The man sat on the floor mewling like a cat. He rubbed his curled up hands against his mouth as if he was cleaning it. James DeSquire watched him over the top of the broad, oak desk behind which he sat.
“Very good, Mr. Dawson. Now, sit back on the couch please.” James said crisply.
The little man collapsed on the couch breathing heavily. He looked around the room suspiciously and then sat up straight.
“Mr. DeSquire, am I getting better? Only it seems as if I am as confused as ever.”
James stroked his chin and smiled weakly.
“I have told you before, Mr. Dawson. Recovery takes time and we can’t rush it.”
The psychiatrist wrote a couple things in his notebook then looked up at his patient. Mr Dawson had suffered a stroke and for some unknown reason had begun emulating the characteristics of a cat. James realised right away that he was onto a money spinner and had decided to milk it for all it was worth. Dawson
The door of James’ office shut quietly as Mr. Dawson left. He had been pencilled in for a further ten appointments and at a cost of three hundred pounds an appointment would provide James with a very healthy bank account.
“Is there any more patients Miss Woodward?” James asked through his intercom.
“Just one Mr. DeSquire,” replied Miss Edna Woodward, an elderly lady who James employed for a basic wage. “He was referred to you by a Dr. Wilson who has a practice in Mullwell.”
James scratched his head. This was a new one, he thought. I haven’t received any notification from Dr. Wilson regarding a new patient. He would be working in the dark until he had spoken to the patient. It was late Friday afternoon and James was sure that Dr. Wilson’s practice would be closed.
“Now what seems to be the matter?” said James to the dishevelled man who had been escorted in by Miss Woodward. “How can I help you?”
James’ new patient was about thirty years old. He was dressed in a sports jacket and brown corduroy trousers, both articles looked as if they had seen better days. His shoes brown brogues were badly scuffed and could have done with a drop of polish.
“Ah, Dr. DeSquire. Good afternoon,” said the man politely. “I have been referred to you by Dr. Wilson because I am totally insane.”
James jolted back in his chair. Had he heard correctly? The man was admitting to being insane!
“I think you are possibly deranged but I doubt that you are insane!”
“Semantics, my dear man,” laughed the man. “Surely I should know how I feel?”
James had had enough of this and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Miss Woodward, please ring for the police!”
James received no reply.
“Miss Woodward! Are you there?”
“She can’t hear you,” said the man with a laugh. “No one can.”
James jumped to his feet knocking his chair over. He ran to the door and tried to open it but it would not move. The man just watched him as he charged over to the window and attempted to open it. It too seemed locked. Through the glass James expected to see Spirwell street
Turning to the man, James shouted, “What have you done? Where are we?”
“Welcome to my world,” said the man.
James staggered back against his desk which immediately turned to sand and fell to the floor. As he watched the floor became granular and then turned to sand. Green shoots began to sprout up and soon they became weeds or exotic cacti putting out blooms with powerful scents. The walls of his office on which hung his certificates of competence began to lose shape and then stream down to the now – ground. Soon James stood in the middle of a desert where the wind shrieked and wailed. He dropped to his knees by the man. “Make it as it was, I beg you!” he screamed.
The man reached down and laid his hand on James’ head. He smiled benignly down at the psychiatrist. “You don’t like my world?”
James was grabbed by some swarthy men who appeared from behind a large sand dune. His hands were tied and he was dragged by a rope behind a horse which was ridden by the man who had brought him to this world. The man had donned a turban, a cloak and a piece of cloth that covered his face. James lost conscious after a mile, fell and when he came to he was lying in an area in the centre of a large group of tents. He struggled to stand but his legs were badly cut and bruised and he fell back to the ground.
“You cannot stand?” said an imperious voice. “You must stand for El Shaakdom!”
James looked up into the face of a large, fat man. He was dressed in flowing robes and carried a scimitar in his hand.
You are worthless like this!” he screamed. “Stand or die!”
James somehow forced himself to his feet and stood swaying a bit. The blood ran down his legs from his wounds. He knew that if he fell he would be killed.
Later James was taken to a tent and his injuries were washed by some of the women. His smart suit and shirt had been reduced to rags and he had lost his shoes.
“Please, please tell me where I am,” pleaded James to the women, but none of them spoke.
The women made up a bed for him and gently laid him down on it. They brought water and food to him and laid fresh clothes out for him to wear.
The next morning if this place had such a thing, Jmes awoke and hoped that when he opened his eyes everything would be back to normal, but he was to be disappointed. El Shaakdom stood at the mouth of the tent he looked annoyed.
“You sleep to long! Get up and show me that you are a man!” he shouted stepping out into the light.
James put on the clean clothes and took a sip of the now tepid water. He staggered to the mouth of the tent and threw the tent flap open. The harsh light blinded him and he covered his eyes with his hands. Gradually he was able to see, but what he could see terrified him.
El Shaakdom stood across from the tent and he was stripped to the waist. His bronzed upper body gleamed in the light and the sword he carried shone brilliantly.
A servant handed James a sword and stepped back leaving the two men facing each other.
Suddenly, El Shaakdom gave a scream and holding his sword over his head rushed towards where James was standing. James gave a yelp, dropped his sword and ran! He was grabbed by three of his captors and brought back to where El Shaakdom stood.
“You are a lily livered coward!” he shouted at James. “Prepare to die!”
James raised his sword above his head just in time to deflect the blow that El Shaakdom had swung at him. The swords screeched as they slid by one another and some sparks fell to the sand. El Shaakdom then thrust his sword at James’ chest, but once again James was able to deflect it. This went on seemingly endlessly for James and eventually he collapsed unconscious on the sand.
When he awoke the women were bathing his head. They looked at him nervously. Food and water had been brought in.
“Please tell me why I am here,” he begged the veiled ladies.
“Either you will kill El Shaakdom or you will die,” one of the women whispered.
“But, why?” James asked, but no one answered him.
This situation continued for the next few periods of light and James knew that the end was near. El Shaakdom had been toying with him since he had arrived but now James knew the man was losing patience with him and needed to save face by killing him.
As James lay in his bed on what seemed to be the last period of dark, he realised that either he had to kill or be killed. He was bone weary and ached everywhere so the chance of him immobilising El Shaakdom was a million to one. Perhaps he could trip the man and while he lay on the sand, kill him.
But, as the arrival of the period of light drew near James came to a decision.
The light was as bright as white hot metal. The sand was burning to the touch as James made his way out of the tent.
El Shaakdom stood where he had stood for the previous encounters. His sword looked freshly polished and honed. The man looked a fearsome adversary.
“Yaaaaaah!” screamed James hurtling himself towards his foe. El Shaakdom was caught off balance and staggered back. James’ sword grazed his chest, narrowly missing, plunging into his heart. James regained his stance and swung his sword in an arc. The tip of the blade cut a furrow out on El Shaakdom’s shoulder and blood spurted out.
James once again swung his weapon and this time totally missed his enemy. He slipped and fell to the ground.
With an exultant shriek, El Shaakdom raised his sword over his head and looked down at James who was kneeling before him.
“To conquer the fear of death, all a man has to do is to die!” shouted James and laid his sword down.
El Shaakdom’s blade whistled as it began its descent.
James looked up at the man, this El Shaakdom and laughed.
The noise of James’ skull splitting and the sword penetrating his brain produced a singular sound and terminated James’ laugh. James saw a bright light that was followed by darkness.
The desk felt cool beneath James’ head and as he lifted it and gazed groggily around the room where his certificates hung on the wall. He had fallen asleep. It had all been a terrible nightmare, he thought to himself. He laughed aloud as he got to his feet and walked over to the window. Life on Spirwell street
He walked over to his diary and read his last entry. Mr Dawson, the cat person!
James thought that a couple of gin and tonics at his club would just finish the day right and remove any fragments of that very vivid dream from his mind.
He leant over the desk and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Is there any more patients Miss Woodward?” James asked through his intercom.
“Just one Dr. DeSquire,” replied the elderly lady. “He was referred to you by a Dr. Wilson who has a practice in Mullwell.”
Mr. Rollins, a mild mannered man who was having trouble with his memory and had been referred to James by his doctor, a Dr Wilson, watched in terror as the ambulance men carried a strait jacketed Dr DeSquire out of his office. The psychiatrist had gone stark staring mad when he had received the reply from his secretary. He had locked his office door and refused to open it for anybody. When the door was unlocked by a locksmith, Dr DeSquire was found hiding under his desk. As he was pulled out he screamed,
“El Shaakdom is coming to kill me! Save me from El Shaakdom”
As Mr Rollins made his way slowly home he marvelled at the mysteries of the human brain, its complexity and fragility, features that could cause a clever man to lose his place in life. Mr Rollins was sure that madness existed as a place that could be visited and often imprisoned in for all time.
When Mr Rollins looked about him he realised that once again he had forgotten where he was and where he was going to, so he sat down on the nearest bench and waited for someone to find him.
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