The Boy with Two Heads

  The pilot was Rikki, in a red helmet, his hands gripping the controls. He had his chin thrust forward, and he was concentrating hard. After a few seconds, however, he noticed Richard, and though he tried not to look, there came a point when their eyes locked together.

  ‘Crash and burn,’ he said.

  The dream went on and on, as the plane skimmed through the air. Richard looked at Rikki, and Rikki looked at Richard, and Richard knew they were plummeting. When Mr Westlake appeared in the bedroom, he found Richard was snoring, and Rikki was colouring.

  ‘Did you see the TV show, Dad?’ said Rikki.

  ‘Yes,’ said his father.

  ‘Were you proud?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve seen the speech you made too. Doctor Warren made a copy. I was called in, which is why I’m late home.’

  ‘We were kicked out of the team. For being different.’

  Mr Westlake nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘What did you think of me? Really?’

  Mr Westlake sighed, and sat down. He looked into Rikki’s eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think. We want you to see the counsellor again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why, Rikki? How can you ask me that?’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘Because you’re not well, and he wants to change your medication—’

  ‘Because I ask questions?’

  ‘No. Because you’re so . . . furious. Also . . . it’s a condition of you staying on at Green Cross. Doctor Warren was there – we all watched it together. If you want to stay at the school, you have to see him and they’re going to see what they can do. Drugs, perhaps, or—’

  ‘I don’t want to stay at school. I don’t want to live.’

  His father leaned forward and held his son’s shoulders. ‘How can you say a thing like that? What happened to the . . . to the—’

  ‘To the Richard you knew?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I guess you didn’t really know him, did you? I’m so sorry to disappoint, Dad – but this is what we are now, and if you want to lop off my head with a knife, why don’t you? I don’t belong in this family. I don’t belong in the world.’

  Mr Westlake paused, then pressed Rikki back in his chair. He looked at him hard. ‘I wanted them to, once, Rikki – to intevene. I’ll be honest. They told me I’d be killing you, so we couldn’t even think about it. But I can’t stand much more of this, that’s for sure.’

  Mrs Westlake had followed her husband up with a tray of cocoa, and stood in the doorway looking at them. ‘Don’t fight,’ she said quietly. ‘We’re not going to solve anything by another row.’

  ‘What do you want to solve?’ said Rikki. ‘I didn’t ask to be born. You were the ones who organized that.’

  His parents stared at him in silence.

  ‘Rikki,’ said Mr Westlake, at last. ‘Don’t you want to be helped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can’t go on like this – you said that yourself.’

  ‘So what? It’s got to end sometime.’

  ‘Doctor Warren can help. You didn’t give him a chance, and we want you to go back to him. In fact, Rikki, isn’t that the point? You don’t give anyone a chance.’

  ‘What is the matter, love?’ said Rikki’s mother. She came into the room and sat on the bed. Her husband put the cups of cocoa on Rikki’s desk and sank back in his chair. ‘I haven’t seen it yet,’ she said. ‘But from what your dad said you sounded . . . you sounded suicidal. Why, love?’

  ‘I don’t know what we’re for,’ said Rikki quietly. ‘Any of us. You, in particular – look at you. You just work and sleep and cook and make hot drinks that we don’t even want or need. I don’t know what this is about. You’re strangers to me. I look at other kids’ parents and . . . I mean, don’t you look at other kids and wish they were yours, instead of me? I look at you and think, These people I live with, in this crazy house . . . this old house. They’re nothing. They’re going to die, they’re going to end up in the earth – or not even in the earth. We’ll be pushing you into the furnace like we did Grandad, that’s what me and Richard will do, and then we watch the smoke come out the chimney. We put on black clothes and we go around sad for a bit – and that’s the end of you.’

  Mrs Westlake couldn’t speak.

  ‘We pack up your stuff. Give it away. It’s all junk.’

  His mother’s lips were trembling. She blinked helplessly.

  Mr Westlake said, ‘Rikki, you’ve got to shut that mouth of yours. All you do is hurt and upset people—’

  ‘Why can’t we talk about dying? He lived right there, just down the landing! He lived in your office, and it’s not your office! How is that your office?’

  ‘Is that the problem here?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then what? We’re all going to die, son. Of course we are. I am, you are – is it Grandad you want to talk about?’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Rikki. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know. People die—’

  ‘There’s no God, is there? I was right about that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Westlake.

  ‘You don’t believe in one.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh, my word. Sometimes. Yes. Sometimes, I do.’

  ‘I do too,’ said his mother.

  ‘When? At Christmas. When you want something.’

  ‘No,’ said his father. ‘The last time I really believed, if you want to know, was when you were born. I remember that moment and that was a miracle.’

  ‘When Richard was born, not me,’ said Rikki. ‘I’m the monster from hell, remember?’

  ‘No, no, no. To me you are the same now.’

  ‘What made you believe in God, then – when I was born? Did you see those angels?’

  Mr Westlake sighed. ‘Oh, my boy,’ he said. ‘You ask questions, but you don’t listen to the answers. No: I didn’t see angels. I’ll tell you something – we’d wanted a son for so long, and when you were born it was like our prayers were answered.’

  Rikki laughed. He put his fingers into his cocoa, and gritted his teeth as the liquid burned him. ‘That’s just genes,’ he said at last. ‘Evolution – we do it at school. We’re conditioned to propagate ourselves and we dress it all up as miracles – it’s just science, Dad, and you wanting to prove your manhood and tell yourself some part of you lives on after death.’

  ‘You know nothing about it,’ said Mr Westlake. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘It’s in the exam. It’s in our science book.’

  ‘You know nothing about birth.’

  Mr Westlake paused for a moment, and Rikki stared at him. Then he sucked his fingers.

  ‘I was scared,’ said his father.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t want to be there, I suppose – in the hospital, I mean. I was so scared, and I thought, Why do they need me? – I’ll be in the way – but I’d promised your mother. You know, I actually thought I was going to faint I was so nervous.’

  ‘Scared of me being deformed?’

  ‘No.’ He took his wife’s hand, and held it tight. ‘Of seeing all that mess, I suppose – and not being able to do anything useful. But I got there, obviously – and . . . it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘You weren’t easy, Rikki,’ said his mother.

  ‘You certainly weren’t. Not even then.’

  ‘You weren’t round the right way, for one thing. It wasn’t drastic, but we’d been warned it was going to be difficult. We’d tried a long time for you – given up, almost. So everything was at stake.’

  ‘When I saw you . . .’ said Mr Westlake. His voice was soft. He had his eyes closed. ‘When you emerged . . . I could not believe it. You had long hair, do you know that? Your face was all twisted, and your little fists were clenched. You screamed out – my God, you were strong. And you were so beautiful. You imagin
e – but you can’t, Rikki. You cannot imagine what it’s like.’

  ‘Genetic conditioning,’ said Rikki. ‘So the race survives.’

  ‘You won’t know, for a while, what it is to see life . . . starting. Dying, you know about now, and I wish you didn’t. But being born – you know nothing at all. Every time I look at you I am so glad, and proud – just as your grandfather was. He was! – don’t look away. We phoned him so he was the first one to know. And I remember holding the receiver so he could hear you screaming away, and he was in tears, Rikki. He could not speak for joy. We lived up north, then, so it was nearly a week before he saw you. He was outside the house, waiting for us – that was the first time he held you, and you’re named after him—’

  ‘I know this,’ said Rikki. ‘I know all this.’

  ‘Three months later we moved in, to be closer to him. You know all about it. He was ill, but he had ten years—’

  ‘I’ve heard this, Dad.’

  ‘And now you talk about ending your life? Rikki, you’re just breaking our hearts. You think we’re going to let that happen? Either of us?’

  ‘He hasn’t understood how precious he is,’ said his mother. ‘Maybe it’s us. Maybe we haven’t made it clear. Whatever you say, or do, Rikki – you are the most precious thing. And we’re not going to let you go.’

  Mr Westlake’s phone rang suddenly. He let it ring for a moment, and then found it in his pocket. He checked the screen and said, ‘It’s Doctor Warren. Talk of the devil.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him,’ said Rikki. ‘He’s not on our side and he’s going to make it worse.’

  Mr Westlake pressed connect, and said to Rikki: ‘You’re going to see him even if we have to drag you there and hold you in the chair. He is going to make you well, because we can’t.’

  He paused, and Rikki stared at him.

  ‘Who else is there?’ said his father. ‘What else can we do?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  They made a four o’clock appointment for the following Saturday.

  In the morning, they had shopping to do. Richard and Rikki needed all kinds of things for the Clifden Adventure Centre residential, which was at the very end of term. There were boring things to be found, like trousers and socks, but they soon moved on to the altogether more exciting ‘Outback Survival’ store. First, it was headgear, and Rikki wanted a baseball cap. Richard showed him the Clifden brochure, which assured the reader that ‘the right choice of clothing could well be a matter of life and death. Bring balaclavas,’ it said, ‘or woollen hats – for nights out under the stars . . .’ The shop assistant showed them the full range, and they spent several minutes trying out the possible colour combinations. She then brought out scarves, and a small crowd gathered to watch as she knotted a complicated figure-of-eight in vivid purple around the boy’s two throats.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Rikki. ‘Buy one, take one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can have a photo. Think of the advertising!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They bought a new rainproof coat with an extra-wide hood. They bought gloves. They got a two-man ridgetent and a camping stove so small it fitted in your pocket. They bought a map of Wales, a compass and two beautiful penknives – Rikki wanted the bottle-opener attachment; Richard preferred the screwdriver. Then they chose walking boots, two head-torches, and an SAS-approved survival blanket that appeared to be made of tinfoil. Mrs Westlake put it all on the credit card, and they crossed happily to the local bookshop. They were disappointed, however, to find that the recommended handbook – Alive and Uncaught, by Chris ‘Nailhead’ McGinty, SAS Commander – was completely sold out.

  ‘I’ve had about a dozen kids in here after that,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Why’s it so popular all of a sudden?’

  Richard explained, and added his name to the order list.

  They went to the barber’s, then – though Mrs Westlake was worried about time. She had tried to cut her son’s hair herself, but Rikki had been impossible and she’d had to give in. Richard had sat still, but Rikki simply waggled his head and squealed – it had been way too dangerous. Colin the barber had been delighted to oblige and he put them in the chair, utterly unfazed.

  ‘Total head-shave, twice?’ he said. ‘Fancy the skinhead look?’

  ‘You shave my head and we’ll sue you,’ said Richard. ‘I want a trim, please – just off the collar, and—’

  ‘Give him something decent, Colin,’ begged Rikki. ‘He still looks about seven years old – give him train-tracks – I know! Give him a little Mohawk!’

  ‘I want to look normal!’ said Richard.

  ‘That’s what I’m suggesting,’ said Rikki. ‘You never get it, do you?’

  ‘There’s not enough time for anything fancy, I’m afraid,’ said Colin. He was combing their heads simultaneously, flourishing two silver combs. Again a small crowd had gathered, and someone was filming on their phone. ‘Do you want to look the same, or different?’

  ‘Different,’ said Richard.

  ‘The same,’ said Rikki. ‘We are the same, so I think a left-parting for me, and a right-parting for him. There’s safety in symmetry.’

  They arrived at the Rechner Institute at ten past four, looking neat, tidy and happy. Soon they were in the same bed on the same ward – fifth floor – with two nurses looking after them. It was Dr Summersby’s ‘special ward’, apparently, where she put her most important patients. After a snack, they were taken down for tests, and submitted to an hour of scans. They filled in a questionnaire, and looked at swirls of colour. They copied shapes and solved riddles, and then they were put on a treadmill. They had X-rays in a long, metal tube and for the last half-hour they were connected to headphones and what looked like car batteries. Strange photographs were projected onto the wall in front of them, and they were interrogated about what they saw.

  After a warm shower they changed into school uniform, and it was time for the counselling session.

  ‘Rikki, put your tie on,’ said Mr Westlake. He had left work early to join them.

  ‘No,’ said Rikki.

  ‘Do as you’re told!’

  ‘No. Dad, I’m not at school—’

  ‘Come here! Do what you’re told, and try to make this work – show the gentleman respect. Put your chin up . . .’

  Rikki submitted as his father looped and knotted his tie, and when both heads were completely respectable, they went back up in the lift. Dr Warren’s room was on the sixth floor, where the carpets were extra-thick.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said.

  The place had been transformed. It had been cleaned since the last visit, of course, but all the beanbags, games and puzzles had been put away, out of sight. The counsellor had subdued the lighting, putting on a couple of desk lamps. He had also illuminated the fish tank. The sound of an aria floated in from a discreet hi-fi, and there was a smell of roasting coffee.

  ‘How are you?’ said Dr Warren, smiling brightly. ‘A long day for you, I think – I hope you’re not too tired.’

  ‘No,’ said Richard. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘How are you?’ said Rikki. ‘Wow, it’s dark in here. Have you been sleeping?’

  ‘No, Rikki.’

  ‘Telling ghost stories? Scaring the nurses?’

  Dr Warren smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Sit yourselves down,’ he said. ‘It’s really good to see you. Can I get you coffee, or tea, or a soft drink . . .?’

  ‘What’s this music?’ said Rikki.

  ‘It’s an opera,’ said Dr Warren. ‘It’s a love story—’

  ‘Madame Butterfly,’ said Richard. ‘Mum and Dad like this. We get this at home.’

  Rikki laughed. ‘What is it about you old people?’ he said. ‘You get all misty-eyed about nothing – guys singing about their love affairs. This one forgets all about her, doesn’t he? So she breaks her heart and . . . what does she do in the end?’

  ‘Madame Butterfly kills herself,’ said Dr Warren. ‘It’s a tragedy.
’

  ‘People die,’ said Rikki. ‘That’s not tragic, Doc – it’s the circle of life.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘See the show. I’ll sing you the song if you like.’

  ‘I think life can be tragic,’ said Dr Warren. ‘You’ll find, sometimes—’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ interrupted Rikki. ‘I’m just a boy with a simple outlook.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Who wrote the music, by the way?’

  ‘And you’re answering a question with a question. Is that intentional? – it’s certainly clever.’

  ‘Can I have a coffee?’ said Richard.

  ‘How many sugars?’ said Rikki quickly.

  Richard looked at him. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Haven’t we given up?’ said Rikki.

  Richard paused. ‘Do you think we should?’ he said.

  They were both grinning, and they turned to look at their doctor.

  ‘That’s impressive,’ he said. ‘That’s not an easy game to play – I am impressed.’

  ‘Ah, we play a lot of games now,’ said Richard. ‘We amuse ourselves, now. We don’t rely on others, because, now we’re losing our friends.’

  ‘Really?’ said Dr Warren.

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Rikki. ‘In my head, I have tons of friends.’

  ‘You play games against each other? What kind of games?’

  ‘I-spy,’ said Richard.

  ‘Do you want to see us arm-wrestle?’ said Rikki. ‘It’s very entertaining, but it can get violent. Chess, we can also play. But I always win, so Richard gets a bit tearful.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Rikki, ‘I’m a simple soul, and I don’t want to get tangled in an argument about brains with a man of your experience. But I think it’s because I’m smart, and Richard’s dumb.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Richard.

  ‘What’s the capital of the Sudan?’ said Rikki.

  ‘Khartoum,’ said Richard. ‘How long is a chain?’

  ‘Fifty metres. Who invented the aqualung?’

  ‘Jacques Cousteau,’ said Richard. ‘Define “catharsis”.’

  ‘Ah, now, catharsis is a disputed term,’ said Rikki. ‘So don’t get tricksy. But the majority of scholars would define it as the moment passion or emotion is purged while witnessing something massively distressing. One more question, Richard: are you gay?’