Susceptible (short story) by Dr Spock

 Susceptible

They said He was a tough nut to crack. The usual interrogation techniques had been tried - without success – and then it was my turn. I was to be the ‘good cop’ or rather the good psychologist.

They didn’t give a lot of information; they wanted me to go in ‘cold’ – unbiased.

However I’d heard the stories doing the rounds; you couldn’t stop people from talking and speculation in the department was rife: the prisoner in block nine was different; one theory had him as an alien, another speculated on genetic divergence…was he a mutant?  Some said he had strange powers… psionic…something like that - but I wasn’t bothered; I didn’t go in for any of that stuff. I was a pragmatist by nature.  I think that might have been a factor in choosing me. They said I wasn’t the susceptible type. It got me wondering: susceptible to what? Of course they wouldn’t say.

First impressions: well he wasn’t really very impressive. I suppose I had built him up too much in my mind; I couldn’t help imagining some kind of wild eyed Rasputin character - but actually, He seemed fairly ordinary – a bit malnourished and in need of a shave, but still ordinary.

This guy was head of a cult? I couldn’t see it; No charisma…no nothing - a blank. He looked at me blandly…looked straight through me. I couldn’t read him at all, which was a problem, I suppose, considering my job.


His medical files set the record straight on some of the extreme theories; there were no physical abnormalities detected. The brain scans were particularly detailed on that account; they showed a perfectly healthy normal brain. Text book stuff, really. or so I thought at the time - but then later it occurred to me: was that actually normal? My own scan revealed  right brain dominance and some thalmic idiosyncrasies. 

My questioning strategy was to be simple and direct - have a candid conversation. But with each question I got the same bland lack of response. If I hadn’t known better I would have wondered if he spoke English. But I knew he did; it was one of the few details in his case notes, where he was simply named Mr X but I eventually thought of him as Mr Bland, for obvious reasons.

I felt myself flounder a bit. It was ridiculous – I was a professional; I’d dealt with this kind of thing before. But his silence was unnerving; there was a strange vibe to it… an intensity, a hypnotic concentration.

Was he trying to hypnotise me? If he was, it wasn’t like any kind of hypnotism that I knew. No eye contact…no contact at all, really, and yet I definitely felt that I was being affected by something…

I was about to give up – to get the hell out of there, thinking they would need to get someone else – when he startled me:

‘Giving up so soon’ he said, as if he had read my mind. Of course he had been reading me since I entered the cell, I realised. He had somehow managed to reverse the tables on me. Okay, I thought, round one to Mr Bland. I must try harder.

He held my gaze. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ His voice was a whisper.

‘I don’t get it!’ My voice sounded too loud. I felt like I was loosing the advantage but I had to ask: ‘what don’t I get?’

‘It doesn’t matter’ I had to strain to hear his library whisper. Well, I didn’t get him, that was for sure. I shot him a quizzical look. He dropped his gaze.

‘You don’t get that it doesn’t matter’ He laughed softly. It was infuriating.

‘Look, I’m here to help you’ I said, trying to reassert myself, trying to stay calm. 

 ‘Funny’ he said. ‘I was about to say the same thing’. Was he laughing at me?

‘Okay, okay’ I said, checking my annoyance with a show of professional calm. ‘Maybe we can help each other’

 ‘Maybe…’ he said. His laughter was almost imperceptible. It showed in his eyes. ‘Maybe we can’

The look he gave me reminded me of my suspicions of hypnotism. The strange feeling was back again…no it had always been there, I realised, I was just now aware of it once again. It was like the sound of a clock ticking; fading to background noise but always there - only this was like hearing a sound beyond the normal auditory range, like a dog whistle. I put the thought out of my head. I had to remain pragmatical. I needed to concentrate. He still held my gaze, looking through me.

I knew that I needed to do something, to get the upper hand, as it were…it was my job…I had to take control, but why was it so important? I couldn’t seem to pin down my thoughts…it doesn’t matter…I didn’t get that it doesn’t matter…My thoughts were elusive… not my own, somehow…

‘You know’ he said. ‘Maybe you do have a chance…maybe you will get it, after all - You can never tell with intellectuals …’ His words sounded far away. My head hurt and I wondered if I had been drugged - then suddenly there was clarity, like the moment the ophthalmologist inserts the correct lens during an eye test, like tuning a channel on a TV set.

Everything changed in that moment.

‘We don’t have long’ he said. ‘But it’s okay’. His expression spoke volumes; I felt like I was receiving a high speed download through the eyes.

‘I think you’ve got it now’ He said.

He told me in advance what would happen; my debriefing was more like an interrogation - he was right about that and, of course, I was taken of the case. They were not convinced with my lack of results; the amnesia story was not accepted, although I discovered that I was not the first to report this. Although my interview was concluded, I knew that I was under surveillance, as predicted. His final prediction was the hardest to acknowledge; weeks later I found out that it, too, was accurate. They killed him.

If I hadn’t been looking every day in the papers, I would have missed the brief report of his death:

CULT LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE

The story characterised him as delusional and mentally unbalanced and suggested that this lead to him taking his own life. A convincing piece; it painted the picture of a crazy cult that preyed on the weak and vulnerable members of society.

I didn’t believe a word of it. I had experienced a higher state; I had been transformed by it, reborn in a state of grace…like the early Christians, the Buddhists. I knew the truth.

At least I thought I did. But what did I really know? Who was Mr Bland really? What if I have been susceptible, after all?