The Boy with Two Heads

by Andy Mulligan

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘He’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘He’ll need care, of course. We’ll talk to his teachers—’

  ‘Please,’ said Mr Westlake. ‘Cut the wretched thing off, now. Lop it off, now, before it gets a hold! One cut and this whole nightmare—’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the consultant. ‘Death would be instantaneous – I can promise you that.’

  ‘But he’s a monster. Look at him . . .’

  ‘Mr Westlake. That second head is Richard, as much as the first.’

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ said Mrs Westlake quietly. There were tears running down her cheeks. ‘I don’t want this – look at him, look at our son . . .’

  Mr Westlake drew his sobbing wife into his arms, and they stood helpless at the bedside. The little eye was now wide open, and it gazed up at them, sadly. The pupil was black, gleaming like a jewel. There was a crease of skin below the nostrils, and even as they watched it started to stretch slowly, and split. In seconds, two purple lips were forming, and a bubble of spit appeared. When it burst, the lips opened to reveal a line of delicate teeth. Between the teeth they saw the tip of a tongue.

  Mr and Mrs Westlake stared. The second head turned slightly, and the first moaned in its sleep. The new mouth exhaled, and the eye blinked slowly, gazing up at its parents for the very first time. Minutes later, the second eye was open too, as wet with tears as the first. Richard writhed for a moment, and the alarm announced yet another growth-spurt.

  Mr and Mrs Westlake were led gently from the room, bewildered and numb. The eyes followed them as the first, as the familiar head slept on, dreaming its dreams.

  The transformation continued all night.

  Fine hairs sprouted, and became eyebrows. By morning there was a black fuzz over the whole scalp, and the chin was sharper. The features were still close together, but they were expanding, taking on a marked resemblance to those by their side. The mouth was soon identical, and it smiled and frowned, as if practising different expressions. A junior nurse overheard the mumbling just before daybreak, and called the ward sister. Dr Warren arrived moments later.

  The nurse washed the whole face gently, and patted it dry.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the head softly.

  The ward sister stood back. ‘That was speech, sir. Definitely.’

  Dr Warren drew his chair closer. He produced a tiny recording device, mounted on a silver tripod. He checked the focus and started to film.

  ‘Can you hear me, Richard?’ he said.

  The eyes blinked. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Dr Warren peered into the eyes. He checked the temperature on the monitor above, and wiped a bead of spittle from the lips. ‘You’re perfectly safe, young man. Perfectly safe.’

  ‘Am I? Where?’

  ‘You’re in hospital.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’re in good, capable hands,’ said Dr Warren. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What’s happened then? I don’t recognize anything . . .’

  ‘Right now you’re in the neurology ward, Richard. How do you feel?’

  ‘Warm.’

  ‘Yes? Comfortable?’

  ‘Yeah. Wow . . .’ The second head breathed out, and closed its eyes.

  Dr Warren checked the camera again. ‘I’m going to ask you to lie nice and still,’ he said. ‘You need to take it easy, OK? You’ve had a quite a shock and it’s exhausted you. Can I get you anything?’

  The second head smiled. ‘I like the bed,’ it said quietly. ‘It’s good to be still – I’m feeling pretty strange, though. I’m feeling . . . hungry.’

  Dr Warren chuckled. ‘You want food already? That’s a good sign – that’s interesting.’

  ‘What’s it a sign of?’

  ‘It suggests you’re healthy.’

  The forehead creased for a moment. ‘You’re filming me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, just for the records. Can I ask you a question? How old are you? Do you know your age?’

  ‘Have a guess, Doctor. Check my file.’

  Dr Warren laughed again. ‘I know the answer, Richard,’ he said. ‘Of course I do. What I’m wondering is if you have access to basic personal information. It’s been a sudden arrival, so to speak. Do you know your full name, for example?’

  ‘Westlake, Richard Arthur. Eleven and two months. A hundred and forty-two centimetres, thirty-seven kilos, just over. Holder of the Green Cross School long-jump record, and inside right for football. Bus monitor, too, I think. I know who I am, Doc.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Who are you? Because I’m not meant to talk to strangers.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘I’m a friend.’

  The second head stared. ‘I can read your badge,’ it said. ‘It doesn’t say “friend”.’

  ‘Think of me as a counsellor.’

  ‘So I need counselling, do I? Why is that, Counsellor?’

  ‘We need to observe you, Richard. Run a few tests, check everything’s working—’

  ‘I’m not sick, you know. I’m fine. And another thing, before we go any further: I don’t think I’m a Richard. That’s not me any more.’

  ‘You’re not Richard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you, then? You’re Richard on the forms—’

  ‘I think I’m a Rikki.’

  ‘OK. That’s cool.’

  ‘Cool?’ The Rikki head smiled. ‘Everything’s cool and fine, huh? – everything’s safe. What’s he like, by the way – sleeping beauty on the old shoulder . . .?’

  ‘He’s a good boy. Don’t you know what he’s like?’

  ‘I know he’s polite. Please, thank you, how can I help you? He does all the right things, yes? We were in some school-debate team too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That might have to change.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not a Richard. I just told you: I’m a Rikki.’

  ‘What’s going to change, though, Rikki? Tell me.’

  The second head rose off its pillow slightly and the eyes narrowed. ‘Doctor Warren, huh?’ it said, squinting at the badge again. ‘Psychiatric consultant, neurological team – wow. You think I’m of neurological interest?’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  ‘And you’re here to help me.’

  Dr Warren nodded. ‘I’m with you all the way, Rikki, yes. I know we’ll be friends and we’re going to make discoveries, too. We’re going to learn a lot together.’

  ‘Friends? You and me?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have any friends. We don’t need any, Richard and me – we’re pretty much independent now.’ The head paused. ‘Where are my parents?’

  ‘They’ll be back soon.’

  The second head looked from side to side. ‘I heard what they said, you know,’ it whispered. ‘About cutting me off – about parasites. But I think that is an understandable reaction, don’t you? I’m not going to be hurt by that . . . I mean, I am a complication. I guess we’re in for a rough, tough journey, but I can deal with rejection. I don’t want you thinking I’m unbalanced, Doctor Warren.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry, Richard.’

  ‘Rikki.’

  ‘Everything’s going to be OK. I promise.’

  The Rikki head blinked, and stared. It licked its lips and grinned. A snigger emerged from the throat, and Richard moaned again in his sleep.

  ‘Everything?’ Rikki whispered.

  ‘You’re in good hands.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a liar . . .’

  Dr Warren frowned. ‘I hope I never lie to you, Rikki Westlake. I hope I tell the truth, always.’

  ‘Then you’d better start over, because you just told me a bare-faced monster, didn’t you? How can you possibly know anything for sure? According to probabilit
y based on evidence gathered so far, “OK” is the one thing life will never be. The world is not an OK kind of place, Doctor Warren – not any more. If it was, I wouldn’t be in it. Do you understand that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not as clever as you think, then – are you? You need to work harder.’ The black eyes narrowed again, and the smile turned to a snarl. ‘We’re all alone, man,’ said Rikki. ‘Every damn one of us.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Time passed.

  Richard and Rikki were moved to a small residential centre on the south coast – a division of the Rechner Institute for Neurological Studies. It contained just a handful of patients, who shuffled slowly along the corridors. Dr Warren visited as often as he could, and made careful notes. The second head continued to grow, and whilst a pair of physiotherapists worked on muscular control and movement, it was immediately clear that speech therapy wasn’t necessary.

  Richard’s headmaster wrote to reassure the family that his place at school was being kept open. His best friend, Jeff, sent the most beautiful Get Well card. Richard loved aeroplanes, so he got every pupil in the class to draw one and sign it. ‘See You Soon!’ ran the caption, in puffs of clouds under a burning sun. Richard put it on his bedside table, and began to feel stronger. He wrote a letter thanking everyone, and he even dared to say that he hoped to be returning soon.

  ‘By the end of the month,’ said Dr Warren. ‘I think you’ll be ready.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ said Richard.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Has it changed at all?’

  ‘I doubt it. Why would it change?’

  Rikki smiled. ‘You’re lying again, Doc. Everything changes.’

  Mrs Westlake bought new T-shirts, and made careful adjustments to them. She found a coat with an extra-wide hood, and a skilful tailor adapted the Green Cross school uniform. Mr and Mrs Westlake collected their son together, and soon he was walking up the familiar garden path.

  It had been his grandfather’s house, originally. Richard had been a baby when they moved in, and it had all made sense. His grandad could still manage stairs, if he was careful, so he’d had rooms on the first floor, overlooking the vegetable plot at the back. Beyond that was the lawn where his father had set up goalposts, and beyond that was the dangerously high tree house, with the swing . . .

  Richard and Rikki breathed in familiar smells, and made their way up to the bedroom. They drew the curtains and covered the mirror.

  The next day, a text from Jeff came through. ‘We’re waiting!’ it said. ‘We’re keeping your locker tidy – nothing’s been taken: DON’T WORRY!!’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ wrote Richard. ‘What else is happening?’

  ‘Football tournament. We need you!’

  He visited, then: twice. Mrs Westlake apologized, but kept him at the door. Richard was still too self-conscious, she said, and Rikki was settling. She was hopeful that things would improve.

  Towards the end of the next week, Richard felt brave enough to pick up the phone.

  ‘Hi, Jeff,’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Richard! Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The second head said nothing.

  ‘How are you, man?’ said Jeff.

  ‘I’m almost ready. I’m getting there. Do I, er . . . sound the same?’

  ‘Exactly the same! When are you coming in?’

  ‘Tuesday,’ said Rikki. There was a pause, and Richard said, ‘Tell me what I’ve missed.’

  ‘Oh, everything!’ said Jeff. ‘Eric’s in trouble again, and Bra-low’s going crazy. We get tests every day, and Salome asked after you – so did Mark and Carla. You’re really coming back? Let me call for you? We’re dying to see you, buddy.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Dad was going to drive us . . . Hang on.’

  Jeff pressed his ear to the receiver, and heard anxious voices.

  ‘That would be great,’ said Richard, at last. ‘We’ll walk together, yes? Like it was.’

  ‘Eight-ten, Tuesday. I’ll knock for you – just like it was.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Rikki.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you,’ said Jeff. ‘You nervous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Richard. It’s going to be good.’

  The next Monday, the headmaster called a special assembly in the dining hall. All the children sat in rows on the floor, and a number of parents sat on chairs around the walls. Dr Warren was on the stage – a special guest – sitting quietly to one side. He stroked his beard and stared at his laptop. The headmaster gazed at his audience.

  ‘We have many things to be proud of at Green Cross,’ he said.

  The children were silent, cross-legged and straight-backed. Mr Prowse was a strict head teacher, who stood for hard work and self-discipline. They knew what was coming.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘And I hope you’re proud of each other. As far as I’m concerned, there is no other school where children are as polite and tolerant, and I believe we are a genuinely happy community. Turn round, please, Eric.’ He paused. ‘One of the most important things in that community is the tradition of support and care. Any pupil here can expect support and care when things go wrong. Is that true, children?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Prowse,’ murmured the school.

  ‘I hope so. Because my chosen theme for today’s gathering is a proverb. A difficult word, that – can anyone tell us what it means?’

  A hand shot up.

  ‘Damien?’

  ‘A famous saying,’ said a small boy in the second row.

  ‘A famous saying. Yes. A proverb is a famous saying that usually contains words of wisdom. And the proverb on my mind is one you may have heard before: “Two heads are better than one.” Why have I chosen that self-evident truth? Because – as you are no doubt aware – Richard Westlake is coming back tomorrow, and I want us to be ready.’

  He nodded to Dr Warren, and the lights dimmed. A large slide-photograph of Richard and his recent addition was thrown up onto a screen. There was an audible gasp.

  ‘An unusual picture, children – I know. That’s why I wanted to show it to you without embarrassing Richard. It was taken a few days ago, by his mother – and she sent it to me in the full knowledge that I would be sharing it. Er, number two, please.’

  The photograph changed to a close-up. The two heads stared at the assembly, with blank expressions.

  ‘Number three.’

  There was a shot of just the second head, slightly thinner in the face than the Richard everyone remembered, with fiercer eyes.

  ‘You’ll notice something unusual on Richard’s shoulder.’ Mr Prowse paused, and the children stared. ‘That is Rikki. Rikki, I can assure you, is Richard. Richard and Rikki are the same person, though they do, I’m told . . . have some little differences in character, some of the time. It’s an unusual situation – I’d go so far as to say rare. But I have a feeling we’re going to get used to it very quickly. I am confident that Green Cross School will benefit enormously from the presence of both Richard and Rikki, because this is a school that embraces the new. Can any of you remember what special achievement Richard was so proud of last term? Hilary?’

  Hilary’s hand was straining. ‘He won the long jump, Mr Prowse.’

  ‘Yes he did. Joe?’

  ‘He was bus monitor for the infants.’

  ‘He most certainly was. What else? . . . Nicola?’

  ‘He was runner-up for the Kidspeak prize.’

  ‘Right behind Aparna, you’re absolutely spot-on. And I will never forget his contributions to those meetings, because he was polite, organized and constructive, because Kidspeak could be rather important this term.’ He paused. ‘Rikki and Richard are going to have a wonderful time, aren’t they?’

  There was a loud murmur: ‘Yes, Mr Prowse.’

  ‘Two heads are better than one. To solve a problem, it is always wise to consu
lt a second problem-solver. When we feel lost or lonely, how wonderful to have someone to turn to. That is why Richard is luckier than all of us. Never will he be alone, for he has a companion right beside him – and I suggest to you that when you get to meet that companion, you will have the pleasure of getting to know not one stimulating personality, but two.’

  He turned, smiling broadly.

  ‘Children. I want to introduce you to our guest. This is Doctor Warren, and Doctor Warren is a very important man – the Rechner Institute does ground-breaking work studying the human brain. He’s agreed to help us, and you’ll be seeing him around the school from time to time. Please make him feel welcome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dr Warren, standing. He clasped his hands in front of his chest. ‘It’s really nice to be here, so thank you for having me. One thing I want to say is that Richard’s first day could be the most important one. Does that makes sense?’

  The children stared at him. Some nodded.

  ‘Richard’s been a good friend to many of you, by the sound of it. So he – and Rikki – are hoping that those friends will make a difficult time easier.’

  He paused, conscious that his audience was scarcely breathing.

  ‘My advice is, don’t stare. After all, he’ll be feeling a little self-conscious. Speak of him in the singular, and not in the plural – that means “he” rather than “they”. Let’s treat him as we would any other boy, and when you chat, look him in the eye in the same way as you would anybody else. He may not want to talk about his recent experiences, because . . .’ He stopped and looked at the photograph. ‘Because he’s got so much to get used to.’

  Nobody spoke or even twitched. The silence was absolute.

  ‘Rikki’s brain, you see, is newly formed, and has inherited only parts of Richard’s memory. It’s a fascinating situation. We will need to be understanding, and help him adjust. Shall we do that together? Let’s make the resolution now: we’re going to help Richard and . . . Rikki feel comfortable and secure. Is that a cool thing to do?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the children.

  ‘I do agree – absolutely,’ said the headmaster, stepping forward. ‘That’s a first-rate idea, and I tell you now: this is going to be a test for all of us. A test to see how open and adaptable our community can be, and how we can all work with one another. Are we going to make sure Richard and Rikki are happy?’