Biblical by Christopher Galt

out the window. There was now a golden tinge to the light as dawn took a less vague shape.
    “In that case,” he said, “I guess I’d better see the patient …”

9

JOHN MACBETH. BOSTON
    It was two-thirty in the morning by the time they were through with the police. Macbeth and Corbin sat in the canteen of the Downtown District A1 station on Sudbury, drinking something that could only have been tangentially described as coffee.
    “Don’t say I can’t organize a memorable night out,” Corbin said wearily as he pushed the paper cup around the brushed aluminum of the table top, avoiding drinking its contents. If Corbin had seemed worn out in the bar, he now looked barely alive.
    Macbeth smiled and nodded, too drained to frame a witty response.
    “What happened out there?” Corbin asked without looking up from his cup.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know what I mean. You had some kind of absence or altered state. The way you worked on the priest: very efficient, but very detached. What is it, John? Simple Partial Seizure epilepsy?”
    Macbeth shook his head.
    “Then what?”
    “It’s like SPS in some ways … I get derealization episodes. Depersonalization. I’ve had them all my life. Or as long as I can remember.” Macbeth caught Corbin’s expression and laughed tiredly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like you’re assessing a patient.”
    “Have you sought help with this? Apart from self-diagnosis, I mean?”
    “Of course I have. God knows how many scans and neuroimaging. But unless an episode is actually taking place during imaging, it’s almost impossible to isolate the cause. Temporal lobe epilepsy’s been ruled out, they’re not migraines, I don’t have any lesions or tumors or edemas … Stress seems to bring it on, mostly. Like tonight. The weird thing is that it doesn’t affect function. In fact, sometimes it even enhances it. If you’re detached from a crisis you tend to respond calmly.”
    “No other symptoms? Other than the derealization, I mean.”
    “Nope.” Macbeth made a face. “Well, I do tend to have lucid dreams more than most. Vivid and lucid.”
    “Not to the extent of confusing them with reality, I take it?” asked Corbin.
    Macbeth laughed. “Going to write me a script for Thorazine, Doctor? No, like I said, my dreams tend to be lucid: when I’m dreaming I know I’m dreaming. Which I suppose, in itself, is quite unusual. But the nature of the dreams is odd too.”
    “In what way odd?”
    “I don’t dream about me. About my life. Most people’s dreams can be traced back to experiences, worries or other stuff that’s current in their minds. My dreams are about things I’ve read, things I’ve learned, instead of what’s actually going on in my life – like I’m borrowing data to dream, instead of using my own emotions and memories. And I’m never
me
in the dreams. I’m always someone else who’s somehow closer to the events I dream about.” Macbeth laughed. “I actually dream in third person.”
    “You do realize that your dreaming style could be linked to your waking derealization episodes?”
    “You think?” Macbeth made a sarcastic face.
    “You know, John, if there’s no underlying physical cause,it may have a psychological basis. Maybe some kind of trauma …”
    Macbeth laughed and shook his head. “Like what? I’m not bipolar or suffering from any form of anxiety disorder; I’m generally content with my lot, I had a happy childhood … Well, my mom died when I was really small, but I grew up accustomed to it and other than that, I’ve had a pretty stable and traumafree life. Dull, almost.”
    “That you can remember,” said Corbin, looking even more awkward. “Your memory … well, it’s not the most reliable and that, in itself, could be indicative of you trying to distance yourself from something. Some kind of trauma you’ve buried.”
    Again Macbeth shook his head. “I think it’s more to do with