“In a previous life I figure I was either a rabbit or a white fluffy cat,” Beck said. “You only have to look at me to see that.”
“I hate rabbits.” R.D. studied her big, pretty face. “But I’ll make an exception.”
In the water below, gobs of foam floated between their legs, soaking up the last rays of sunlight as they drifted downstream.
“What happened to your eyebrows, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I went to a beautician. We got talking so much she plucked them right off.” Beck frowned, an expression she had to create entirely with her forehead. “They won’t grow back. I don’t know why.”
R.D. hired her. Having a full blown Looney-Toon as an assistant might put his other patients more at ease.
Besides, she was surprisingly good in bed.
-33-
“There’s a woman here to see you,” Beck fought for supremacy over the intercom static. R.D. hit the enter button on his PC and two hours’ worth of work winked out of existence.
“Bloody, bloody… shite! Who is it?” The finer points of language escaped him as he punched keys in random desperation. “Does she have an appointment?”
“She claims to be an old friend.” The intercom sounded sceptical. Beck was used to people wandering into reception insisting they were Napoleon. “Probably just another psycho, though,” the crackling voice continued in a stage whisper that must have been audible half-way down the block.
“What’s her name?”
A pause…
“It’s a Mrs. Moore.”
It took a few seconds to sink in.
“Clancy?” R.D. was astounded. “Clancy Moore?”
“That’s right.”
A stupid grin sprouted on his face.
“Of course I know her! Show her in.”
Seconds later Clancy was standing on his Axeminster carpet, unconsciously hiding the frayed patch. Despite the passage of years she looked as stunning as ever, in a familiar sky-blue summer dress and bright patent leather sandals.
Beck and Clancy were the same height, with the same platinum blonde hair. But Beck was polished, while Clancy was naturally smooth. Her skin was as dry and unblemished as writing paper and her face had the symmetry of a diminutive egg – a frangible quality, bound in curls that managed to radiate innocent sensuality.
They looked nervously at each other from across the cleft of time. Clancy flicked her thumbs with her middle fingers, a habit the psychologist had all but forgotten.
It seemed so long ago. The Moorasic period. The days when R.D., Justin Moore and Clancy went drinking at La Zona Rosa or fished on Bayou Tesh. Happier times. Half-remembered times.
Clancy flitted across the room, glancing at the decor as she passed, finally perching on the arm of a chair. She fixed R.D. with an uneasy stare.
“Eh… Hi.” He was unable to hide his pleasure at seeing her.
“Hello stranger.” She gave a small smile. Then a larger one. R.D. got up and hurried round the desk.
“C’mere,” he said, putting out his arm. The woman rose again and gave him a small hug. For a second he felt flesh, bone and heartbeat.
“It’s good to see you,” Clancy said.
“You too.”
“You look well. Hair dyed?”
“Yes. But it’s accidental.”
Clancy smiled and slid back down. R.D. casually swept pen and paper aside, plonking himself on the desk.
“Would you like some coffee?” He was lost for a way to properly start the conversation.
“No thanks.”
“A biscuit?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Therapy?”
“Yes please,” Clancy laughed.
R.D. chuckled too, hoping this was a moment of closeness. The hook to throw at a lost friendship. But the woman had stopped laughing and a slender horseshoe of tears sparkled in each eye. The psychologist twitched.
“Yes, I would,” she repeated. “I got some… issues.”
“Shit. You’re serious.”
Clancy flicked her thumbs faster. R.D. looked past her. His certificates, some fake, framed her gilded head, sun-spattered surfaces hiding their modest boasts.
“Clancy… You’re married to one of the most talented explorers of the mind I ever met,” he pointed out. “I’m absurdly pleased you’re here but, if you’ve got problems, wouldn’t Justin be the one to ask?”
“Justin is the problem,” she said simply.
R.D., already struggling to hide his disappointment at finding this wasn’t a social call, now tried to wipe surprise off his face, ending up with what must have looked like an unhappy sneer.
“So?” he asked. “What exactly is going on with you and my man?”
Clancy took a long, shuddering breath.
“I can’t remember him.”
-34-
“Pardon?” R.D. was taken aback. “What did you say?”
“I can’t remember him,” Clancy repeated. “I can’t remember what he looks like. How he sounds or feels.”
“You mean he’s left you?”
“Nothing like that.” She hesitated. “It’s gonna sound dumb but, when he’s not actually in the room, I can’t recall anything about him. I don’t know if he’s funny or boring. I don’t remember chunks of our past together. I mean, I know how Justin and I met and where we got married. But my memories of our life together are getting progressively hazier.”
She halted to let R.D. wrestle with the concept. He tried various veneers of concentration, then stalled.
“Lie on my couch, face down,” he said professionally. “I’ll do some probing.”
Clancy gave a half-sniffle, half-giggle. R.D. hopped off his desk, taking up what he thought was a stance of acceptable puzzlement, forehead pressed against the office window. This time the woman actually laughed.
“You still live in that big house out in East Texas, near Longview?” he asked.
“We do.”
“OK.” R.D. put his fingers together. “When did you last talk to Justin?”
“About ten minutes ago. He’s waiting in the car for me.”
“Eh?” Yet another jolt. “He didn’t want to come up himself?”
“He’s parked in a deserted lot down on 22nd and 5th, near the river.”
R.D. looked down into the street where a herd of neon T-shirts teemed four floors below. There were plenty of parking spaces right next to his building. But he played along. He was too astute a practitioner not to.
“Do you remember any conversations you had on the drive over?”
“We were talking about Lorentz forces.”
“One of my favourite topics. What’s a Lorentz force?”
“It’s the pull a magnetic field exerts on an electrically charged particle.”
“Jeez.” R.D. whistled appreciatively. “You’re not going to be stuck if your hairdryer blows a fuse.”
“Justin’s become quite the expert on electronics. I picked up a few things from him.”
“So you know what you spoke about today. That’s good.”
“Yes I do. But that’s what’s so strange. The memory of the conversation itself is hazy. As time goes on it’ll vanish altogether, I know that from experience, even though I’ll still remember what we talked about.”
She gripped the soft arms of her chair. “I’m scared, R.D.”
Her former mentor laced his fingers together in his most professional manner.
“It’s not as strange as you think.” He tried to sound positive. “You ought to know, better than anybody, how easily the mind is set off kilter. I got a case history lying around here. This guy can read a book and tell you exactly what the story is about but can’t understand what any of the individual words mean. Maybe it’s the same kind of thing.”
Clancy got up and joined him at the window. Traffic lights switched and the buzz of pedestrians and vehicles shifted to a different waltz.
“That’s because he’s got something wrong with
him,” she said quietly. “I thought I was cured.”
“You are cured.” R.D. projected all the authority he could muster. “This sounds like a simple mental block to me. We work on it. We pick it apart. It’s gone.”
He waggled two-tone eyebrows at her. Last time he saw her they had been solid brown.
“It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
“Don’t I know it?” the woman muttered dourly.
“Think of it this way.” R.D. gave a Bernstein-like gesture. “Snap diagnosis. A brain is just a house where you keep your thoughts. Justin’s in there, somewhere but he’s sort of … hiding in the closet. So, I go in, have a quick rake around, and find him!”
He folded his arm in academic bravado. He felt he was handling the whole thing pretty well, considering he hadn’t a clue what Clancy was talking about.
She tilted her head up and grimaced at him, her huge eyes curving into shiny scornful slits.
“Where do you get these analogies from?”
“The Big Bird Bumper Analogy Anthology.” R.D. could see his light-heartedness wasn’t infectious and he rubbed awkwardly at his temple. Old habits died hard.
“How did you manage to set yourself up as a therapist anyhow?” Clancy said. “I thought your degree was in psychology.”
“Like anyone checks? Besides, people dig my accent. I mean it, Clancy. It’ll be fine, I promise.”
“That’s what I appreciate about you, R.D. You’re always quick with a helpful lie.”
“I’m not lying.” The psychologist was flustered. “I never lie in a professional capacity.”
He led her back to the chair and returned to his own. They both sat, spawning a cacophony of leathery squeaks. R.D leaned forwards and rubbed his hands.
“I should really talk to Justin. Why wouldn’t he come up? How come he’s parked in the middle of nowhere?”
“It’s complicated.” Clancy leant forward. A pale pendulum of hair snaked across her face. “But he can’t bring himself to be among people.”
Justin had problems too? R.D. couldn’t work out what was going on.
“He wants to see you, though. Time heals all wounds they say.” Clancy looked sheepish. “You don’t suppose you could come out to our house? I know I showed up right out of the blue and you must be very busy.”
“No. No, I’d be delighted.” R.D. wasn’t going to let a chance like this slip by. Besides, he was never too busy these days. “What about Thursday?”
“You kidding? That would be great!”
“I’ll be there!” R.D. surfed along on a tide of enthusiasm. “Can’t believe how lax I’ve been about keeping touch.”
It was a necessary fib and Clancy let it slide. R.D. gave his famous hang-dog look, peering at her through long heavy lashes. They were a feature women always commented on, so he used them as often as he could.
“Don’t fret,” he said earnestly. “I’m on the case.”
Clancy tilted her head towards him in a suggestive, reverent motion.
“Thank you R.D.” she said gratefully.
“Do you have any related symptoms?”
Clancy didn’t answer.
“C’mon now. I have to know.”
A small wave of anguish rippled the lake-soft perfection of her face. She pressed a fist against her chest.
“Just tell me,” R.D. coaxed.
“Headaches. Inability to concentrate.” Dwarfed by the big chair she made birdlike jerks of her head, as she fought not to cry. “R.D., I lose track of hours.”
“Hey! hey!” the psychologist squawked. “It’ll be all right! I promise!” He jerked open his desk drawer and rifled inside, pulling out a battered recorder and aiming at her. “Jeez! Here. Let me get some details.”
“No.” Clancy looked nervously around. “I can’t stay.”
“It would be a lot of help to me.” R.D. tried to be insistent, but the young woman was already on her feet.
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said forcefully, glancing round again. “Justin is waiting.”
R.D. thought he detected fear in her voice.
“Trust me.” Her tone softened. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
She moved away and a flush of annoyance toasted R.D. He fought it down before he could question its origins.
“If you must go…” He left the sentence unfinished, as if he were making some kind of a point.
Clancy stopped in the open doorway. The sun from the reception window circled a mesh of gold in her coiling hair,
“Do you know how to get to our house?”
“Of course. I did come out once. Remember?”
Clancy touched her head gently.
“No. But I still remember you. That’s something, at least.”
Then she was gone.
Beck appeared at his desk, diet Coke in hand, before the last dislodged dust motes had floated from door to carpet.
“Oh ho, my friend.” She gave a cheesy, Cheshire grin. “Who was that?”
R.D. wanted to tell her. He really did. He thought about inviting Beck to his house for dinner that night. They could buy some wine. A lot of wine. He could tell her the whole crazy story of himself, Justin and Clancy. Then they would fuck, have breakfast and drive to work together. That’d be nice.
On the other hand, Beck couldn’t listen to a weather report without interrupting it.
R.D. stared glassily past her.
“Just someone I used to know.”
Great. He couldn’t have sounded more melodramatic if he’d been standing on the deck of a burning U-boat. But Beck had already lost interest and was sauntering back to her office. He noted how fleshy she looked. How ungainly her walk seemed compared to Clancy’s. Suddenly he really didn’t want to talk to Beck at all.
Just dinner, fucking and breakfast then. Perhaps he could miss out dinner too.
He stared unhappily at the empty chair.
“Clancy Moore… I just don’t know anyone else like you,” he sighed, fingering the cracked deserted leather. His hand brushed a small white triangle lying on the chair where the woman had been sitting. It was a folded note.
Opening it, he recognised Clancy’s neat, precise handwriting, even after all these years.
Sorry to be secretive but please don't tell anyone you're in touch with us. Not a soul. Justin will explain everything when you visit. We can't wait to see you again. I know the three of us parted badly, but all that's in the past, I hope.
Please don't be angry about what happened. I long for us to be together again, like in the old days.
I need you R.D. I'm not in control of my own mind but you, of all people, will understand.
You'll help me. I know you will.
Clancy
-35-
The greasy smell of eggs and spiced meat floated past Beck’s puffy face as she slouched limply at the kitchen table. She had fought her way into stretch denim jeans, high-heeled patent leather boots and a tight wallpaper-patterned waistcoat, and that left her with enough energy to light her first cigarette of the day. She goggled, trancelike, into her Cheerios with fish-bowl bottom eyes. R.D. jigged around the breakfast bar behind her, flipping a chilli omelette in a pan.
“Not really a morning person, are you, Beck?” He tossed a fresh egg into the air and caught it behind his back, a motion he’d used up half a henhouse to perfect.
“What time is it?” his secretary rasped.
“Eight o clock.”
“What time do I start work?”
“Nine o clock.”
“Then fuck off.”
R.D. sang along with the radio. He loved mornings. It meant another night had safely passed. A whole day had to die before darkness arrived once more and twisted his thoughts and doubts into more fearsome forms. Before his recurring nightmare descended.
And it was always the same nightmare.
The talking bull. Leering over him. Screaming into his face.
It was an image that had haunted his twilight h
ours for years, one he never talked about. Tried desperately not to think about when he was awake.
“What would you like with your omelette?” he chirped, pushing the picture to the back of his mind.
“Silence.”
But R.D. couldn’t be quiet. He loved when something different happened in his life, as long as it wasn’t bad-different.
This was good. This was great. Sure the note from Clancy had him worried at first. But the Moores were obviously under a lot of stress and he intended to sort all that out. He was going to be mates with Justin again! A new Adventure was beginning.
He had cellophane wrapped his Mortadella, cheese and Branston Pickle roll and a bottle of lime Gatorade was chilling in the ice box, ready for the dusty drive to East Texas. After seeing the note, R.D. had kept quiet about Justin and Clancy, telling his secretary he was taking the day off to go shopping. She had cancelled all appointments and, when she woke properly, could look forward to a day of uninterrupted nail filing at the office.
R.D. even got a goodbye smile out of her, though he only achieved it by pulling up the corners of her mouth with his fingers.
Fifty minutes later, the unleavened morning landscape was sailing past. Cattle were drab, drifting blobs punctuating the mist. Oil derricks rose and receded. Small towns yawned and blinked at the happy driver. R.D. put his car and his head on auto-cruise and both whistled mindlessly towards their destination.
Opening his empty briefcase he took out the roll and unpeeled it, scrunching up the cellophane and stuffing the tiny crackly ball into a suit pocket already lined with discarded crusted polythene. Packed lunches were R.D.’s staple diet these days, now that his Cherry Bomb fame had faded.
Beck had asked about the psychologist’s past once or twice, but only as an opening gambit to then recount stories from her own short existence. He wished that the girl was more real to him but she just didn’t prompt R.D. to talk about himself enough. And the stories he had to tell! He had a car boot load of strange and wonderful tales.
Some of them were even true.
R.D. arrived at the Moore’s residence gloriously late, but with an intimate knowledge of every back road in the locality. He had driven past Justin’s secluded driveway a dozen times and only spotted it when he gave up looking.
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