It was not a nervous breakdown. Those were the six words he used but not what he meant. Six is one short of perfection. It is one short of the truth, at least that's what some people believe. It's what I used to believe and beliefs are hard things to shake. We do often say things we don't mean or say one thing and mean another. The Native Americans had it so right when they said that the white man spoke with a "forked tongue."

He said it was not a nervous breakdown and spoke instead of "emotional sensitivity." As a doctor his words would carry some weight. On a scale of one to ten they would come in at about eight or nine; it's hard to be precise about these things. They should remember that before they open their mouths. We trust them because we have to trust someone or we'd all go insane. He never mentioned insanity. I asked him but he said if I had to ask then I wasn't mad. I didn't think he should have said that. Not like that. That wasn't the right answer. I'm not mad, not in the strict medical sense. I checked three dictionaries to make sure. Three points make a straight line.

Two and two make four. I've always believed that. I checked of course. You can't be too careful. I may have been young but I had all my marbles. And I checked. When I was thirteen I read Nineteen Eighty-Four and it confused me. Two plus two is four. You have to believe that it always will be and that is why it is. If you cannot trust people then you have to find something to trust. Mathematics is the language of the universe. Numbers never lie. They never let you down. So many things in life let you down.

I didn't mean to start off talking about the doctor. He must have been on my mind. I have so many things on my mind but I guess he was at the front of the queue. I was there last week. They sent me a card. Not many places send cards these days. The opticians do, every two years. I like that. I like opticians. You should take care of your eyesight. I do. Every two years. One for sorrow, two for joy. And I always order an extra pair because you can't be too careful.

I'm sorry. I was supposed to be telling you about the doctor and I ended up going on about the opticians. Maybe it's the white coats they wear. I suppose that's why I got confused. I get mixed up easily which is why I have to concentrate all the harder these days. The doctor's office sent me a card asking me to call. It had a time for my appointment and the name of a doctor. It was my doctor. So that was good. And it was a good time too, late in the day, giving me just enough time to finish up work without having to ask to get away early. I don't like to have to look for concessions like that. It's not professional. And I like to think I'm professional.

The bus was late. I don't like it when the bus is late. That's not professional. They have timetables so you know when the bus is late. I carry a selection with me. You never know when you might find yourself somewhere else and in need of a bus. It was the 13 that was late. I'm not superstitious you understand — that wouldn't be scientific — but I do so hate the Number 13 bus. Thirteen's a prime number and they're special. I wouldn't have given this bus that number though. They should think before they number bus routes. People can get very upset over things like that. I know I do.

The journey was uneventful, a fact that helped put me in the right frame of mind for my appointment. I arrived twelve minutes before my time and waited outside until ten minutes before. It doesn't look good to arrive too early. I read you should arrive punctually ten minutes before appointments, especially interviews. It was an official pamphlet and so I took it seriously. In my experience official literature rarely lies but if it does it is never intentional and always eloquent. I would have expected my doctor to be aware of that.

I was not taken on time. The wall clock in the waiting room was wrong but, even taking that into account, he was still four minutes late and seven minutes late by my watch which I had checked with the BBC only that morning. It would be too much to believe that the BBC had the wrong time. No, I won't accept that. He didn't look happy when I went in. He was writing and didn't notice me arrive. I knocked before entering as has been my habit all my life but he seemed far away. I assumed he must have had a great deal on his mind, which is something I understand. I like to think I give people the benefit of the doubt.

My test result had come back it seemed. That was good. Tests are good. I was always good at tests at school. It's good to stretch yourself. Mathematics was my best subject. Ever since I worked out the sum of two and two the symmetry, the magic of number has transfixed me. There were figures on my medical file but I couldn't read them and that seemed all too appropriate. The results were negative. He seemed pleased enough with that result. I had to work to grasp the concept of negatives when I was young. But when I did, when I saw them plotted on a Cartesian graph, I was stunned.

He asked me how I'd been. I said I was fine. "I'm always fine," I said and he smiled strangely and began tapping his pen on the desk. I think he was thinking. He tapped his pen twenty times, twenty gentle taps. It was a fountain pen. Twenty can be divided by itself and one and two and ten and five and four. There's a real beauty to a number like twenty. After that he talked about my work and home, things that didn't seem to have anything to do with him but I didn't like to be impolite and not answer him.

I told him about my work in the stock room about the order numbers, part numbers, invoice numbers, telephone numbers, department numbers, employee numbers and he listened. He listened and I talked. I don't talk nearly enough and he seemed interested. Not many people are. But he was an older man like me and I supposed he appreciated how things used to be different. Looking back I'm quite sure if he ever had understood then he had allowed himself to forget. You can't attribute old fashioned values to someone simply because they write with an old fashioned pen. We talked about holidays and hobbies. I'm not sure how we got onto that subject. And he talked about retirement and the need to take things easier. I thought, at first, he was discussing his own plans for retirement but he meant me.

"Who'd look after the store?" I asked. He suggested that they'd likely hire someone fresh, that the store didn't need me as much as I seemed to need the store. It seemed a very presumptuous thing to say. That confused me. I understand about symbiosis — I'm not stupid — and I know that a store needs a store-man and that a store-man needs a store. It is a part of the natural order of things. Malachi said that God was a God of order. Or it might have been Paul. He said I'd not had a nervous breakdown but that I had still been letting things get to me. I tried to explain to him but, as I did he seemed to get further and further away. It's strange how that happens.

I came away with a prescription for some pills. He said I was to take two pills three times a day after meals. One's a wish, two's a kiss and three's a disappointment. They turned out to be bright red. I didn't like the colour. Nothing in nature was as red as that, not even blood. My mother — God rest her soul — would have poured them down the sink without another word. I wasn't so sure so I put them in the cupboard with the other pills. There were ninety pills in the bottle. I thought that was a very strange number indeed, besides they use computers to count them and people are always going on about how they don't make mistakes. That was enough for two weeks and one day. They're still in the cupboard to this day.

I've never been much of a one for going to church. Especially in my later years. I don't know who picks the hymn numbers but they never made any sense together, I don't think songs should have numbers. Numbers are important but so are names too. Each has its own beauty. I mean, God didn't just ask Adam to count the animals did He? I used to question the existence of a creator. I don't know why but God never seemed to have any answers for me. I know Einstein believed in Him but I've often questioned his reasoning. I mean, without a shadow of a doubt Menuhin was a great violinist but that's circumstantial evidence at best; it doesn't prove there's a God, not in my book.

The best I could think to do was keep things about me in order and then see what the future brought about. You can't tidy up a mess before it's made. My mother used to say that. She was a wise old thing if sometimes a bit cryptic. I couldn't see that then but I can now. It just took me many, many years to understand what she was trying to say.

I began this to tell you what happened to me last year. It was not my intention to get side tracked but I find I do.

It was a Saturday. Saturday is my day for handing out my tracts in the town centre. I do it every Saturday just outside the shopping precinct and afterwards I take my lunch at Mrs Brautigan's Olde Worlde Tea Shoppe. They know me there. I'm even called by my name, Thomas. They keep a small table for one near the gents for me. It's all very dignified and clean and I appreciate the convenience of the convenience. Of course, Mrs Brautigan isn't there any more. She sold out and went to Luton with a biker twenty years her junior. There was such talk! The shop changed hands but, and I suspect this was simply an attempt to save money, the new owner retained the name which pleased me, whatever her reasons were. I don't much care for change though the only thing that ever seems to change here are the prices. Still it's my Saturday treat and to heck with the cost. The main thing was the number. That's always been the main thing. It was what drew me to the shop in the first place. As you've probably realised, I am very in tune with the numbers around me; they vibrate, like colours. Seven is my birth number — I was born on the seventh — and seven is my Birthpath Number. It is also my Destiny Number and my Heart's Desire. So it was no coincidence I was sitting in No. 7 High Street on the seventh day of the week on the seventh day of the seventh month. If I had been the seventh son of a seventh son then I'd have been in seventh heaven. Unfortunately, I'm an only child. I'd have been first in the queue at seven o'clock sharp but they don't open till eight besides, for all it was a significant time, I thought it best to go about my normal routine. I have found that there is an order to things and there's never anything left after the point if you do your sums right. Being first isn't everything.

I'd never seen an angel before: androgynous-looking being, disconcertingly luminescent. You don't expect visits by angels these days. I wasn't even sure if what I was seeing was an angel but when I asked I was told "Yes and No. I am a member of the set of imaginary numbers. Do you believe in me?" I said, "Yes," because I couldn't think what else to say. It was all very confusing, nevertheless, s/he explained s/he was actually a seraph, one of the first order of angels, and to prove it s/he turned round so I could see the six wings. Six has to do with man's testing but the angel, knowing what I was thinking, said, "No, Thomas. Six only exists because two and three did first. It springs from these and is explained by these." And s/he looked at me emphatically. No one else could see the angel and they all just got on supping their tea and exchanging bits of gossip. S/he didn't say anything else for a while and I wasn't sure what to say myself. I presumed s/he knew why s/he was there and would tell me in good time. It was an awkward silence but I'm not good at small talk at the best of times.

"In the natural world," s/he began, "there are only whole numbers. An innocent child can hand you two pebbles but you cannot tell me what a pebble is. If they are black or white they take on meaning. Numbers only become alive only when they become significant. Do you understand?"

"I think so," I said.

"And you understand what this means? This means there are books to be balanced."

Oh my! All my life I have proceeded from the false premise, that God, if there was a god, was a mathematician when all along He turns out to be an accountant.

I woke up in a hospital with a splitting headache. It appears I had collapsed in the tea room and caused such a stir with the old pensioners. It even made the evening paper — a kind nurse had left a copy in my locker — but I didn't like that they called me a "local eccentric" besides the photograph was anything but flattering. I don't like my picture being taken. Still, vanity was never a great weakness of mine. I had been unconscious — in a coma — for forty days. Jesus was in the wilderness for forty days and it rained for forty days and forty nights in Noah's day. The doctor had no explanation for my turn but I thought it wise to be quiet about my visitation. They kept me in for another three full days running their tests which gave me time to think. Apparently, it turns out, Casualty had had great difficulty in prising a sugar cube from out of my hand when I first arrived.

The very next Saturday there I was back at my usual pitch with my tracts and life went on just the same. No one mentioned anything to me. I doubt they even missed me. They took the tracts, those who would have anyway, and I went and had my lunch afterwards as per usual. Of course, I had to get new ones printed — the message had changed — but no one would know because no one would read; no one ever read them, not properly. In the tea shop later one of the waitresses asked after my health which was kind of her.

Two plus two is an act of faith. It is not so until you believe it so.

Like most of my short stories '√-1' began with the first sentence and I had to idea where that sentence would lead. There was no grand plan.

I really had no plan but I let the character grow and once I had a reasonably clear picture of him it was then necessary to do something with him. As he was an obsessive character it seemed not unreasonable to make him a religious nut. Then the obvious thing — obvious to me at least — was to knock his beliefs on the head and ask myself what this kind of man would do. And to my mind he would just pick up his new cross and carry on as if nothing had happened.