The Mind of Mr Soames

by Maine, Charles Eric

  ‘That, for my money, would be criminal assault.’

  ‘Technically, perhaps, but not with any sense of purpose or guilt. His behaviour would approximate to the kind of superficial erotic play which is common among children...’

  ‘Except that this particular child is six feet tall, weighs about twelve stone and is capable of carrying his superficial erotic play, as you call it, to the point of violent rape if he feels so inclined. What’s more, he’s never even seen a child as such—probably doesn’t even know what a child is. He has never been a child himself, so far as he can remember. The world consists of adults. To him a small girl—a school-girl, if you like—would simply be a pocket-sized adult, and fair game for his violent line of erotic play. Or hadn’t you thought of that?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t,’ Conway said gloomily, ‘and I don’t think the point is valid. Mr Soames is not a perverted sex maniac, nor has he shown any perverted or homicidal tendencies. He’s a normal human being in need of standards.’

  ‘Well, why not give him standards? You psychiatric boys really ought to do something about it.’

  Conway finished his milk and stifled a yawn. ‘Frankly, I’m tired,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s been a rough day, quite apart from Mr Soames’s antics. We’ll knock him into shape step by step, don’t worry, but it will take time. We can’t accomplish in a few months what normally needs almost a score of years.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘Me for bed.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ McCabe grinned, ‘for what’s left of the night.’

  ❖

  The next morning around ten o’clock Conway looked in on Mr Soames. He was awake, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with pink plaster on the side of his face where he had grazed himself on the gravel of the car park. He hadn’t slept at all, Dr Wilson explained, despite the sedative—it was as if he were deliberately forcing himself to stay awake by sheer effort of sullen will power.

  Certainly Mr Soames was in a bitter mood—an ugly mood—which was not entirely surprising, Conway thought. He was sitting astride a chair, staring blankly through the window, his back turned to the door and the room in general. The attitude of defiance was plain enough, and for a few moments Conway wondered whether he should try to talk to Soames, to make contact with his confused, resentful mind, but in the end he thought it wiser to leave him to his own devices for a few hours until the unfortunate happenings of the previous night had receded in his memory.

  He called in the EEG laboratory instead, where Ann was filing paper tape records.

  ‘You look poor and weary and dark eyed,’ she commented as soon as she saw him.

  He smiled. ‘I feel just as I look, thanks to Mr Soames and Dr Takaito.’

  ‘I heard a garbled version of the story from Andy,’ she said. ‘Why poor old Soames isn’t dying of pneumonia I can’t imagine.’

  Conway shrugged. ‘He’s tough, and he’s spent thirty years in cold hibernation, so he may have developed a physiological immunity.’

  ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Bloody-minded, I’d say. Frankly, I’m worried. The entire situation seems to progress backwards. Mr Soames should be a contented man, grateful for the consciousness we gave him...’

  ‘Takaito gave him, you mean.’

  ‘He’s not to know. The point is he gets more and more resentful and embittered, to the stage where one can’t predict his reactions.’

  ‘Dave,’ she said seriously, ‘why should Mr Soames be grateful? What has he got to live for under present conditions?’

  ‘This is just a temporary phase. He must acquire a veneer of education and a sense of moral values.’

  ‘But you’ve got to convince him of that. As a prisoner in a small room with an occasional walk through grass round a lake, why should he bother to acquire anything at all? It—it’s like waking up from a blank but pleasant sleep and finding oneself in a concentration camp.’

  ‘Hardly, Ann.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t really know anything at all,’ he said despondently. ‘I’m prepared to leave it to the experts. Breuer and Takaito can fight it out between them, and may the best man win.’

  ‘Did you see Takaito’s statement to the press in the evening papers yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. It was a fair enough statement, but I’m not sure it was wise.’

  ‘The dailies have followed it up this morning. Three of the nationals are calling for an inquiry. And Mrs Martinez was on television last night, saying faintly libellous things about the Institute.’

  ‘I give up,’ he said, spreading his arms out in resignation. ‘The whole thing is turning into a sort of comic opera.’

  ‘Or a national scandal. I understand there are to be questions asked in Parliament today—according to The Times.’

  ‘So be it. Mr Soames is becoming a national issue. But I still believe we did our best for him. We used every trick of modern psychology and educational technique.’

  ‘Dave,’ she said quietly, ‘perhaps you didn’t need to use modern psychology at all. It could be that the psychological side has done more harm than good.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said with veiled bitterness. ‘The modern whipping boy—applied psychology. The cause of juvenile delinquency and antisocial adolescents. Perhaps we should have employed Victorian techniques and used a horsewhip on Mr Soames. It might have worked a miracle.’

  ‘It might have at that,’ she said reflectively, ‘on the other hand it might not. Anyway, I understand there’s to be a top level conference, and Dr Takaito is hoping to be appointed head of the Soames educational programme.’

  ‘That could be a good idea,’ he commented. ‘I’m beginning to develop a great deal of faith in Takaito. Despite his dogs, he seems to know a thing or two.’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘I doubt if Dr Breuer would agree with you.’

  ‘Not on the surface, but deep in his heart I think he sees the writing on the wall.’

  ‘Japanese writing.’

  ‘Just so.’

  He was about to go when abruptly he remembered the principal purpose of his visit to the laboratory.

  ‘Ann,’ he said quietly, ‘yesterday I had a letter from Penelope’s father. It seems she was involved in a car accident and is seriously injured in hospital.’

  ‘Oh. How seriously?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I thought I’d take today off and go and see her. There’s really no alternative.’

  ‘I understand, Dave. I—I’m sorry, for her sake. I hope it’s nothing too serious.’

  ‘Probably broken bones, or something similar. Anyway, I’ll be back early evening.’

  ‘Let me know, won’t you,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He returned to his room to prepare for the journey to Brock-field Hospital in Surrey.

  ❖

  ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t wish to see you, Dr Conway,’ the doctor said. He was a young red-haired man with a spruce, bristling moustache, and he spoke with a Scottish accent. ‘I’ve done my best to persuade her, but she’s quite made up her mind.’

  Conway eyed him speculatively, unconsciously using a certain professional freemasonry of the medical world in his expression, and the red-haired doctor was obviously well aware of it, for he shuffled uneasily on his feet.

  Conway said: ‘Perhaps I ought to explain, Dr Hamilton, that there have been certain matrimonial difficulties during the past few months, and I did, in fact, anticipate this kind of barrier...’

  ‘Aye, I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Well, then—in view of the circumstances.’

  ‘You put me in a difficult position, Dr Conway. I think perhaps your wife has a very different reason for not seeing you than possibly you imagine.’

  ‘What exactly is wrong with her?’ Conway asked.

  The young doctor locked down at the floor for a moment, studying the black toecaps of his shoes. ‘It’s a fracture of the lumbar vertebrae, I’m afraid, with seri
ous damage to the spinal cord. She was in a Jaguar that hit another car at high speed on the A24. I’m sorry to say her face is likely to be badly disfigured. There’ll be a need for plastic surgery.’

  Conway closed his eyes for a moment, then steeled himself for the full truth.

  ‘The spinal injury—just how bad is it?’

  The doctor hesitated. ‘We’re not quite sure. Dr Koenitzer—he’s a Harley Street spinal specialist—is coming in tomorrow.’

  ‘Dr Hamilton, let’s be quite frank with each other. I know exactly what a spinal injury can mean. Is my wife paralysed?’

  The red-haired doctor made a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m afraid so. If we can be matter-of-fact about it, she is paralysed from the waist down. I’m not suggesting that it is a total or permanent paralysis, but you know how difficult these things can be, Dr Conway.’

  ‘And the disfigurement?’

  ‘Skin lesions.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Part of the left cheek torn away. That’s where plastic surgery will be needed.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A general condition of shock and hysteria. Some partial amnesia.’ He touched his lower lip with a hesitant finger. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘Perhaps you can understand why she would rather not see you just now.’

  ‘What about the other people in the Jaguar?’

  ‘There was only one other—a man, driving. He was killed outright.’

  ‘And the people in the other car?’

  ‘Two dead and one injured.’

  Conway put his hand to his forehead in a weary, irresolute gesture. ‘Dr Hamilton, I want to see my wife whether she agrees or not. I have the right to, and I must insist.’

  The other man shuffled uneasily. ‘I understand how you feel, Dr Conway. At the same time you can obviously appreciate my position...’

  ‘I appreciate it perfectly, but we’re both medical men and we can be matter-of-fact and objective about a situation of this kind, I imagine. I may not be able to make another visit for a few days, so under the circumstances...’

  ‘Very well,’ Dr Hamilton said helplessly. ‘I would be the last to prevent you.’

  He led the way along the corridor to the small ward. Even as he entered the glass-panelled swing door, Conway could see the woman he had married strapped to an inclined metal frame, her head swathed in bandages like an Egyptian mummy.

  ❖

  He drove back to the Institute in a blank frame of mind, his brain curiously numb to the impinging sensations of shock and horror. Memories echoed and reflected from the inner surfaces of his mind in ironic mime: Penelope in all her vivacious beauty in the early days of their marriage; Penelope the life and soul of the party in the riotous days of medical school; Penelope, pouting and resentful in the stale and stolid atmosphere of the Institute, missing the gay life and suffering from unrelieved boredom; Penelope seeking distraction with Ibbotson and Morry—the gay unfaithful butterfly—the final showdown—the retreat to Chelsea—the flat with the red and black curtains and the jazz music and the deadbeats performing their shuffling bear-hug dance; Penelope and her abortion; Penelope in a Jaguar with an unknown dead man; Penelope strapped to a steel-tube frame, her back broken and her beauty torn and slashed. Stillborn tears formed in his eyes, misting his vision so that he was hardly able to see the road in front of him.

  He reached the Institute just before eleven. It was raining again, and oddly enough there were two police cars parked outside the main entrance, but he paid no attention to them for his mind was obsessed by other things.

  He went straight to Ann’s room and entered without knocking. She was laying on the bed, wearing a dressing-gown and reading a book. As he entered she sat up and put the book aside.

  ‘Dave...’ A pause, then: ‘Have they found him?’

  ‘I must talk to you, Ann,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Soames,’ she insisted, ‘have they found him?’

  He checked the frantic whirl of his thoughts and tried to concentrate on her words.

  ‘What about Mr Soames?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I know nothing—only that Penelope...’

  ‘Mr Soames has escaped, this time without Takaito’s help. He attacked Dr Wilson with a steel chair and got away. Dr Breuer had to call in the police.’

  She paused, and he saw that her eyes were dark and fearful.

  ‘He tried to kill Dr Wilson,’ she went on. ‘He nearly succeeded. Wilson is in the operating theatre at this moment having pieces of bone removed from his brain, but he’s still alive.’ Conway said nothing. His mind was stubbornly refusing to function.

  ‘Don’t you realise, Dave,’ she insisted, ‘that Mr Soames is on the loose—a potential killer. They’re going to hunt him down like a homicidal maniac.’

  He sat down on the bed in utter exhaustion of mind and put his head in his hands.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘it can’t be true. Not Mr Soames too. The entire world can’t turn completely upside down all in one day. It can’t possibly...’

  12

  The breakout had occurred after a day of relatively good behaviour on the part of Mr Soames, Conway learned. True, the patient had been sullen, restless and withdrawn, but his manner had been passive rather than resentful, and there had been no superficial indication of developing truculence. It was, in fact, one of his depressive phases, to be followed inevitably by a manic phase in which he would display the opposite characteristics—self-assurance, aggressiveness and scorn. Nobody seemed quite sure what had happened in psychological terms; the one phase had switched abruptly into the other without warning, and Mr Soames, frustrated and introspective, dwelling morbidly on the events of the past few days—the violent reaction to his impassioned embrace of the girl named Toni, followed by the night hunt through the grounds when he had scurried away like a hunted animal, only to be thrown and captured in the car park—had abruptly exploded into ruthless, single-minded action.

  The police had left, and Conway was talking to Dr Breuer, who was systematically interviewing every member of his staff who had had contact with Soames. The time was after 1 a.m. Breuer was making copious notes in longhand on lined foolscap paper, as if he were collecting evidence in a formal court of inquiry. Despite weariness and depression, Conway’s mind persisted in turning over actively as though powered independently from some unsuspected battery of nervous energy buried deep within his brain.

  Dr Breuer explained that although he had been reluctant to notify the police, there had really been no alternative. This was not simply a repetition of the assault on the male nurse; it was a calculated and cunning attempt to escape from the Institute by the use of violence. Dr Wilson’s condition was critical, and he might yet die. The danger was that Soames might resort to further violence in order to evade recapture.

  So far as could be ascertained the assault had occurred around nine-thirty at a time when the duty orderly had gone down to the canteen kitchen to make coffee for himself and Dr Wilson. The latter had been trying to persuade Soames to eat some supper before retiring, but the patient, who had eaten virtually nothing all day, had shown no eagerness for food.

  When the orderly returned some twenty minutes later he found Dr Wilson lying huddled in a pool of his own blood in Soames’s room. A chair lay on its side near the bed, and Mr Soames had disappeared. Subsequent investigation revealed that the patient had made his exit through the window of a small bathroom half-way long the corridor; this had been left open for ventilation purposes to disperse condensation after another patient had taken a bath.

  A quick search of the grounds had failed to produce any trace of Mr Soames, and it seemed likely that he had climbed the perimeter wall. Nevertheless, six members of the staff, under the supervision of a detective sergeant, were even now combing the area with the aid of electric torches.

  Breuer had delayed calling in the police until it became only too obvious that Mr Soames had succeeded in making good hi
s wild escape. That had been at ten-thirty, and at approximately the same time, following a careful examination to determine the extent of his injuries, Dr Wilson had been wheeled into the operating theatre for immediate surgery.

  While Dr Breuer talked, Conway in his own mind was evaluating the situation and exploring the ramifications. Mr Soames’s desperate bid for freedom was certainly understandable, but in the nature of things it was doomed to failure. Alone, unaided and on foot, with no sense of direction and completely without any kind of coherent plan, he would be lucky if he managed to cover more than a mile or two before the police picked him up. He would become a prisoner again, but this time in a situation weighted by the intervention of the law.

  Mr Soames was guilty of assault, so much was certain. One could, perhaps, plead diminished responsibility, for after all he had the mind of a child; on the other hand he was an adult with a high IQ, despite the modest level of his academic education, and he must have planned and carried out the attack on Dr Wilson with a certain cold deliberation. Added to which he was not a mental patient, nor was he medically protected from a legal point of view.

  ‘I have given a full description of Mr Soames to the police,’ Dr Breuer said. ‘In addition, there are numerous photographs. At the time of his escape he was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and blue-grey slacks... and brown leather sandals which won’t add to his speed. If he follows main roads, he will be found very quickly. On the other hand, if he cuts across country—and there is plenty of scope for that to the north of here—then it may take longer to root him out. Of course, the police might decide to use dogs...’

  ‘What is Dr Takaito’s opinion?’ Conway asked.

  Breuer’s expression became faintly disdainful. ‘Dr Takaito—when I last saw him—seemed relatively unconcerned. If it wasn’t for Dr Wilson’s very serious condition I might be inclined to suspect that our Japanese friend had something to do with it.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Conway said, shaking his head. ‘Once bitten, twice shy. In any case, Takaito would have made sure that he was in control of the situation.’