cryptic at all.’

Work kept James busy. As a young solicitor he needed to put in the hours. Friday evening he decided to ring Victor. Victor answered straightaway. James, you’re a lucky man, I’m free tomorrow at noon.

Victor, he discovered, lived in a hotel. The Nigerian therapist gave him the name over the phone. ‘Go straight past the receptionist and you’ll find some stairs which take you down to the basement. Be punctual. Wear a suit.’

James looked up the hotel and saw it was nearby. It described itself as ‘stylishly boutique’. He went to bed early and dreamt of Solomon for the first time in years.

James walked into the hotel and saw a young woman behind the desk. He thought she was going to ask him how she could help but she didn’t look up. James walked past the reception as instructed and found the stairs going down to the basement. Victor had told him to knock on the door and wait. Victor appeared in a blue dashiki and a matching kufi hat.

‘Come Mr James.’

The basement was spacious. There were several doors off the long corridor. Victor took him into a sitting room. There was a pair of black shoes on the floor.

‘Mint tea?’ Victor asked and disappeared into the kitchen. James noticed a long cane with a carved head on the wall. Victor brought in a tray.

‘Take a seat James, make yourself comfortable.’

Victor put the tray on the glass table and poured the tea. For a while they drank in silence.

‘Tea to your liking? Good. I thought it important you saw where I lived.’ Victor waved his hand in an expansive gesture. ‘It suits me well—I do a little work for the hotel and we came to an agreeable arrangement.’

James carried on sipping.

‘One of the advantages,’ Victor continued, ‘is that my apartment is completely soundproofed. I can play music very loudly and no one hears a thing, not a dicky bird.’ He picked up the remote control and the room was flooded with Bach.

After listening to the music for a while Victor said, ‘James, my friend, let me give you the tour.’

They walked down the corridor decorated with African masks. Victor opened a couple of built-in wardrobes, full of shirts, suits, trousers and rows of shoes. James remembered a line from The Great Gatsby. Victor opened the door to the shower room. It was very modern and very clean.

‘My father was a pastor,’ Victor said. ‘A good one at that. He had a fondness for that old expression—I’m sure you know it—‘‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’’’ Victor laughed. ‘He was right of course. I like my clients to shower before their treatment. You’re good with that Mr James?’

‘I had one this morning.’

‘Two showers never harmed anyone. This shower will scrub off those bits other showers can’t reach.’ Victor laughed again, a good throaty laugh. ‘Hang your suit up here. I’ll bring you a towel and a dressing gown.’

James stood under the shower and it felt as if the power of the water were pinning him down. The temperature was perfect and there were bottles of shampoo and body wash which smelt of coconut and lime. If this was godliness bring it on. He seemed to be under the water for ages. It was only when it turned icy cold that he switched off the shower and dried himself with the luxurious towel. He hadn’t planned to wash his hair but he had. There was a high-speed hairdryer attached to the wall which meant it only took him a few minutes to get everything dry. He put on the dressing gown.

Victor sat in the armchair, in his dashiki, legs apart.

‘I bet you feel like a new man,’ he laughed. ‘I thought you’d appreciate a deep clean. You smell of coconut. Suits you. Now put your clothes back on. I have a job for you.’

The shoes were on the glass table, on top of a tea towel, along with a tin of black polish and a couple of brushes and a cloth.

‘When was the last time you polished your shoes?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘We need to do something about that.’

James blushed.

‘I like my shoes to shine. You could start with these. Nice aren’t they?’

James sat looking at them. Like mini gondolas.

‘I’d like you to clean those shoes for me.’ Victor pointed at them as if to remind James they were real shoes, shoes which had walked the streets of London.

James looked again.

‘Best to make a start, wouldn’t you say? Take them off the table and kneel over there so you can put some elbow grease into it.’

Bach continued to come out of the large speaker.

‘There’s a cloth to clean them and a brush to polish them up nice and bright.’

James was thinking of Danny’s comment—Have you thought of mending the tiller?

He began on the shoes.

Victor sat in the armchair, legs apart, watching.

James was thinking this was the first time he’d cleaned someone else’s shoes. Then he remembered when he was a boy he sometimes cleaned his father’s.

‘You’ve missed a bit there,’ Victor said, pointing a finger.

The music was soothing and mathematical, the smell of black polish not unpleasant.

After a while Victor said, ‘Pop them on the table, and take a seat. Not bad James, not bad, for a first attempt. How do you feel. Feeling good?’

Kneeling on the floor had made his legs ache.

‘I tell my clients the benefit of the treatments isn’t a straightaway thing. It can take a while to sink in. Next week perhaps, the week after, you might think of my shoes and feel proud. Feel good.’

Victor looked at his watch, ‘Mr James, I’ve got a client coming in a while so we’d better bring this session to an end. You’ve made a good start.’ He paused a moment. ‘I’m not in the therapy business to make money. At the same time I don’t want to be out of pocket. Can you take down my bank details and then we can deal with any financial matters efficiently. There are more important things to worry about.’

James put the details into his phone though he couldn’t really imagine what costs he’d incurred.

‘Excellent. Before you go why don’t I show you the Treatment Room?’

James wanted a cigarette. He’d been trying to give up but he thought he’d reward himself with one as soon as he’d left the hotel.

They walked down the corridor and came to the last door.

Victor unlocked the door and switched on a light.

The only thing in the room was some kind of contraption which reminded James of the ‘horse’ they’d had in the school gym. This was rather more elaborate and looked as if it were made of leather. Then James looked at the wall. Hanging from a rail there were canes of all lengths and sizes, a tawse, a whip and a couple of riding crops.

He stepped back.

‘Relax James,’ Victor said, putting an arm around him. ‘I call him Jonny, after my first client. He’s a CEO in the Far East now, very successful. You’ve done well today. Give me a call when you want to arrange the next session. You know where I am.’

James walked past the receptionist feeling feverish and once he got out of the hotel he lit up and walked quickly down the road and he lit up again once he’d thrown the first cigarette down a drain. It was March and it looked as if it were going to rain. If he walked fast he’d get home before the downpour.

That evening he was going to a dinner party. He hung up his suit, took some paracetamol and lay on his bed for twenty minutes. He’d start on that report his boss had asked for before he went out.

The dinner party was a success and on Sunday James nursed a hangover.

He woke up early on Monday morning and polished his shoes before going to work. He put on his best suit and decided to throw himself into his work. He needed to make a good job of the report. He wasn’t going to think about Victor and he was going to chuck Danny’s group too. He’d always known, deep down, therapy was a con.

Two days later he picked up a voice message from Victor. His heart started to pound.

‘Been thinking about you James. I’ve been wearing my lovely clean shoes. I trust your shoes are shining too.’ There was some amusement in the voice when he said that. ‘Best foot forward. I’ve given some thought to your expenses. Nothing to worry about. You did enjoy that hot shower didn’t you? And you seem to have gotten carried away with the coconut shampoo! Shoe polish doesn’t fall off trees you know, especially the high-end stuff I buy. And towels and dressing gowns need to be laundered. My clients deserve the cleanest, the brightest. Not to mention my dashikis. They need to be dry-cleaned to get the best effect. You know what I’m going to say don’t you, Mr James? Cleanliness is next to . . .’ Victor continued: ‘I got the impression you rather enjoyed the mint tea.’ There was another pause as if James were meant to reply. ‘As this was your first session I will give you a discount—you deserve one my friend.’ Victor stopped talking for a while. ‘Could you shoot over a hundred and fifty pounds. Today please. I look forward to arranging another session. Get in touch when you’re ready.’

James walked around the flat. He could feel the heat rising to his neck. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He expects me to pay a hundred and fifty pounds for cleaning his shoes and using his shower! He looked out of the window. The sky was like tinned soup. Maybe he’d give Danny’s group another go.

James had missed a couple of sessions. Danny was pleased to see him. ‘We’ve missed you,’ he said and gave him a hug. Kevin gave him a hug too.

Danny said ‘Before we begin today’s session I have some bad news.’ There were eight men in the room, all holding bottles of water, all worried. ‘Because the council has upped their prices I’m going to have to ask you to pay twelve pounds each session—starting from next week. If any of you think this will be difficult please have a word and I’ll see what I can do.’

It was Kevin’s moment now. He’d had this illness when he was a teenager and this had resulted in a neurological problem in his right leg. James had noticed he dragged it along as if there were a rock at the end of it instead of a foot. Kevin welled up when he talked about the operations and the procedures and the interventions and the long periods off school and the fact he could never play football again. ‘That was another dream down the pan,’ he said, in an unexpectedly cheerful voice. He talked about vegetable diets and physiotherapy and pain killers with nasty side effects and the bespoke swimming lessons and the turmeric drinks his mother insisted on making, which he sipped without enthusiasm looking out of the kitchen window watching the kids in the park. He talked about the pain. You have to take your mind over there, he was saying. Danny leant forwards.

Kevin continued, ‘Imagine a scorpion has taken up permanent residence in your leg and then the scorpion has a large family.’

There was a long silence and James almost said, ‘Have you ever thought of taking up rock climbing?’

‘I had my first spliff when I was sixteen,’ continued Kevin, ‘and that was a Jesus is the resurrection and Jesus is the world to come moment. I’ve spent a good decade spliffed out. The scorpions still live in my leg but I don’t hate them as much. Sometimes I talk to them, nothing deep or philosophical, more like a wave of the hand, an acknowledgment we hang about in the same space. I’ve floated over London and I’ve floated back. Been hard to hold down a job, any job. Love life? Forget it! What with the weed and the painkillers and the pain which flares up any moment I could hardly describe myself as a hot date!’

He put his head in his hands as if to say I can’t speak anymore.

There was a round of applause. Danny said, ‘Thank you for sharing this,’ and stepped forward, getting into hug mode.

There was a fifteen-minute break. People could slip outside and have a cigarette or fix themselves a hot drink. There was a kettle and a large tin of instant coffee which had been there a long time.

After the break Danny switched the focus to James. Kevin had revived, seemingly. ‘Are you still bobbing around in that sailboat?’ he asked, ‘dodging oil tankers and sharks?’

James said—though he didn’t know he was going to say it—‘You know what? I’ve stopped caring about the tiller. I’m going to sit on the boat and let it drift.’ He felt hot. ‘If I get sucked underneath some fucking big tanker so be it. I think it’s in the hands of a higher power now.’ He didn’t know why he said this because he’d long stopped believing in a higher power, and he hardly ever used the F word.

Danny looked alarmed and then pleased and then alarmed again.

Kevin said, ‘James, we don’t want to lose you, we want you to arrive at a safe place.’ A new face in the group said, ‘Have you thought of learning a new language, a really difficult one like Chinese? ‘

James could tell that Danny wanted a word at the end of the session but he hurried out of the church and smoked a cigarette round the corner.

When James got home he sat on the bed and tried to imagine being dead. He took off his shoes—they needed a polish—and he lay on the bed.

When he woke up he saw there were two missed calls from Victor. He pulled up Victor’s bank details and transferred the one hundred and fifty pounds. That’s it! Over and out. Hasta la vista. I hope your gondolas fetch up at the Lido in style.

Thirty minutes later James got a text from his ex-girlfriend.

He met Molly at an Indian restaurant and although she didn’t spell it out it was clear she was breaking up with Ezra. She was in low spirits. At one point she reached out and touched James’ hand. ‘I miss you,’ she said.

James worked hard for the next few weeks, getting to work a little earlier than necessary and leaving a little later than his colleagues. One morning, in the lift, a tax lawyer from the neighbouring office said, ‘Terrific shoes!’

After he’d transferred the one hundred and fifty pounds to Victor’s account he received a message saying ‘Appreciated.’ The message continued, ‘This demonstrates an admirable commitment on your part. I look forward to seeing you in the near future.’

James bristled. He should never have agreed to see Victor in the first place. He had dreamt about Solomon again and he’d dreamt about his ex-girlfriend too and one night he dreamt of the ‘horse’ in Victor’s basement. He woke up feeling hot and he listened to Debussy on the World Service.

Things were going well at work. One of the partners called him into the office and shook his hand in a hearty partner kind of way. He complimented him on the report. ‘James, you’re finding your feet. Keep it up.’

James met Molly again. She told him about Ezra, though he wasn’t that keen to know about Ezra. He was from Colorado, a former college football player, a quarterback. James had seen him at a party once, buffed up and breezy.

Molly was saying, ‘He was great in bed, have to give him that, but he thought he was the only show in town, always expecting me to put him first.’ Molly had a job in Media Communications and she wasn’t going to allow some boyfriend to boss her around.

James was aware he had not been a great lover. He came too quickly and she never seemed to climax. He imagined, not that he wanted to imagine, the ex-quarter back climbing over Molly. After James had walked her back to her flat she kissed him on the lips.

A month later he passed Danny on Cazenove Road.

‘Have you given up on us?’ Danny asked.

‘So busy at work I’ve put things on hold.’

‘Remember, we’re always there for you.’

‘How’s Kevin?’ James asked.

‘He’s got himself a girlfriend. She has a neurological leg too. You might say they’ve found each other.’

James imagined them limping around in an amorous fog.

One morning—a Tuesday as it happens—James woke up and felt as if a switch had been slipped into the lining of his stomach. It wasn’t painful as such. It felt as if he were about to sit an exam on Advanced Litigation, one that he’d previously flunked. This time he was prepared. He just had to keep his nerve and then he was going to smash it. He felt the adrenaline, the giddiness, the rush. Although he’d not been in contact with Victor since he’d paid the treatment fee—he’d deleted his number—he knew he’d placed the business card in his drawer, the one full of socks. He looked at the card—Build a Life that Stays the Course it said. He realised he was going to ring the number. On the tube that morning he found it hard to focus and he almost missed his stop. At his desk, later in the morning, he looked down at his shoes and realised he’d not cleaned them for several days.

He phoned after work and Victor answered at once.

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘You’ve given it some thought and now you’re ready. Lucky for you, I have a slot on Saturday at noon. You know the drill: wear a suit and oh yes some clean underwear please. I like my clients to wear white underclothes. White is a sign of purity. My father used to say God is everywhere. Which makes one think, doesn’t it? Make sure you have a light breakfast and Mr James I want to see those shoes gleaming.’

Victor cut the call and James was left standing in the stretched-out light. The days were getting longer and the last rays of the sun made a rectangular pattern on the wall.

The following day, after work, James went to John Lewis and took the escalator to the floor selling underwear. He needed some new pants anyway. Molly was messaging him frequently, and each message friendlier than the one before. He was masturbating more than usual. He bought a pack of briefs—white—and he picked out some vests too. He tapped his card at the counter but it was declined.

‘Strange,’ he said, feeling he ought to say something. Then he pulled out another card.

‘Gone through perfectly,’ the cashier said.

It was Friday, the day before his appointment at the boutique hotel. James knew he could ring Victor at any time of the day and tell him that something had come up and, regrettably, he wouldn’t be able to make it. They would have to arrange another day, he was saying in his head. We could even make it a day which never comes into being, like the end of time say, when the Four Horsemen were saddling up and looking mean.

He didn’t ring Victor.

On the way to the hotel, Saturday morning, he saw a reflection of himself in a shop window. He looked like a million dollars, as if he were going to an interview, knowing it was a done deal, a shoe in. He’d showered early and then remembered Victor’s power shower—maybe he ought to get one himself. He’d eaten two pieces of toast at eight o’clock and he was already feeling hungry. When he walked into the hotel the receptionist looked up and smiled. He took the stairs down to the basement and knocked on the door. He was a little early. After a couple of minutes he put his ear to the door wondering if he might be able to hear some music: Bach, Elgar, Scarlatti. Nothing. He didn’t want to knock again, not yet. Then he heard what might have been a cough, a soundproofed cough. What if Victor were standing behind the door, examining him through the spyhole? James started to sweat. He heard the sound of something hissing through the air followed by a grunt, and then again and again as if Victor were perfecting some old-fangled, new-fangled Nipponese-Nigerian martial art. The door opened. Victor was wearing a black dashiki with matching hat, holding a cane in his left hand. He was beaming.

‘You’re looking great Mr James—look at those shoes! Come on in.’ He popped the cane against the wall and put an arm around James’ shoulder.

James opened his mouth but nothing came out.

‘No mint tea today, Mr James. Just water, the drink of lions!’ There was a tall glass on the table. ‘London tap water,’ Victor continued, ‘but I wouldn’t want my clients to drink out of the tap. I use a filtering device so the water is as pure as a Baptismal font.’

James couldn’t help wondering about the fee. He remembered Victor’s comment. There are more important things than money. He drank the water and it tasted good.

‘I think you know where we’re going to start. Take yourself to the shower room—you remember where it is? Towel and dressing gown hanging up and cleanse yourself thoroughly sir. When you’re done, put on your underclothes and we’re ready to go!’

He didn’t really enjoy the shower this time. He breathed deeply and rubbed himself with a shower cream called Fruits of the Forest. He glanced down. His penis seemed to have shrunk. He realised he could emerge from the shower, dress quickly and say he felt out of sorts, had taken a turn, and walk down the corridor and let himself out into the freedom of the city. He knew Victor wouldn’t be very happy and of course he didn’t know whether Victor had locked the front door. He imagined Victor was a man who didn’t like his work to be interrupted. He blanked this all out for a minute or two and the hot water rooted him to the spot. He didn’t wash his hair. The water turned cold.

James walked into the sitting room. Victor was sitting in the armchair, Handel playing on the stereo. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a new client fragrant with fruits of the forest! We’re going to skip the shoeshine today. Bigger fish to fry. Follow me.’

As they walked down the corridor Victor put his hand on James’ back. They walked past the books, the African statues and the maps of Nigeria on the wall. When they passed the shower room the soapy cleanliness drifted out from under the door. They got to the Treatment Room. James could feel his heart thumping though his cotton vest.

Victor took out a key and unlocked the door. ‘Please go in,’ he said. The walls were white like a sanatorium yet the room smelt of sweat. ‘I think we should open the window and let in some air. Nothing like a bit of fresh air. I had a client earlier this morning, a promising client, a young barrister beginning to make his mark. Today, for the first time, he took twelve strokes. You are looking at the aftermath of a heroic struggle.’

It was a warm summer day, and now the window was open, there was a breeze which made the canes sway on the rack.

‘You made a good job of cleaning my shoes last time. This time we need to get the Treatment Room spruced up. I’ve got some cloths for the bench and a mop for the floor. You can see my client made a bit of a mess, sweat mostly, but there’s a little blood over there and, oh dear, I think his bladder must have loosened up, poor man. You can use this spray to get rid of the blood.’ He handed James a glass bottle. ‘Jonny is no ordinary flogging bench. Bespoke design—cost a fortune, real leather. He’s heard it all. If only Jonny were able to speak!

James stood in his underwear looking at the contraption, unable to move.

‘Might as well make a start,’ Victor said.’ I’m going to make myself some mint tea. Back in a while, crocodile. Carry on Mr James.’

The music was instantly recognisable. The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. James looked up and saw a speaker in the corner, as well as a camera. The music was energising and the glass bottle gave off a gingerly tang which cloaked the sweat almost entirely. He set about cleaning up the blood. James was thinking of his meeting with the senior partner at work—‘Keep going, James, keep going.’ He squeezed out the mop and gave the floor another wipe. Victor came in with an old towel. ‘Splendid. Splendid. Jonny looks as good as new.’ He put an arm round James’ shoulder. ‘Use this to dry the floor. We don’t want anyone slipping up, do we?’

‘Perfect,’ Victor said a few moments later. ‘Now give me that towel and get yourself onto Jonny. Put your knees here and lie down on your front and drop your arms on the hand rests. That’s it. Comfortable, isn’t it? And thanks to you beautifully clean! You fit perfectly. I’m going to secure your ankles with these leather straps.’ The music had stopped when Victor had come back into the room. Victor closed the window. ‘There we are, and now your wrists. Won’t take a moment.’ James could smell Victor’s aftershave.

After he’d tied James securely to the bench Victor stepped back. ‘See if you can free your wrists, and now your ankles.’ James pulled at the restraints. He couldn’t move. ‘Good, we don’t want you wriggling about. I’d say you were ready James. At the point of no return. Congratulations.’ Victor patted his head.

He lit a candle in the corner of the room—a yellow candle. ‘Honeysuckle and jasmine,’ Victor said. ‘Expensive. Gives off a lovely aroma.’ James was looking ahead; his vision was restricted now he was tied to the contraption. Victor pulled up the elastic hem of James’ new pants and let it snap back. ‘Excellent choice of underwear by the way. You should know James—how can I put this?—I’m about to rearrange your buttocks. ‘

There was a moment of silence. ‘Listen up. I’ve got some calls to make. I’m not one for idling about. I’m going to leave you with the candle. Can you smell it? I’ll play the third section of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony—the Adagietto. It’s, how should I put it, mellifluous. Do you know it? Not saying much. Cat got your tongue? It’ll play for twenty minutes. Then we’re going to switch tempo. Wagner! I imagine you’ve seen Apocalypse Now.’

He put a hand on James’ shoulder. ‘When the Valkyries start wailing I’ll step into the room and administer six strokes. I’ll use the starting cane if you don’t mind. I think I left it in the corridor. Six is a good number, don’t you think? God created man on the sixth day. You won’t feel anything for a second or two and then I suspect you’ll feel a great deal of pain. You’ll pull through, I’m sure of it. I have a good feeling about you Mr James. Any questions? Enjoy the music.’

Victor closed the door and there was silence. The aroma from the candle was pleasant. The music slid, swan-like, into the room and almost immediately James felt as if someone had removed his vest and was dripping honey onto his back and shoulders and spreading it down his spine. This was no ordinary massage and in any case he couldn’t do anything to stop it, not that he wanted to stop it. His future, for the time being, was hitched to this horse-like contraption. Yet Mahler had provided a great bird—a benevolent eagle—which took hold of him and which was now taking him away from himself, away from the basement, over the houses of London and onto the forest. He could hear the flap of the wings and the bird lowered him into a glade. How green the grass and how green the ferns and how tall the trees. If only Mahler’s Fifth Symphony could go on forever.

James was alone and felt his soul were being rubbed in a great lather of goose fat. He could hear moving water and sure enough, just beyond, there was a river which glittered in the sun which was now breaking through the clouds. A boat appeared. Six men in loin cloths rowing serenely and a boy at the back beating a drum. In the middle of the boat there was a man with a crown, a prince among men. He looked ahead with purpose. When the boat reached the glade the man turned and James saw it was Solomon. He was no longer a stripling but something wondrous, something out of this world. Solomon smiled but there was a sadness in the smile, which made the smile even more beautiful.

Once the boat had carried on down the river James saw a girl bathing in the water. She was stepping out on the far bank and shaking her long black hair. She was naked and she must have thought she had the forest to herself. She was drying her shoulders with a piece of cloth. It was impossible not to watch her. James saw it was Molly, or some manifestation of Molly. When she moved a little he could see her breasts were fuller and her bottom more womanly, like a very large Sicilian peach. Even though the glade was cool James was feeling hot. He was locked onto Jonny his new companion. There was nothing he could do about it. Thank God I’m wearing clean underpants. Molly turned and smiled and waved. Such a plangent wave. A wave Mahler would have thoroughly approved of. She seemed to be saying, ‘Ezra’s back in Colorado. Swim across the river and we’ll be happy forever.’ Oh what joy and oh what frustration. He struggled once more to free his wrists and ankles but he knew there was no point.

‘Molly!’ he shouted.’ Molly!’

Further into the forest there was a clearing. A long table. And behind the table were sitting four serious looking men and a woman in a wig. It took a while to work out these were the five partners in his law firm. He could recognise his boss. There was an empty seat next to them. And his boss stood up and took the seat and put it in front of the table, as if it were a throne. He’d been so friendly of late.’ Have you given any thought to applying for a partnership—a salaried partnership. Your work has stepped up a couple of gears. We’re very impressed.’ He gestured at the chair with an open hand as if to say swim across the river and claim it as your own. For a moment James saw a brilliant career winding its way through the forest. James pulled at the restraints again. The four men and the woman in the wig were standing now. They looked kind and slightly bemused, and they walked away in single file.

Mahler was tremulous. Mahler was beautiful. James wondered why there weren’t any swans gliding along the river but just as he was wondering he saw a courting pair and behind the swans he saw a kingfisher on the branch of a tree.

There was a lone man sitting on a chair, on the other side of the river. He was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. It was his father. James had given him the book. It wasn’t the sort of book his father would have chosen for himself. Sometimes on the phone he would tell James how far he’d got. ‘Slow progress, I’m afraid, but there’s something about it.’ He remembered seeing his father in the garden, reading. ‘I’m about halfway through,’ he shouted.

They took him to hospital after the stroke. He’d lost his speech but he could read a little and when James went to visit him One Hundred Years of Solitude was on the table, along with the fruit and the cards. He was pleased to see James and, with some difficulty, he wrote on a piece of paper. The writing no longer his own. ‘I’ll be out soon, in the meantime I’m going to finish that book.’ He smiled sheepishly.

A few days later his father had another stroke. James took compassionate leave and for several days and nights sat by his father’s bedside.

The nurse wanted to call a catholic priest. James said, ‘Don’t do that.’ He’d known too many catholic priests at boarding school. His mother came, his sister came, his brother would have come if he were not bobbing around at the bottom of the ocean.

The hospital smelt awful.

James looked at his father who was sleeping, even though there was a tube coming out of his nose. He went back to the flat in Stoke Newington. He needed a shower and a decent night’s sleep. When he went to the hospital the following day his father was no longer in the ward.

‘I’m sorry, the nurse explained, ‘your father passed away in the night.’

One Hundred Years of Solitude was on the table.

Wagner woke him from his reverie. He felt a flush of heat and tried to sit up. He could still see a river but now it was the Rhine. He was holding a gun, running towards the river. On the other side there were tanks. Comrades were dropping by his side but still he moved forwards. Planes were flying in all directions. Mahler popped like a giant air balloon. It was then he noticed that under the rack of canes there was a shelf full of white pots. He could make out the writing—Victor’s Special Healing Cream: Apply Directly—and attached to the wall there was a notice: Buy One Get One Free!

Notwithstanding the screaming of the Valkyries James heard the door opening. Although he couldn’t see Victor it was easy to visualise him, in his black dashiki, holding a cane in his right hand. James made one last hopeless effort to free himself, pulling at his wrists and kicking with his ankles.

‘Humbling,’ Victor said. ‘And beautiful. Are you ready Mr James?'