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psychopath. I think that’s the problem.”
    “Okay,” I said. I sounded unconvinced.
    “Trying to prove you’re not a psychopath is even harder than trying to prove you’re not mentally ill,” said Tony.
    “How did they diagnose you?” I asked.
    “They give you a psychopath test,” said Tony. “The Robert Hare Checklist. They assess you for twenty personality traits. They go down a list. Superficial Charm. Proneness to Boredom. Lack of Empathy. Lack of Remorse. Grandiose Sense of Self-Worth. That sort of thing. For each one they score you a zero, one, or two. If your total score is thirty or more out of forty, you’re a psychopath. That’s it. You’re doomed. You’re labeled a psychopath for life. They say you can’t change. You can’t be treated. You’re a danger to society. And then you’re stuck somewhere like this. . . .
    Tony’s voice had risen in anger and frustration. I heard it bounce across the walls of the DSPD unit. Then he controlled himself and lowered his voice again.
    “And then you’re stuck somewhere like this,” he said. “If I’d just done my time in prison, I’d have been out seven years ago.”
    “Tell me more about the psychopath test,” I said to Tony.
    “One of the questions they ask you to assess you for Irresponsibility is: ‘Do you mix with criminals?’ Of course I mix with criminals. I am in bloody Broadmoor .”
     
     
    He clearly had a point. But still, Brian knew he and Tony were in danger of losing me. He called and asked if I wanted to visit Tony one last time. He said he had a question he wanted to spring on Tony and he wanted me to hear it. And so the three of us spent another Sunday lunchtime eating chocolate and drinking PG Tips in the Broadmoor Wellness Centre.
    Tony wasn’t wearing the pinstripe this time, but he was still by far the best-dressed potential sufferer of a dangerous and severe personality disorder in the room. We made small talk for a while. I told him I wanted to change his name for this story. I asked him to choose a name. We decided on Tony. Tony said knowing his luck, they’ll read this and diagnose him with Dissociative Identity Disorder.
    Then, suddenly, Brian leaned forward.
    “Do you feel remorse?” he asked.
    “My remorse,” Tony instantly replied, leaning forward, too, “is that I’ve not only screwed up my victim’s life but also my own life and my family’s lives and that’s my remorse. All the things that could have been done in my life. I feel bad about that every day.”
    Tony looked at me.
    “Did his remorse sound a bit rattled off?” I thought. I looked at Tony. “Did they rehearse this? Was this a show for me? And, also, if he really felt remorse, wouldn’t he have said, ‘My remorse is that I’ve not only screwed up my life but also my victim’s life . . .’? Wouldn’t he have put his statement of remorse in that order? Or maybe it was in the right order. I don’t know. Should I want him released? Shouldn’t I? How do I know?” It crossed my mind that perhaps I should be campaigning for his release in print in a way that appeared crusading but actually wasn’t quite effective enough to work. Like planting barely noticeable seeds of doubt into the prose. Subtle.
    I felt myself narrow my eyes, as if I were trying to bore a hole through Tony’s skull and peer into his brain. The look of concentrated curiosity on my face was the same look I had back at that Costa Coffee when Deborah first slid her copy of Being or Nothingness over to me. Tony and Brian could tell what was going through my mind. The two men leaned back in disappointment.
    “You’re sitting there like an amateur sleuth trying to read between the lines,” said Brian.
    “I am.” I nodded.
    “That’s all psychiatrists do!” said Brian. “See? They’re nothing but amateur sleuths, too! But they’ve got the power to influence parole boards. To get someone like Tony locked away indefinitely if he has the misfortune to fail Bob