They came to a cinema.
It seemed dark after the glare of the corridor, and a large screen dominated one wall. Around this hung several television monitors, leaning in on hydraulic arms. Cables looped between them, and a satellite dish stood blank and white on a rack of electronics. A technician whispered into a microphone, and as soon as the door closed, the television sets started to glow.
Dr Summersby moved onto a platform, and Richard was aware of Dr Warren just behind him. Rikki’s head still lolled against his ear, and he could feel spittle down his neck. Another door opened, and his parents stepped through.
‘I want to go home!’ said Richard.
‘I know, love,’ said his mother.
‘What do they want with me? Let me go!’
His father took his hand. ‘Give them a chance, son. That’s all we ask. Nothing will be done without your permission.’
‘What do you mean, Dad? Permission for what?’
His parents sat on either side of him, and Dr Summersby peered into the gloom. ‘Can you hear me?’ she said. The technician raised his thumb. ‘Is Professor Reed with us?’
‘Patching him in. Any minute.’
‘OK. And—’
‘Doctor Tibbitts is online too, standing by.’
‘OK. Richard . . . let me explain,’ said Dr Summersby. ‘You’re about to meet our emergency team. They’ve all want to talk to you, because they’ve been following your case, just like me. Sorry, there’s a buzzing . . .’ A microphone amplified her voice and pushed it out of several speakers. There was a squeal of static, and each television slowly resolved into a human face. The faces hovered, blinking. Dr Summersby pressed a key on her laptop and the screen behind her burst into a multi-coloured grid. ‘This is the age of technology,’ she said. ‘Professor Reed?’
‘He’s through,’ said the man at the desk.
‘Edmund Reed is one of our top surgeons, Richard—’
‘Hello?’ said a voice. ‘I can see you, but I can’t hear anything.’
‘You’re loud and clear, Ed,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Julius is with us too – so’s Fergal.’ The heads nodded and smiled, then all at once the faces rolled upwards, disappearing at the chin. Foreheads returned, and then staring eyes. The images settled again, grinning.
Richard clung to his father’s hand, as Dr Summersby continued: ‘We’ve discussed your situation,’ she said. ‘As I said before, your case is not unique, and—’
‘I’m not a case,’ hissed Richard.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Shh, dear,’ said his mother. ‘Let her explain.’
‘I’m not a case!’ said Richard again. ‘I’m just a . . . boy, and I’m not sick or mental. I don’t know who any of you are!’
Dr Summersby smiled. ‘We understand your sensitivities,’ she said. ‘When I said the word “case”, all I meant was that we’ve had a very similar . . . example of your situation, out in Asia.’
‘A successful procedure,’ said one of the televisions. ‘Richard, I’m Mr Feeney, and I can tell you, right now, that we’re ready to go on this. Butterfly’s doing well, and—’
‘Very well,’ said Dr Warren. ‘Let’s show him, Fergal.’
‘Sure.’
‘He needs to see the miracle – it’s important, Richard.’
Dr Summersby continued her explanation. ‘Edmund led the surgery for Butterfly, and it taught us all a very great deal about properly timed intervention. So . . . let’s get right to the point.’ She pressed another key and the grid on the main screen broke up into a host of thumbnail images.
‘How are you feeling, Rikki?’ said one of the televisions.
‘Julius, this is Richard,’ said Dr Warren.
‘Oh, right. Hi.’
‘We thought she was a mutation,’ said Dr Summersby. ‘At first. That was the logical diagnosis, because there are a lot of nerve agents left in Vietnam. That’s the legacy of war, of course, and some of those poisons lay dormant for years. Then the water supply gets contaminated, and before you know it—’
‘Two-headed pigs,’ said Dr Tibbits. ‘Two-headed dogs. Mutations sprouting everywhere. But the little girl—’
‘I’m not a mutation,’ said Richard through gritted teeth.
‘You’re not what? I can’t hear you, son.’
‘Nor can I,’ said the screen opposite. ‘I can just about hear—’
‘I’m not a mutation!’ cried Richard. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me!’
Dr Summersby was nodding. ‘You’re not, of course. You’re a very sensitive young man,’ she said quickly. ‘And you’re right to be picking us up on our language too. You’re not a mutation, Rik—Richard. You are a . . . fully functioning, ultra-normal schoolboy, and your teachers speak very highly of you.’
‘So do I,’ said Dr Warren.
There was a smattering of warm laughter, and Mr Feeney leaned forward into his screen. ‘You’re not the problem at all, Richard,’ he said. The voice was suddenly loud, and the face was all nose and glasses. ‘Everyone knows that, my friend. We want that secondary cortex removed, once and for all. You deserve a normal life, same as everyone.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘We’ve found a way, at last. OK, there’s a level of risk—’
‘Rikki!’ said Richard. ‘I need you, man! Will you wake up, please?’
‘Shh!’ said Dr Warren.
‘Show him the pictures,’ said the consultant.
‘Be patient, love,’ said his mother. ‘We agreed to sedate Rikki. We all agreed—’
‘Wake up, Rikki!’ shouted Richard. ‘I need you! We’re in a madhouse!’
‘He’s right here with you,’ said Mr Westlake. He put his arm round his son’s shoulders and held him tight. ‘He’ll be awake soon, Richard. Let these people show you what they have in mind – go with us that far. Please.’
Richard laughed. ‘You hate him too, Dad, I know you do.’
‘I don’t hate him, son. How can I?’
‘He’s me! He’s me, and I’m him, and . . . Oh God, you can’t just cut out the bits you don’t like! Where’s Grandad?’
‘Look,’ said the consultant loudly. ‘I think it’s best that we outline the treatment, and take it from there. The schedule is tight.’
‘The funding’s through, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then we’re flying tonight. Show him the first slide.’
A thumbnail burst open, and two little Asian girls appeared, laughing with delight. They filled the room, and Richard blinked at the brightness. They were seven or eight years old, in pigtails and ribbons – and the whole room was transformed by their energy. Richard gazed, and it took him a full five seconds to realize that while there were two faces and two radiant smiles, there was only one pair of shoulders. His mouth fell open, for it was a single child. Like him, she had two heads, sitting neatly on one slender torso.
‘That’s Butterfly, Richard,’ said Professor Reed. ‘We airlifted her from Ho Chi Minh a month ago: the Vietnam experiment.’
‘Butterfly?’ said Richard.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that her real name? Why did you call her that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Tibbits. ‘Because she was cute as a butterfly, I guess. And none of us could say her real name. Anyway, that’s not the issue. We got her down to Brisbane, where Ed runs a neurological unit just like this one. Show him some more.’
Images clicked and slide followed slide. The child was holding a cat. She was sitting in a chair. She was standing again, in school uniform. The smiles were still dazzling.
Dr Warren said, ‘Now look what we did. This was the result of teamwork, and – as I said – the implications are huge. The behaviour changed totally.’
The next picture showed a child in pyjamas. She was in a wheelchair, and one of the heads had shrivelled. It was as if somebody had let the air out of it.
‘That was three days after admission,’ said Dr Summersby. The television faces nodded and smiled. ‘The radiation therapy was instantly successful – more than anyone would have believed.’
‘It was amazing,’ said Mr Feeney. ‘We’d found where to target it, right?’
‘We bombarded the parietal lobe first,’ said Professor Reed. ‘That was the big decision . . . show him the next one.’
The screen melted into another huge close-up, and the child’s eyes were suddenly closed. She was held in some kind of clamp, and two discs hovered just above her temples.
‘My God, she was a tough cookie.’
‘Brave, as well,’ said Dr Tibbits. ‘Never complained.’
‘She had endurance, Richard,’ said Dr Warren. ‘There were some minor complications, of course there were. Temporary paralysis, loss of speech. But we’ve learned from those experiences, and we want to try again. We can help you lead a normal life – the extremes . . . the rage. The death wish. They’ll be all in the past.’
The image changed again, to a side view, and Dr Summersby took over again. ‘I moved in on the prefrontal cortex,’ she said. ‘That closed down the danger areas. We induced strokes, effectively, Richard – in a very targeted fashion.’
‘Tiny explosions,’ said one of the screen doctors.
‘It’s safe, and it’s controlled—’ added another.
‘What it does is implode the second head, while giving the other brainstem stimulants that allow it to re-adjust back to the original, happier pathology. It’s a bit like reprogramming a computer – cleaning out a virus. You can imagine how good it feels.’
‘I’m feeling sick,’ said Richard.
‘We burn out the complications. It’s like—’
‘A kind of re-booting. You’ll feel renewed and invigorated.’
‘Butterfly after six days.’
She pressed a key, and Richard’s mouth fell open again. The little girl was in bed, and her neck was bandaged. She was staring at the camera with dead eyes. Her lips were swollen and parted, as if she was trying to speak. Dr Summersby clicked again, and Richard saw the second head, the size of a deflated football. The neck had been severed just below the Adam’s apple. The eyelids were tight shut, and it was biting its own tongue.
‘Let’s hold it there,’ said one of the televisions. There was a buzz of static again. ‘We’re learning all the time, naturally, because that second head can teach you a hell of a lot.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Richard. ‘Let me out, please!’
‘Hang on, just—’
‘Cut the slides, please. He’s seen enough.’
‘This is wrong!’ cried Richard. ‘Let me go!’
He tried not to look at the screen, but it was too huge to avoid. Another slide had appeared, and in his effort to close it down the technician flashed up yet another. Butterfly’s second brain had been removed from the skull. It sat on a slab of white marble, wired into what might have been a battery. When the slide flipped again, red tissue had been divided into neat slices, and Richard could stand it no more. He scrambled to his feet, pulling himself away from his father. A hand closed around his arm, but he managed to haul himself over the chairs in front and shake it off.
‘Richard, wait!’ said Dr Warren.
‘What’s happening?’ said somebody. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Doctor Summersby—’
‘I’m getting out!’ shouted Richard. ‘Come on, Dad – they’re not touching Rikki!’
‘Hold him!’ cried Dr Warren. ‘He’s over-stimulating.’
Mr and Mrs Westlake were on their feet too, moving to the aisle. The cinema lights came on, and an orderly in a white coat moved quickly to the doors.
‘You’re not doing that to me!’ hissed Richard. He dodged back along the row, but a second nurse was approaching fast. A third had appeared through a curtain, and Dr Warren was talking into a mobile phone.
Richard vaulted another block of seats, but there was clearly no escape, and he could hear an alarm ringing. The nurses were closing in, and one was holding his father back. Richard leaped again, and found himself surrounded. He tried to get back the way he’d come, but suddenly they were on him, and he was lifted high in their arms. He screamed for help, and heard his father’s voice, shouting back – he heard his mother crying out, but he couldn’t see them for the cinema was spinning.
‘Dad!’ he yelled. He was twisting like a fish. ‘Get them off me! Get them—’
He managed one mighty kick, and then he tried to punch, but his arms were held too tightly. They had his ankles and his knees, and he was lowered quickly to the ground, locked against white coats.
The shouting was constant now, and his mother was hysterical. Richard howled out again, squirming and twisting, but the hands that held him were merciless and impossibly strong. They’d restrained patients three times his size, and they knew exactly where to grip.
‘Careful!’ said someone.’
‘You got him?’
‘I’ve got him. Hold still.’
‘Put him back. Not too far. Doctor Warren?’
His shoulders were bent backwards, and Richard could feel hands on his jaw. He was staring into the eyes of an orderly who was concentrating hard, and he glimpsed the hypodermic as it passed his nose. They were going for the neck. He tried to buck and curl, but it was hopeless. He felt the sting, and he couldn’t move a muscle. Still people were shouting, but now the voices were taking on strange echoes, as if in a swimming bath.
‘Please!’ he cried.
‘He’s a fighter, this one,’ said a voice in his ear.
‘Oh, please!’ said Richard quietly. ‘Don’t . . . please . . .’ He tried to sit up, but they were pressing him down, and he couldn’t speak loudly enough.
Dr Warren was high above him, studying his watch, and then Dr Summersby moved in beneath them all, kneeling. She had a second hypodermic, and Richard couldn’t get away from it. She stung him in almost the same place, right in the throat as Rikki’s head rolled sideways, mouth open. There was another tiny pricking, just under his chin, and all sound started to fade. He glimpsed the ceiling, blue with a bright, white lamp in the centre – he thought it was the sun, for a moment, bursting out of a beautiful sky. He strained towards it, for he could hear engines roaring. A fighter-jet was hurtling towards him, about to smash through the walls.
Then it was blackness. He crashed into a darkness so thick it simply extinguished him.