OWEN JOHNSON stood looking at the magistrate with a rather bewildered expression. The magistrate was by no means an unkindly man, but he was past the peak of his career and even the best of magistrates are only human.
“Mr. Johnson,” said the representative of authority, “your conduct in this case has been extraordinary to say the least! But I am prepared to view the matter with as much leniency as I feel is possible in the circumstances. You come before me with an otherwise exemplary record. You have a good military service record, and your employer speaks of your work very highly. You have a family dependent on you, and it is for their sakes, and for the sake of your employer, rather than for your own, that I am prepared to take the course of action which I now propose to explain to you.”
“Thank you, your worship.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard what I have to say.”
Johnson stood still and silent. There was a pause. “I am going to fine you ten pounds, and you will be requested to—you will, in fact, be required—to pay for repairs to the window that you have broken and the pieces of equipment which were damaged on the other side of the window. Do you agree to this?”
“Yes, your worship.” Johnson raised his head.
“Good, good,” said the magistrate. “There is one other condition, and that is, that you submit to a medical examination by any competent psychiatrist agreeable both to you and to the court. Are you willing to that?” Owen Johnson gave a stifled gasp. There was another silence.
“Very well, your worship,” he said at last, and his chin sank to his chest once more.
“Next case,” said his worship, and Owen Johnson found himself walking away from the central position of the court. The fine was nothing; it was neither here nor there. The damages, although they might amount to a hundred or so, would not cause him any undue embarrassment, either. It was not the money which was bothering Johnson in the least. It was the other aspect of the thing. He didn’t want to go to a psychiatrist. He belonged to that generation who still thought that mental illness was some kind of a stigma, some kind of a slur. He belonged to a generation who regarded mental hospitals with extreme distrust and suspicion. His mind did not dwell in that medieval darkness which thought in terms of the “dark house and the whip,” but his ideas of mental institutions were more like those in the film “The Snake Pit,” than modern 1960 psychiatric nursing institutions. When the full import of the magistrate’s words had really sunk in Johnson found himself sitting rather disconsolately in his study with the telephone in front of him, and a London directory open at random on his knee.
Was there, he thought, much point in ringing up a psychiatrist at random? Some advice, that was what he needed most, advice. Where did one get advice about a psychiatrist? He supposed one rang one’s own local general practitioner; he’s the sort of chap who could help.
Owen Johnson was one of those disgustingly healthy men who saw the doctor about once in every twenty-five years, and that was only when his insurance company insisted upon it when he wanted to renew his policy. He had almost forgotten the name and telephone number of his own G.P. He found it scribbled down in his desk, and called the number. There was a soft voiced, but efficient, receptionist.
“Dr. Plumrose. How can I help you?”
“This is Owen Johnson, I wonder whether you could ask the doctor whether he could recommend me a good psychiatrist, could you?”
“Yes, certainly, sir. Will you hang on a moment?” There was the sound of footsteps, sounding like faint little drum beats on the other end of the phone … Johnson drummed on his desk with his fingertips; he took a pencil and began doodling on an innocent sheet of note paper that had had the misfortune to lie nearby. He looked down at his doodle with evident disgust. It was a strange little figure with hair awry and round, wild eyes. It looked like the childish representation of an escaped lunatic.
“This business is getting you, Owen boy,” he said out loud. “Get a grip on yourself.”
“Huh? Hmm? What’s that?” said the phone in his ear.
“Oh—I’m sorry!”
“This is Dr. Plumrose speaking. Mr. Johnson, is it?”
“Yes sir. Owen Johnson.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I haven’t seen you for a long time Mr. Johnson. Is everything all right, then?”
“Well, yes—and—no, doctor. I had a little bit of bother recently. I threw a brick through an electrical dealer’s window. The magistrate was very nice about it, but I’ve got to see a psychiatrist. It’s part of my——”
“I see, I see,” said the doctor, not letting him finish. “Oh well, perhaps it’s the best course of events. Been overworking, I expect. Taking things a bit too heavily? I’d ease up for a day or two; take the magistrate’s advice and see somebody.”
“That’s what I rang you about,” said Johnson, “I was hoping you could give me the name and address of someone you could recommend. I don’t know where to start.”
“Well, Carruthers is a good fellow. Carruthers would be the man I’d send you to. He’s dealt with several of my patients in the past, I have a great deal of confidence in him.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Johnson.
“I’ll get my nurse to give you the necessary particulars. I must dash now, I’ve got a surgery full of people.”
“It’s very good of you to come to the phone, doctor. I appreciate it,” said Johnson.
He heard the noise as the receiver was laid down on a table, or some hard wooden surface, and then the voice of the nurse-receptionist as it was picked up again.
“Dr. Plumrose has instructed me to give you the name and address of Dr. Carruthers.”
Owen Johnson jotted them down.
“Thank you very much,” said Johnson, “and thank the doctor for me again, will you? It’s very much appreciated. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Johnson hung up. Lifted the receiver again, and dialled the number of Dr. Carruthers … One receptionist sounded very like another on the phone.
“Dr. Carruthers’ consulting room,” purred a gentle, but efficient voice.
“This is Mr. Owen Johnson speaking. My own doctor, Dr. Plumrose of Knightsbridge has recommended me to contact Dr. Carruthers with a view to having a psychiatric consultation.”
“I see, sir,” said the receptionist, “and you would like to book an appointment with Dr. Carruthers?”
“I would if that’s possible,” said Owen Johnson.
“Right sir, I suppose this afternoon would be too early, would it? There’s a vacancy, an unexpected cancellation. One of our patients is down with ’flu, and there’s an hour vacant between three o’clock and four.”
“I see.” It came as a bit of a shock, somehow. Johnson wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to go or not. Still, it might be best to get it over with … It had only got to be done once; it was breaking the ice that was so bad.
After he had met this “trick cyclist” it would seem a lot better. It was the uncertainty, the wondering what sort of man he’d be, that held Johnson back. He made his mind up.
“All right. I’ll come. I’ll be there at five to three,” he said.
“Very well, sir. We’ll see you then, thank you.”
The receptionist hung up. It struck Johnson as a little odd that they hadn’t even bothered to take his address. Still, perhaps they would deal with those kind of formalities when he got there … In that case he ought to get there a little early, perhaps. The sooner the better, maybe? And maybe not? Was it better to worry about getting there, or better to get there and sit and worry while he was waiting to go in?
The noise started suddenly.
He hadn’t heard the blasted noise since the window incident. He thought, he had thought, he corrected himself, that that had finished it. It had been an expensive way of getting rid of it. Now it had started again. It was a perfidious sound, an almost indescribable sound. Yet not so indescribable that he couldn’t get words round it somehow or other. It was very, very high pitched, and the decibel gain was colossal. Then it began to die away again. It rose and fell with a series of horrific ululations. His head was ringing, vibrating and screaming with the intensity of the sound …
He felt as though the neurones in his brain were being shattered by it. “Damn the sound,” he gritted to himself, “Damn and blast the sound!” Despite his valedictions the sound continued. He clapped his hands over his ears. He flung himself into his own chair, beating his head from side to side on the upholstered arms.
“Stop, damn you, stop,” he roared at the top of his voice. “Stop!” he screamed again.
He wondered where Cynthia was, and the children. Shopping somewhere, perhaps, or maybe in the garden. He wanted company desperately. The noise was never quite so bad in company … He wished that somebody else could hear it. He had actually tried asking Cynthia and the children whether they could hear it, but nobody had heard it, and as he had grown more insistent so he had been aware of suspicious looks. Once or twice the younger children had said they thought they heard something, but he wondered whether they were having some kind of game with him, or whether, perha. . .
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