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by J. A. Henderson

  “If you do sign,” R.D. added. “You can visit the animals whenever you want.”

  “That’s not very fair Scotty.” Justin shot him a dirty look.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of playing with her emotions.”

  “Better than the superintendent at Northland playing with her…”

  “Folks!” Dr Holder interrupted loudly. He pointed at the release form.

  Clancy was bent over, scrawling an intricate spiralling pattern across the bottom. She solemnly handed Anne-Louise the pen.

  “Is that a signature? What does her signature look like?”

  “Who knows? I doubt she’s ever signed anything before.” The doctor leaned back and straightened his tie, a wide yellow swathe of silk with Donald Ducks all over it.

  “It’ll sure as hell do for me.”

  Justin looked troubled but nodded assent.

  -11-

  After the first doses of Moore’s Cocktail were administered, Clancy was given a battery of physical tests, then monitored around the clock. She seemed fine. After two weeks there were no side effects. In fact, there were no effects at all. The young woman was still silent and solemn as ever.

  “She seems happy enough when she’s around the lab animals,” R.D. commented cheerfully.

  “Fine. I’ll tell Daler to scrap its multi-million dollar research programme,” Justin fumed. “And buy every manic depressive in the country a fucking pet.”

  “Probably be cheaper.”

  “Maybe you were right.” Justin watched the bundle of blonde misery through a two-way mirror. “Maybe she needs less aseptic surroundings. How’s she ever gonna relax in this place? All these cream coloured walls and guys in white coats. She must think she’s back at somewhere like Northland.”

  Two lab technicians carrying identical clipboards were staring through the mirror on either side of him. They looked at each other, embarrassed.

  “You’re right, Scotty. We need somewhere to put her that’s homelier,” the scientist continued. “Where our surveillance can be discreet. Let’s call up some real estate agencies, huh? See what we can find. A nice detached apartment in Hyde Park, or around Lamar maybe, where we can keep an eye on her.”

  “Aye we can buy a poodle,” the psychologist chimed in. “Plant chitlin beans in the garden, whatever the fuck they are.”

  “You disapprove?”

  “It’s not exactly standard procedure.” R.D. held up his hands defensively.

  “Besides, it was my idea and my ideas always tend to go tits up.”

  But Justin was determined. After a brief search he rented a secluded house on Driggs Avenue for their bewildered guest. Clancy’s new home had a carefully mown lawn, as near a replica of her favourite painting patch as the two inept yardmen could produce. The same wire fence round the perimeter helped lend authenticity.

  Inside the house Justin filled the rooms with stuffed toys and flowers - real this time – though he had to fit bars to the window to keep the lawyers at Daler happy. R.D. contributed to the jollying-up of their new abode by painting red and white stripes on the bars and stocking the fridge with prodigious amounts of beer.

  Having settled in, the two men took turns at sentry duty. Justin drew up a list of activities to stimulate Clancy’s interest and R.D. watered the flowers. Yet it was only when Anne-Louise came to visit that a smile of gratitude blossomed on the expressionless face.

  Clancy, trapped in her unfamiliar Wendy House, seemed more listless than ever. She lay immobile on the living room couch, or slouched on a chair in the wire-rimmed garden, while Justin watched the same old results through a new window. A patchwork of greasy palm prints on the glass charted his growing consternation.

  R.D. was pissed off. In his opinion the researcher should have stuck to what he knew. Clancy was a wasted effort and now was not the time to be taking unnecessary chances.

  “We’ve made one giant leap for mankind, right into darkness,” he muttered. “And we’re still falling. We’ve got half a dozen new possible subjects lined up now. I think we should move on. Get some new nutters.”

  Justin said nothing. He was withdrawn these days and seemed more concerned with Clancy’s happiness than the blow this failure was dealing to his career. To make matters worse he was due to chair a symposium in New York, a gathering designed to introduce his ideas to a wider spectrum of American science.

  “I aint goin and that’s that,” he insisted. “You’ll have to take my place, R.D.”

  The psychologist almost choked on his glass of Theakstons.

  “Aye, that’ll be right!” he spluttered. “This is a proper scientific conference. They wouldn’t even understand my accent and that’s just as well, considering how much I know about what we’re doing.” He patted his friend supportively on the back. “Don’t fuss yourself about it. I’ll baby-sit until you get back. Everything will be fine.”

  After an afternoon of hair-tearing Justin gave in.

  “Don’t do nothing, O.K.? Just keep an eye on her. Don’t let her out of your sight, huh? Make sure she reads every night and gets a healthy snack at 3.00.”

  “Jah, mein fuehrer,”

  On the day of his departure the researcher was still pacing the hallway, tripping over suitcases and thinking up last minute instructions.

  “I’m not a moron!” R.D. puffed himself up. “I can be responsibility on toast when I have to. Just prescribe yourself some Valium and go catch the sodding plane.”

  “I know it’s boring, Scotty, but plug away at the lessons, huh?” Justin cajoled through the mail slot. “She might react… you never know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now get out of Dodge.”

  R.D. watched the taxi pull away through a crack in the curtain. He flounced, whistling, through the house to fetch a beer, tearing Post-It notes scrawled with reminders from the walls along the way.

  He kept up the prescribed lessons for three days.

  Then it was Saturday night.

  -12-

  Bored, R.D. was drawn to the window like a moth to a sooty flame, listening for the soft buzz of human night crawlers. Hours dragged past like slow, segmented worms. The psychologist yawned. Clancy was hunched on the couch with Treasure Island in her hands, staring slackly at the pages. R.D. sat on the sill, sixth can of beer in hand, enviously following the chattering party goers as they scuttled, intoxicated, down the avenue.

  He turned unsteadily and faced Clancy. She appeared oblivious to his presence. That wasn’t anything new.

  “What I sense here, girl,” he began. “Is an absence of fundamental communication. Now, I’ve always been pretty good at talking to women. But it’s more fun when they talk back, even if it’s just to give me shit.”

  He gave a beer bloated flop into a chair.

  “Maybe you want to stay a wee girl, eh?” R.D. fumbled a picture from his wallet and placed it on the table. “I have a little kid myself. Martin. He doesn’t talk much either. Mind you he’s a baby.”

  He nudged his son’s picture towards Clancy.

  “He can’t dress himself or feed himself properly and he can’t paint. He really does need looking after.” R.D. put both hands behind his head. “So, I should be with him, protecting my kid from the big bad world and not pissing off my wife. But I can’t do that, can I? Because Justin made me promise to stay with you.”

  Clancy picked up the picture and stared at it, then hung her head like a scolded urchin. R.D. tugged at his lip.

  Was this a response? Did the girl feel guilty?

  It was worth a try.

  “Aye, see here toots,” he continued, lighting a cigarette, even though his companion had banned smoking in the house. “I think you’re perfectly able to speak and you just refuse. But you have to take that leap. Even my boy is trying to talk, though all he can say at the moment is ‘boobies’.”

  Clancy flinched.

  “What? It’s a funny word.” R.D. folded his arms indignantly. �
��They’re just words Clancy. You need to master them, or you can never ask for help.”

  The girl turned away, still clutching the photograph.

  “Being silent didn’t help you at Northland.” R.D. blew out a long plume of smoke. “Being passive didn’t do much good either. In fact, it just made things worse.”

  Clancy’s shoulders tightened.

  “You’re an adult,” he pressed. “You are an adult, whether you like it or not. It’s got compensations, honest. All right, there’s not that many, and what’s good can be bad and vice versa. It’s complicated. But at least you’ll have some control over your life “

  No response.

  “I always find beer helps to get a conversation flowing. After a couple of brews you can’t shut Anne-Louise up.” He got up and weaved off to the kitchen, returning with another pale ale. Placing the bottle casually in front of Clancy, he swigged from his own drink and gave a satisfied smack of his lips.

  “Mmmmm. Actually, it tastes like dishwater, but it makes loneliness easier to bear.”

  He took another gulp.

  “There’s a VHS player up in the spare room. I know that Justin doesn’t want you watching TV, but it’s a lot faster than reading. Time you got a deck at the pleasures of real culture, that’s what I say. Stay here.”

  Moments later R.D. was struggling downstairs with a bulky Panasonic in his arms, pile of tapes balanced crazily on the top. He jettisoned the whole lot onto the vacant coffee table and lit another cigarette to celebrate his victory over age, gravity and the influence of alcohol.

  Clancy’s Budweiser was half gone.

  A second success. Electric thrills coursed through R.D., but he remained outwardly calm.

  “My choice of movies is a bit eclectic,” he apologized, setting up the machine. “I didn’t bother with stuff like Rainman or Forrest Gump... Heh, heh, you know that story already. Let’s see... I’ve got some Buster Keaton, Lupino Lane and Harry Langdon. All underestimated in my opinion. Arachnophobia? Aye well you like beasties, don’t you?”

  He pulled another video from the scattered pile.

  “Here’s a couple of good ones. Peter Pan and My Fair Lady.” He grinned like a leprechaun. “Those should appeal to you, eh?”

  He pressed a button and the screen gave life to a hissing swarm of dots. Clancy reached out a pale hand and helped herself to another mouthful of beer.

  “Something else.” The psychologist sprang up. “I’m not going to have bars on the bloody window like I was looking after some kind of lab rat. Folk looking in must think we’re made of fucking gingerbread. Besides, you aren’t a prisoner.”

  He began to dismantle the multi-coloured tubes latticing each dark shining pane.

  “Excuse my language, by the way, it’s just that I’m so damned frustrated. You and I could be having fun together. But no. Instead we’re both lonely. Lonely because we don’t think we’ll ever fit in, so we’re afraid to try. That’s what my wife keeps saying about me, and she’s right, though I won’t admit it to anyone.”

  He unscrewed another iron restraint and began work on the next.

  “If you won’t act like a person, then nobody has to treat you like one, see? On the plus side, I can moan to you endlessly without being interrupted.”

  The third bar came loose.

  “So, I have a confession. I’m worried that Anne-Louise married me to piss off her father. The girl has real issues. Not as bad as yours, mind.”

  He paused thoughtfully.

  “Or maybe they are. I’ve always had my suspicions. And it’s possible I only agreed to get hitched because she was pregnant and I wanted to come to America. I mean, we have a great time together, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not really sure we’re properly in love. I do love Martin, but I didn’t especially want to have a kid, so I’m scared I won’t be a good dad. I’m a bit immature, to be honest. Like Peter Pan. Never really wanted to grow up but it was the only way I could buy beer.”

  He gave a heartfelt sigh.

  “Emotions aren’t my strong point, I suppose. I don’t like myself much, if the truth be known. Other people do but that’s because I put up a good front. I’ve got charm, so everyone says. I’m good at lifting other people’s spirits and they confide in me. But I’m a bit of a faker. I act like I don’t give a shit about anything and nobody sees through it. But I wish someone would. I wish someone understood.”

  The last bar began to wobble in its setting.

  “Sometimes I think I only became a psychologist cause it was cheaper than hiring one. Then again, I’m fairly sure none of us really know what we’re talking about. Take Freud for instance. The guy was a fucking nutter. Started off doing experiments on eel’s testicles or something. And what’s that anal fixation nonsense all about? He had this woman patient and convinced her she…”

  “Can’t I just watch a movie?” Clancy said dolefully.

  “What?” R.D. froze, the striped bar a forgotten candy in his hand.

  “I’d like to watch a movie.” She gave a small burp and took another swig. “And I’ll start talking if you please promise to stop.”

  “Fair enough,” R.D. grinned. “I get that reaction a lot.”

  Clancy giggled.

  -13-

  Justin bounded up the drive like some rabid snooper dog, reaching the house before his taxi door had even closed. He was madder than a wet hen. He had called nightly to check on Clancy’s progress and R.D. had responded with infuriating vagueness. The scientist knew something was wrong.

  Night after night, safely on the other side of the country, the psychologist had expertly fielded his friend’s attempts to find out what was really going on in Austin. Now R.D.’s black suited visage slid into the hall, shutting the living room door behind and waving cheerfully to his furious buddy.

  Justin stamped over, firing off agitated questions.

  “How is she? Huh? Is she all right?”

  He halted in his tracks.

  “What the hell you doin wearing a top hat?”

  “It’s a special occasion.” R.D. tipped the elevated headgear knowingly and pushed open the living room door with his shoe.

  “Justin Moore, how do you do?” he crooned in his best Dr Seuss voice. “May I now present to yoooooou... Miss Clancy Elizabeth Denton... hoo hoo hoo!”

  He made a trumpeting noise as the door swung wider.

  Clancy bowed, unveiled in the frame of the doorway. She wore a sky-blue Givenchy dress and her curly hair was straightened and swept back into a carefully sculptured peroxide butterfly, fastened with a glistening Lapis clasp.

  She wafted towards the researcher on a cloud of Chanel, holding out a perfectly manicured hand.

  Justin’s eyes bulged like a mortified bug.

  “Excuse us,” he said stiffly, slammed the door on the cantilevered breasts of the advancing vision. Grabbing R.D. by the throat he pinned him against the wall.

  “What the Goddamned holy hell are you playing at?” he hissed, veins standing out on his scrawny neck. “What have you done to her?”

  “I showed her some movies. My Fair Lady... she seems to like that best. She’s seen it twelve times.”

  “You son of a bitch bastard! I left you for one week!” Justin was apoplectic. “She’s not a fucking toy for you to dress up!”

  “Try not to swear, big dawg. She hates swearing. Who knew?”

  Clancy popped her head round the door.

  “I’m nobody’s toy anymore,” she said calmly. “And my favourite film is actually Peter Pan.”

  R.D. snickered, removing Justin’s lifeless fingers from round his neck. The scientist gaped like a carp out of water.

  “Holy fu… ” he gasped. I mean Holy… cow!”

  “Nicely put, old pal,” his partner replied with pride. “And you’re right on time. We were about to have drinkies.”

  “Care to join us, Justin?” Clancy winked at R.D.

  “I can make you a cocktail.”

  -14-

&n
bsp; Austin, Texas 1992

  A far grander cocktail party was held in the Fischer mansion to celebrate Clancy’s astonishing transformation. It had only taken a few weeks for her to develop from a mute and apprehensive waif to an articulate and vibrant young woman.

  All around the walls, her paintings echoed that vibrancy, hung for the occasion at Anne-Louise’s insistence. There were a scattering of landscapes, looking suspiciously like the area around Northland Asylum, with a couple of surprised looking animals in the background. Anne Louise hung those in the bathroom and pretended they were family heirlooms.

  For most of Clancy’s pictures were in an entirely new style. The young woman still loved to paint, but her latest works were abstract swirls and spikes in a cavalcade of latticed colours.

  R.D. and Justin sipped champagne and watched their ward being surrounded by a crowd of envious and much larger females, all dripping pearls and looking for flaws. In the meantime Clancy politely rejected the dance requests of a dozen southern Freddy Bartholomews.

  “Morons,” Justin muttered under his breath. “Do they think she used to sneak out of the nuthouse at night to take tango lessons?”

  “You’re just jealous.” R.D. helped himself to another glass of bubbly from a passing waiter. “Me too, by the way. Nobody’s paying the slightest attention to us.”

  “Maybe we should have worn our lab coats.” Justin tugged awkwardly at the starched collar of his dress shirt. “You father in law has hardly said two words to me all night.”

  “That’s more than I usually get out of him.” R.D. downed his drink. “Apparently he referred to me as Eurotrash a few days ago.”

  “It’s like watching a scene from the Elephant Man.” Justin nodded morosely towards Clancy, still surrounded by the cream of southern gentility. “But with a better looking elephant.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate your flattery, you silver tongued devil.”