Brothers of the Head (11 page)

Sir Allardyce was away. He was expected to look in to collect messages at 12.30. Then he was off to attend a one-day conference in Milan. His secretary promised that he would phone back at 12.30.

So I killed time. I went to see my Aunt Hetty, I had a drink and a sandwich in the pub with Bert and, at 12.20, I was back at the surgery. The call came through at 12.50.

Sir Allardyce had already been giving the matter consideration and was in consultation with his colleagues. I was to be reassured that the matter was still very much on his mind.

This much I heard, watching Sir Allardyce's talking head on the vision plate, before I interrupted. I told him that it was urgent, and that Tom was heading towards a breakdown, dragging a corpse round with him, and that I feared evil things unless help for him was forthcoming.

‘I know exactly how you must feel, Miss Howe,' he said. ‘But this is an absolutely unique case, and we must proceed with due care. We discharged your brother from hospital because he was unhappy there, but in my opinion it would be best if we brought him into a London hospital for observation.'

That sounded sensible to me. I said I would accompany Tom wherever he went.

Sir Allardyce looked at a calendar I could not see. ‘Today is Wednesday. I shall be back in England on Friday. I will have my secretary arrange to have your brother collected in an ambulance on Friday and brought direct to London. Will that suit you? We will ring back and settle all the details of the arrangements with Dr Collins.'

So it was left. Only two more nights, then Tom would be in proper hands. I returned to the Head with relief.

Tom was restless that afternoon. He went out and wandered in the direction of the lake, returning not long before sunset. After exchanging a word with me, he slipped upstairs and played his guitar for half an hour. ‘Two-Way Romeo' was one of the numbers. Then silence.

I cooked him some sausages and chips and he went to bed early. Father was stuffing a dead tern. I went out for a walk in the moonlight, strolling along what we always called The Feather, a fine curve of sand sculptured by wind, with water on either side of it. The night seemed limitless. I longed – oh, I don't know for what!

Father had retired when I returned. I crept softly upstairs, pausing outside Tom's room. Silence. I went to bed and slept eventually.

When I woke, I found myself sitting up. Clouds had blown over the moon and it was dark. Outside was the endless sound of the sea; inside, the noise of father snoring. Nothing else.

Getting up, I padded barefoot down the passage. Something compelled me to enter Tom's room.

The dimness fluctuated as clouds moved away from the moon's face. I saw three heads lying on the pillow. All were still. I approached. Tom's eyes were closed. Barry's eyes were closed. The eyes in the other head opened. Slowly, it turned towards me. The eyes opened wider.

As if this muscular exertion was a severe strain, the mouth fell open. Never to my knowledge had it opened before. I wondered if it contained teeth, but in the dull light only a black cavity could be seen. The eyes glittered. The general effect was one of imbecility. We stared at each other.

The noise of my own heart thudding made me move. Slowly, never letting my eyes leave the glittering ones, I edged towards Tom's side of the bed. The other head moved, keeping me always in sight. My outstretched hand reached Tom's shoulder, and I shook him, calling his name softly.

He muttered and stirred, but I could not rouse him. I shouted louder. Now a noise came from the black open mouth – a kind of a laugh, grating, dry.

‘Tom!' I yelled. I slapped his face. He had a mug by his bed, half full of water. I dashed it in his face. At last he sat up.

‘It's all sand,' he said.

‘Oh, Tom, what's happening?' I cradled his head in my arms, and at last he was himself again.

‘The other head's alive, Tom, it's coming alive.' We looked at it, but the eyes were closed again, the neck limp, in its usual position.

‘I was dreaming about it.'

‘What's its name, Tom, what's its name?'

‘It hasn't got a name,' he said impatiently. ‘It's dead, same as Barry.'

He climbed out of bed. Again I saw how perfectly coordinated were the movements of the other body, which Tom now controlled. But I felt something monstrous about him.

He went downstairs. There was nothing for it but to follow. He was splashing his face under the tap.

‘Tom? Let's go and have a swim.'

‘I was dreaming that I heard music. Perhaps it was your voice far off. It was a totally different kind of dream from yesterday's. It was more coherent – much more like a movie in some ways. But it was very malicious.

‘And it went on for a long while.

‘I dreamed I was a sort of tame creature or perhaps a person on a beautiful island – a small island much like an unspoilt England, with thickets and glades and lovely little intimate dells to be in. The only other people on the island were my master, who was some kind of alchemist – he wore rich gowns and a crown, which sounds silly but it was splendid in the dream – and his daughter, who was about my age and whom I loved dearly. She had long golden hair and a laughing mouth, and I remember seeing her dance by the edge of the waves. I dived in and out of the waves like a dog.

‘All sorts of things happened, magical things, and they were all fun. I was tremendously happy. I could do magical acts as well, charm birds out of trees, whistle fish out of water, fly with the golden-haired girl over hills and the thatched roofs of villages, capture the sunrise.

‘One day, I found a secret valley with a waterfall at the far end. It seemed to me the most delightful place, and I flung myself into the water. I think she was there too, and we were climbing up and up the cascade, laughing, when the alchemist caught me.

‘He was furiously angry. Nothing I said made any difference to his fury. He had me trapped and I was dragged, as if by wolves, to a dark part of the island. I had never been there before. I realized that I was not a grand person. Seeing myself through the eyes of the alchemist, I realized that I was just a kind of rough animal, a sport. All the time that I was being dragged over broken ground, I was trying to shout and explain that I really was what I thought I was, not what he thought I was.

‘The terror wasn't from the journey so much as from this conflict of viewpoints. Because, in the dream, I could understand his conception of me to some extent, yet he could not understand mine, although mine was the truer one. Mine went deeper. Mine saw me from inside. Yet his view triumphed, simply because he was stronger – remorselessly strong.

‘He took me to a great leafless tree. It must have been an oak. I saw its branches spread all over the sky like cracks in heaven. It was freshly split down the middle, so that its insides were open and all pale and yellow and glistening, like a disembowelled rabbit. Splinters hung all round the split, like the jaws of an animal with ferocious teeth. It opened still wider when the alchemist spoke. His voice was like thunder. I was crying for mercy.'

Tom paused and wiped his face.

‘Telling you all this, I see it begin to sound like a dream about fear of punishment after sexual intercourse. But it wasn't half as simple as that in the actual dream. Because this wizard owned me, and there was a sort of counterpoint in the dream about how in fact he was quite powerless or rather he could invent nothing good, which was why I was malformed; whereas I had invented all the delights of the island. It's difficult to explain in words. When he grabbed me, he rolled up all the good things as well, just as if they were the pattern on a Persian carpet. Carpet and I, we were thrown into the gaping entrails of the oak. Whereupon the alchemist slammed the tree shut and locked it with a great golden key.

‘Immediately, it was like I had been transmuted into another person. I was just walking down a road in a rather boring way. I wasn't on the island any more. I had the carpet and I had the girl. She walked with me, much diminished. She had been writing a diary but now had hidden it and would not even tell me where it was; I did not wish to know where it was, but her silly refusal to speak about it chafed my spirit – I wanted free communion between us.

‘Because of this, I led the way into a small village in a snug river valley, where we were surrounded by singing people all having great fun. Somehow I despised them. I was apart from them, though I sang with them. Yes, and I can even remember the song I sang …

‘No, I have forgotten the tune, but I remember what the song was about. It was about a planet entirely covered by water. Over the ages the water became conscious. It flew away to another solar system, leaving a great world of sand where the tide had gone out for ever. I ran laughing over the golden sand, tremendously happy because again I was free. Things were hatching out of the dark damp sand, growing, spinning. They evolved into enormous complex castles and people and – oh, unimaginable shapes. It was wonderful.

‘These inventions of my song invaded the snug river valley. Nobody paid any attention to them. Everyone left me. There was just the sand. Someone was standing by me, explaining. I did not like what he was saying, particularly as I could not see him.

‘“Now you understand how the ocean became intelligent and developed life,” he was saying, going into some long obscure scientific explanation.

‘As he was speaking, I saw he was referring to a head which was growing out of the sand. It was more or less like a human head, but at the same time I could see inside it. It was all divided into different sandy floors and rooms, rather in the manner of a complex dolls' house. From it were pouring sandy thoughts. The thoughts were so powerful that I felt that they were overcoming me, and soon – I cannot tell you what terror I still experience when I say it –
the whole universe was becoming nothing but dry sand thoughts
. I saw that the stars shining overhead were just gobbets of sand.

‘I was full of disgust. Even the sunlight was composed of fine particles of sand which threatened to suffocate me. With an effort, I began running for safety. The sand-grains stung my cheek. Even running was painful. Behind me, the head was growing bigger and bigger; it was virtually a planet in its own right.

‘Looking down, I saw my limbs, my body, were composed of sand too. They began to crack and break … I scarcely dared wake up in case the dream proved to be real.'

We sat unmoving. At last I asked Tom if he would like a swim, just to convince himself that he was perfectly well.

‘Just let me be. I'll sit here a while and recover. You go to bed, Rob.'

I pointed at the other head.

‘That thing was awake, Tom. It is alive, it has thoughts. I don't think it is any friend of mine or yours. Suppose it wakes up fully and you're reduced to unconsciousness …'

Tom stood up. I saw anger on his face. ‘You get up to bed, girl, and don't talk nonsense. Leave me alone. I've been meddled with all my life.'

‘But what do you think, Tom? Aren't you afraid? Why not talk about it?'

‘There's nothing to talk about. Leave me alone.'

His manner had changed so abruptly that I was scared. I made my way reluctantly upstairs. My father was still snoring securely; it would have taken the Last Trump to wake him.

Well, I thought, one more night to go before we get Tom to proper care.

In the morning, he was gone. Father wanted me to do various odd jobs, and it was afternoon before I could strike out across the Head and find him. He was sitting dejectedly under the shade of an elder tree.

He seemed to be his old self again, saying he was sorry for his angry outburst. I coaxed him back home and gave him something to eat.

As the day wore on, he was increasingly listless. I kept looking at him when he was looking away. Barry's head was sunk down useless on to his chest. His cheeks looked gaunt and withered. The other head – was it not tense, as if feigning sleep? Hadn't its face filled out? Wasn't its hair less grey, less dead-looking?

Nameless fears filled me; I thought, if only we can get through the night, tomorrow the ambulance, London, proper care … I had not dared tell Tom yet what was planned. In a good mood, he would do as I bid. And he would surely want to be a separate person on his own if that was possible.

Towards dusk, I persuaded him to come and swim with me. Father sat at his table, watching us go, smiling vaguely.

The visitors had left. One or two solitary lights dotted the distance. The sea was flat, its surface heaving as if in a stupor. Not a wave broke. A leaden mist moved slowly over the sea like oil, the token of another day's heat already in preparation.

I stripped off my clothes and flung myself in the water. Tom waded in. As he launched himself, the other heads came up, and Barry's limbs went through swimming motions just as if he were alive. Just their two outer arms moved, the way of swimming they had adopted long ago. We did not stay in the water for long.

Above us in the sky shone the full moon, the Norfolk harvest moon.

‘I think I'll sleep better tonight,' Tom said. ‘I wish Laura was here.'

So we went to our bedrooms. Despite all my anxieties, I was soon fast asleep.

No sooner had my eyes closed – so it seemed – than the screaming started. It sounded like the snarling of a pair of wild dogs fighting. I staggered up, full of sleep, and again made my way to Tom's room, like a somnambulist. Again I had a strong impression that I was dreaming. Everything was precise in detail yet faint over-all, like a dream.

I went down the corridor like a swimmer, very slowly. When I entered Tom's room, the snarling had stopped. He was propped up in bed, smiling at me. He had arranged the sheet over the other heads.

It was so light in the room with the moonlight that his teeth gleamed when he yawned.

‘What's happened? What was all that noise.'