Because we don’t really understand what they are

Because we don’t really understand what they are.” Stella wonders, “Is he talking about his patients… or women?”The same kind of parboiled irony infects the moment when Stella, mindful of what Stark did to his wife, listens to him grunting over a drawing of her head as if he were “performing a particularly delicate surgical operation.”Many of the same problems attend the omniscient, if not always reliable, narration of Dr Cleave. When Max’s boss remarks of his charges that “We try and treat them, but not, I’m afraid, with any great success. Such is the level of her detachment that, accompanying Charlie on a school trip, she can only watch abstractedly as the boy drowns in a hillside pool. Initially arraigned on a manslaughter charge, Stella is eventually returned to the asylum and the all-too tender ministrations of Dr Cleave, since promoted to superintendent.While all this is written up with huge attack and intensity, full of shrewdly observed dilemmas and incidental drama, McGrath can’t avoid – in fact, rather seems to welcome – a kind of staginess which in consequence seems mildly tongue-in-cheek.

Removed to a barbarous corner of North Wales, where Max is forced to accept a much humbler position, she goes completely to seed, takes up with the weaselly farmer next door and occupies her leisure in gin-sodden reveries. Before long the old behavioural patterns – rage, insane jealousies, morbid fixations and so on – reassert themselves: Stella, returning nervously to the loft after a violent confrontation, finds that Stark has vanished and is herself arrested by the policemen sent to find him.Happily, Stella avoids prosecution; her husband, on the other hand, loses his job. All this changes when Stella deserts Max and their only son Charlie to join her paramour in his derelict London hideaway. They include a desiccated psychiatrist named Max Raphael, his brooding wife Stella, an older physician, Peter Cleave, who doubles as the book’s narrator, and a seriously disturbed intern called Edgar Stark, who has been incarcerated after murdering his wife and mutilating her decapitated head. Ah, the subjects novelists choose these days, to be sure! Stark is a sculptor by profession, and Stella, watching his muscular form going about its tasks in the garden – Max is having the old conservatory refurbished, bless him – can console herself with the thought that the object of her affections is an “artist”. There is even more comfort in the realisation that his offence (motive: sexual jealousy) can be romanticised as a crime passionelle Boredom, frustration and summer languor do the rest. It comes as no surprise – at any rate to the reader – when after a particularly intense coupling in the Raphaels’ marital bed, Stark steals a suit of Max’s clothes and goes over the wall.
At this point canny onlookers are suspicious of Stella but unable to prove her involvement.

The asylum of the title is Broadmoor – this much seems clear from a jacket note to the effect that the author’s father once worked there as medical superintendent – and the opening chapter of Patrick McGrath’s agreeably taut fourth novel finds each of its chief characters lodged in that establishment. Her narrative here is surprisingly complex, but almost incidental to the true star of the novel, which is the tone of sweet solemnity that pervades the book with a scent – yes, perhaps it is of lightly phosphorescent, top-canopy orchids.. They will also be pleased to find her apparently back on top form, writing with confidence and with the odd flash of brilliance. As usual, she is able to introduce very bizarre ideas into a populist genre and never makes the reader feel an ounce of discomfort.The mystery of Anne Rice is how she manages to animate large parts of her novels which are simply conversations with not much obviously happening.