The Boy with Two Heads

  ‘No. I’m not sure about you, though.’

  Rikki laughed, and kissed Richard on the cheek.

  ‘That’s quite a show,’ said Dr Warren, sitting back and chuckling. ‘I think those television people would be interested in that. They missed an opportunity. I was at the recording, by the way – I wrote down some of the things you said.’

  ‘Yes. Dad got in a mood about that.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Do I pick up a little bit of resentment towards your father?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rikki. ‘Our father’s a well-meaning schmuck, and we want to kill him. But that’s basic Freud, so we’d be crazy if we didn’t.’

  Richard said, ‘I don’t want to kill Dad, Rikki.’

  ‘Yes you do, buddy,’ said Rikki. ‘You dream about killing him.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Are you aware of Richard’s dreams?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He’s not,’ said Richard. ‘My dreams are totally private.’

  ‘He dreams about flowers. Chocolate. Killing Dad. And . . . what was it last night? We were in the classroom, and you looked down and we had no trousers on. You woke up, and you turned to me and said, “Rikki, if that stupid shrink asks about our dreams, don’t for God’s sake mention the trousers.”’

  ‘Not a word of that is true!’ said Richard.

  ‘Richard,’ said Rikki, ‘you’re a dirty perve: I read your diary.’

  ‘It’s your diary too, and you write much more than me. You’re the one with dodgy dreams. Can I have that coffee by the way?’

  Dr Warren stood up and went to the sink. He put the kettle on and prepared a cafetière. Madame Butterfly filled the silence, full of tenderness.

  ‘Can I change the subject?’ said the counsellor, once the drink had been served. He smiled broadly. ‘Let’s start again. I heard about the recent football match. You scored two goals, which is pretty fantastic! Congratulations.’

  ‘Both headers,’ said Richard.

  ‘Next match coming soon,’ said Rikki. ‘We’re training hard.’

  ‘You must have felt good about the victory, and your part in it. I gather your dad was there, and saw the whole thing.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Did you feel good, knowing he was watching?’ said Dr Warren. ‘I know your grandad used to like seeing you play. He played football in the Navy, I believe—’

  ‘How did you feel, Richard?’ said Rikki. ‘Let’s think back.’

  ‘I felt pretty good,’ said Richard. ‘We scored good goals, so—’

  ‘Your grandad used to watch, didn’t he? Cheer you on? Play shots in the garden?’

  ‘Four–nil,’ said Rikki.

  ‘You were remarkably close. You and your grandad.’

  ‘Were we?’

  ‘When you had trouble sleeping—’

  ‘He was around.’

  ‘I’m told he’d sit with you. For hours, sometimes.’

  Rikki smiled. ‘I just can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Memory like a sieve. But as to the football, well . . . I have to say we’d been pretty anxious about playing, Doctor Warren . . . because – well, you know, there was the chance that other kids would say personal things – ’cos kids can be cruel. So when we scored two goals . . . yes. There was a sense of relief. Triumph. Vindication. Not vindication, that’s the wrong word. Validation. Now, if that’s what you meant by your original question, “Did we feel good?” then . . . yes. We felt good.’ Rikki put his head on one side. ‘This is “The Rectal Institute”, right? Arsehole therapy.’

  ‘We observe, Rikki. We try to understand people.’

  ‘You understand me?’

  ‘I try to.’

  Rikki paused. He closed his eyes, and said, ‘I don’t want your understanding.’

  ‘I accept your hostility. That’s fine—’

  ‘You understand it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m trying to see where it comes from. There are things you don’t want to talk about because they frighten you, and that’s what hostility is.’

  Richard said, ‘But I’m not hostile. I’m honestly not.’

  Dr Warren smiled. ‘You’re not, I know. But I was addressing a different part of your brain. Rikki.’

  ‘Don’t ignore Richard,’ said Rikki. ‘I warned you about that: he has feelings too.’

  ‘I hope I’m not ignoring you, Richard—’

  ‘I’m Rikki. This is me.’

  ‘I was talking to Richard.’

  ‘But I’m Rikki,’ said Richard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re Richard,’ said Rikki. ‘Don’t confuse the counsellor!’

  ‘I’m not ignoring either of you,’ said Dr Warren. ‘All I want—’

  ‘Who are you talking to now?’

  ‘Both of you!’ There was a short silence. ‘All I want to know,’ said Dr Warren quietly, ‘is whether you think the situation you’re in can improve.’

  ‘Clearly not,’ said Rikki. ‘Unless you have a guillotine handy.’

  ‘Rikki,’ said Richard thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I’m hostile. I think I’m quite . . . un-hostile.’

  ‘No,’ said Rikki. ‘That’s self-deception.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You conceal your anger, and everyone thinks you’re balanced. But a man of Doctor Warren’s insight sees right through you. I tell you something, Counsellor: Richard beats me up. Do you want to see the marks?’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Richard. ‘There are no marks anywhere.’

  ‘Let’s take off our shirt.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about last night? Who got angry last night?’

  ‘That was you. You started it.’

  ‘You finished it, and I got cut.’

  Dr Warren stood up, and turned on the main light. ‘If you’re talking about the marks on your arms and shoulders, I do know about them. Your tests have picked them up, as you might expect, and your school has reported them as evidence of serious physical abuse. So yes, I would like to talk about them. Let’s do it.’

  ‘There are no marks,’ said Richard and Rikki together.

  Dr Warren smiled. ‘I think you need to know something.’ he said. ‘We’re close to what’s called a “referral”. If a child is deemed to be “high-risk” in any way, then the school keeps careful watch. You’ve talked openly about ruicide, and your behaviour’s deteriorating. So we have prepared what’s known as an Interim Care Order.’

  ‘An order for care?’ said Rikki.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You care about us, do you?’

  ‘Yes. It allows us to step in, before something bad happens, and we can protect you—’

  ‘Lock us up. You want to lock us up, Doctor? Is that where this is going? You want to protect us with your infinite sense of care? What from? The world is a bad place, we all know that.’

  Dr Warren smiled again. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t necessarily have the answers. I asked you about the marks on your shoulders, because we all know they’re getting worse. What I need to know—’

  ‘There are no marks on our shoulders,’ said Richard quietly. ‘Or on our arms.’

  ‘Richard, please.’

  ‘I’m Rikki.’

  ‘Richard. I am not your enemy. We need to talk about where they’re coming from.’

  ‘We play football,’ said Richard. ‘We get bruised like everyone else.’

  ‘But these are deep cuts, aren’t they? Why don’t you want to talk about them?’ Dr Warren put on his glasses and leaned forward. ‘I can take the pain away,’ he said.

  ‘Can you?’ Richard and Rikki said together.

  ‘I can make it better. If you trust me.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Rikki paused. ‘We have come to understand that the pain never goes away. Ever. It is a condition of being alive.’

  Dr Warren nodded. ‘Then let’s get on to t
he real subject. We’ve been avoiding it, and you know what I’m referring to. You can’t block it out for ever, boys—’

  ‘Sex?’ said Richard.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tooth decay?’ said Rikki. ‘Bad breath?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s your problem, Doctor Warren, so maybe we should talk about that – bring it out in the open. I mean, when you lean forward like you did just then. When you get all coy and intimate, it’s like talking to a corpse – poison gas, man. Let’s discuss dental hygiene, because I think we can help you. First of all, you need to floss more carefully and try an anti-bacterial mouthwash. I mean, how does your wife stand it? Or has she left you? And what about little Nathaniel – that poor kid in the photo? Does he puke when you kiss him?’

  ‘Rikki—’

  ‘I’m Richard, you freak, and I’m asking you about puke. Do you make everyone puke?’

  The colour had drained from Dr Warren’s face. ‘Whoever you are – Richard, Rikki. You desperately need help.’

  Rikki swore brutally.

  ‘Urgently,’ said Dr Warren. ‘You need it. So I want to ask you, openly . . .’ He spoke quietly. ‘I want to ask you about the death of your grandad, and what you saw. I want you to tell me, in your own words, what happened. I want you to talk about how you feel.’

  Richard nodded and stood up. There was a long silence. ‘We’ve got nothing to say about him,’ he said at last. ‘Not to you, not to anyone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He died, and it was a long time ago. People die.’

  ‘Are you still dreaming about it?’

  ‘We have to go now.’

  ‘That questionnaire – that picture you drew. Everything you say—’

  ‘We have to go now,’ said Richard loudly. ‘Goodbye. Thank you for the coffee. Have a nice day.’

  He put down his cup and walked out of the room.

  Dr Warren sat still for a moment, and then crossed his office to an inner door. He tapped in a security code, and it opened to reveal a long white corridor. He walked down it and came to a laboratory. A woman sat at a bench, hunched over a laptop from which cables trailed to a small silver junction box. She was in a white coat and her hair was drawn back tight from a pair of soft, watery eyes. She wore a name badge: DR G. SUMMERSBY, ASSOCIATE NEUROSURGEON. She turned off the camera and removed her headphones.

  ‘He’s extraordinary.’

  ‘Can you believe it?’ said Dr Warren.

  ‘Yes.’

  She paused. ‘He’s what we’ve been waiting for, isn’t he? Pure, unrestrained, unfocused fear.’

  ‘He’s almost frightening. And he’s killing himself.’

  ‘He’s a sociopath. In its purest form – uncontrollable and self-destructive. We’ll have to intervene. The drugs do nothing.’

  They stared at each other. The silence was broken by the occasional chirp and gurgle, and the rustling of anxious animals in straw. A hamster chose that moment to jump into its wheel and run. The wheel ticked, on and on, as the rodent scampered to nowhere.

  ‘He’s extraordinarily brutal,’ said Dr Warren. ‘It’s competitive now: the critical stages – just as you predicted. The serotonin’s down, obviously, but it’s the absence of self-censorship . . . that’s a hormonal imbalance quite beyond anything I’ve seen before. Bordering on psychotic, surely.’

  ‘You want to see inside?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I have from the start. The question is when?’

  Dr Warren smiled. ‘Keep it slow,’ he said. ‘There’s a crisis coming, isn’t there? That’s fairly obvious. We’ll have a reason then, and after your recent experience in Vietnam . . . it will be rather attractive.’

  ‘What would his parents say?’ said Dr Summersby. ‘We’ll need them on board.’

  Dr Warren said nothing. ‘It was what they wanted at first,’ he said at length. ‘From the moment they saw the second head – I have that on record. The father asked me to chop it off – that’s what he said.’

  ‘And you said we couldn’t.’

  ‘It would have been fatal. But everything changes, and like I said, you’ve had the Vietnam experience. You’re better informed. This boy’s stronger, so we could keep the Rikki head here, let it stabilize – document the whole pathology. We might keep him going indefinitely, if we’re lucky. Get him to the States.’

  ‘Molly’s still strong. Would Rikki last?’

  ‘Yes, I think he would.’

  ‘And you’d look after him?’

  Dr Warren smiled. ‘We’d learn to get along. He wouldn’t complain.’

  Dr Summersby stood up and moved to a wide glass chamber. It was in the corner of the laboratory, and a set of bars ran across the front. A monkey sat inside, secured to a frame so that its head leaned backwards. The eyes were glazed and couldn’t blink: the pupils were moisturized by tiny tubes.

  ‘Three months now,’ said Dr Warren. They both peered through the glass. The noise of a motor puttered, and filters bubbled. The animal’s brain gleamed pale grey, for the top of the skull had been removed. A collection of electrodes emerged from the tissue. Meanwhile, a ventilator was hard at work keeping the lungs moving. A pump sucked and sluiced, and tiny lights flickered. Fine wires were attached to a rack of needles that scratched their patterns on an uncoiling roll of paper, as Molly thought her silent, lonely thoughts. She gazed at the ceiling.

  ‘She’s doing well,’ said Dr Summersby. ‘You think Rikki’s as resilient?’

  ‘Possibly. Would Richard survive the trauma, though? That’s an important question.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Intact?’

  ‘He’d be alive,’ said Dr Summersby simply. ‘He’d have basic processes – just like Butterfly.’

  ‘If we could just get Rikki up here and . . . keep him conscious . . .’

  ‘We have to intervene, don’t we? The boy’s cutting himself. We have recorded evidence: threat of suicide. What did he say? – “Unless you have a guillotine”. It’s what we’ve been waiting for.’

  Dr Warren nodded. ‘I don’t see any alternative. He’s dangerous now.’

  ‘I’ll reserve a bed, then,’ said Dr Summersby. ‘Make sure we’re flexible. You’d better speak to that headmaster again. Prepare him for something drastic, because . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’d have to move fast. Push the paperwork through, and assemble the team.’

  ‘I’d better speak to the parents.’

  ‘Present it as good news. Say it’s the obvious thing now that the medication’s failed. An opportunity for normalization, essential for Richard’s survival.’

  She closed the laptop.

  ‘They’ll sign. Why wouldn’t they?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Richard woke that evening to find himself sitting at his desk.

  Rikki was asleep still, and he couldn’t remember how he’d got home. It was happening more and more: their sleeping patterns were changing, and he could shut down sometimes out of sheer exhaustion. His diary was open between his hands. Small, spidery writing filled the page:

  Richard no longer has the upper hand, and Dr Warren knows it. Richard can’t keep up, and he is the one going down. He has to, for his own good – he is the weaker, and he is losing strength. It is going to be sad to see him go, because I’ve got fond of his dweeby ways, and I can understand that he is a baby still. But his time is coming, and we have to cut away from all that slushy sentimental stuff.

  He is not strong.

  In the great evolutionary struggle, he is going to be crushed like a bug. Already, he is trying to be like me, but he will only ever be a poor substitute. He is the one cutting us, out of fear and desperation. I intend to start cutting him back.

  He is the one prepared to destroy us both: I am the survivor.

  Next time we see Dr Warren I am going to have to tell the truth: Richard is haunted, night and day. He sees Grandad everywhere, and it’s getting too
much. There can be no progress until Richard is restrained . . .

  Richard looked up.

  He turned to the mirror, where his own face stared back at him. He had his grandad’s eyes, for sure, and there they were, unblinking and steady as a pilot’s. Rikki leaned against him, dozing.

  Richard clenched his fist, and swallowed. Then he punched Rikki hard, in the left eye. The head jolted back, but stayed asleep. Richard wondered if he should do the right eye too, which would be a more difficult blow. He was still thinking about it, when his other arm flashed up and he was dealt a savage slap, right across his own cheek. Then his own fist jabbed him in the nose, and he had tears in his eyes.

  Rikki was awake, looking at him.

  Richard had a nosebleed. He looked down and let the blood drip onto the diary. Then he put both heads in his hands, balancing them – elbows on the table – and sighed.

  ‘Crash and burn, buddy,’ said Rikki softly. ‘Crash and burn.’

  Richard didn’t know what to do, or what to think. There was no textbook, because Mr Barlow didn’t teach this particular subject. There was no friend now, because Jeff had gone, and Eric was hardly in school. Mark was nervous about his work all the time, Salome ignored him and Aparna just turned her back.

  On top of all that, the one man who could have helped had died, while the grandson he trusted and loved had sat helpless, trying to keep him warm. Saying things – saying foolish things that his grandad couldn’t answer, because he was too busy dying. An artery blocked, and a muscle failing – an organ that had grown old and had never been replaced. That heart had pumped successfully for so many years, in cockpits, as Grandad flew in out of the sun and screamed to a halt under impossible pressure. On runways, in mess halls and out there in the garden, walking to school, watching from the touchline. And then one day it had stopped. The whole body had been left without an engine.

  Richard had answered a question about blood in last week’s test, and now he watched it drip.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he’d said to Grandad. He had said it again and again. ‘It’s all right, Danda – they’re coming. Don’t worry.’

  But his grandad had lain there, trying to breathe, and the old lips had gone blue. He was in a collar and tie as usual, and Richard had the tie, still, in his wardrobe – it was one of the things he’d kept, thinking one day he might wear it. The other clothes were too big, so they’d been folded and disposed of. Shoes, as well. Grandad had owned seven pairs of bright, shiny shoes, and they had been shaped to his feet: nobody else’s feet would ever fit so snug. They had emptied out his sock-drawer, and in the one below that they’d found shirts still in their wrappers, because people had been buying him shirts every Christmas and there were some he’d never got round to opening.