The psychologist’s voice wavered, just for a moment.

“Well… yes, maybe. But we can measure and evaluate the cost of depression. And we know that it’s very common for people suffering from depression to be afraid of feeling happy. Because even depression can be a sort of secure bubble, it can make you start to think, If I’m not unhappy, if I’m not angry—who am I then?”

Zara wrinkled her nose.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“That’s because people like you always look at people who are wealthier than you are and say: ‘Yes, they may be richer, but are they happy?’ As if that was the meaning of life for anyone but a complete idiot, just going around being happy all the time.”

The psychologist noted something down, then asked, still looking down at her notepad: “What is the meaning, then? In your opinion?”

Zara’s reply was the response of a person who’s spent many years thinking about this. Someone who has decided it was more important for her to do an important job than live a happy life.

“Having a purpose. A goal. A direction. And do you want to know the truth? The truth is that far more people would rather be rich than happy.”

The psychologist smiled again.

“Says the bank director to the psychologist.”

Zara snorted again.

“Remind me again how much you get paid per hour? Can I come here for free if it makes me happy?”

The psychologist let out a laugh, an involuntary laugh, on the brink of unprofessional. It surprised her so much that she blushed. She made a feeble attempt to pull herself together, and said: “No. But perhaps I’d let you come here for free if it made me happy.”

Then Zara suddenly let out a laugh, not consciously, but as if the sound just slipped out of her. It had been a while since that last happened.

* * *

They sat in silence for a long while after that, somewhat awkwardly, until Zara finally nodded toward the woman on the wall.

“What do you think she’s doing?”

The psychologist looked at the picture and blinked slowly.

“The same as everyone else. Searching.”

“What for?”

The psychologist’s shoulders moved up one inch, then down two.

“For something to cling on to. Something to fight for. Something to look forward to.”

Zara took her eyes from the picture and looked past the psychologist, out of the window.

“What if she’s thinking of committing suicide, then?”

The psychologist didn’t look away from the picture, just smiled and gave away none of the feelings that were raging inside her. It takes years of training and two parents you love and never want to worry to master that facial expression.

“Why do you think that’s what she’s thinking?”

“Don’t all intelligent people think about that, some time or other?”

At first the psychologist was going to reply with some practiced phrase she had learned during her training, but she was well aware that wouldn’t help. So she replied honestly instead: “Yes. Maybe. What do you think stops us?”

Zara leaned forward and moved two pens on the desk so they were lying parallel. Then she said: “Fear of heights.”

There isn’t a person on this planet who could have said there and then with any certainty if she was joking or not. The psychologist considered her next question for a long time.

“Can I ask, Zara—do you have any hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” Zara repeated, but not in an entirely condescending way.

The psychologist elaborated: “Yes. Are you involved in any charities, for instance?”

Zara shook her head silently. The psychologist thought at first that it was a compliment that she didn’t just fire back with an insult, but the look in Zara’s eyes made her hesitate, as if the question had toppled and broken something inside her.

“Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?” the psychologist asked anxiously, but Zara had already looked at the time, stood up, and was now walking to the door. The psychologist, who hadn’t been a psychologist long enough not to be struck by panic at the thought of losing a patient, found herself saying something quite remarkably unprofessional: “Don’t do anything silly, now!”

Zara stopped at the door, surprised.

“Such as what?”

The psychologist didn’t know what to say, so she smiled awkwardly and said: “Well, don’t do anything silly… before you’ve paid my bill.”

Zara let out a sudden laugh. The psychologist joined in. It was harder to identify the extent to which that was also unprofessional.

* * *

While Zara was standing in the elevator, the psychologist sat in her office staring at the woman in the painting, surrounded by sky. Zara was the first person who had ever suggested that the woman might be thinking of ending her life, no one else had looked at it like that.

The psychologist herself always felt that the woman was gazing off toward the horizon in a way that can only have two explanations: longing or fear. That was why she had painted the picture, as a reminder to herself. It was the sort of subject psychologists love, because you can look at it for ages without noticing the most obvious thing. The fact that the woman is standing on a bridge.

25

Witness Interview (Continued)

JIM: I feel stupid now.

ZARA: I don’t suppose that’s a new feeling for you.

JIM: If I’d known you ran a bank, obviously I wouldn’t have said that. Well, I mean, I shouldn’t have said it anyway. I’m not really sure what to say now.

ZARA: In that case, perhaps I can just leave?

JIM: No, hold on. Look, this is all a bit embarrassing. My wife has often told me that I should just keep my mouth shut. I’ll stick to my questions from now on, okay?

ZARA: Let’s give it a try.

JIM: Can you describe the robber? Anything at all that you can remember about him, anything you think could be helpful to our investigation.

ZARA: You already seem to know the most important thing.

JIM: And that is?

ZARA: You said “him,” so you evidently know he was a man. That explains a lot.

JIM: I have a feeling I’m likely to regret asking this, but why?

ZARA: You lot can’t even piss without missing the target. So obviously things are going to go wrong if you get hold of a pistol.

JIM: Can I interpret that as meaning you don’t remember any details about his appearance?

ZARA: If someone’s wearing a mask and pointing a pistol at you, a psychologist would probably compare the trauma to almost being run down by a truck: you’d be unlikely to remember the number on the license plate.

JIM: I have to say, that’s a very insightful observation.

ZARA: That’s a relief, because what you think really matters to me. Can I go now?

JIM: Not yet, I’m afraid. Do you recognize this drawing?

ZARA: Is that what it is? It looks like someone’s knocked over a urine sample.

JIM: I’ll interpret that as a no to the question of whether or not you recognize the picture.

ZARA: Very clever of you.

JIM: Where in the apartment were you when the bank robber came in?