Herbie Brennan - The Faeman Quest

‘How are we feeling this morning, Dr Brimstone?’ Dr Philenor asked, making a tick on a sheet pinned to his clipboard.

Brimstone knew he was safe enough since the ESC helmet had not yet been activated. The trauma suffered by the creatures as they were flayed interfered with the truthsense of the finished helmet. It often took fully five minutes to begin to function. His smile broadened into a sunny beam.

‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘Quite magnificent. I cannot thank you and your gracious team enough for my therapies. Such potions! Such pills! Such infusions! Such transfusions! Such surgical procedures! Due entirely to your sterling efforts, my level of health – and especially my mental health – is at a peak unparalleled in the past fifty years.’ He wondered if he might be overdoing it, but Philenor seemed to be swallowing the rubbish without difficulty.

Dr Philenor coughed lightly. ‘No… ah… threats of any sort? To your, ah, welfare?’ The briefcase at his foot writhed fiercely.

He was fishing for evidence of what they called paranoia, of course – a medical term designed to keep you off your guard when everything was out to get you. Brimstone widened his eyes and batted his eyelids. ‘Threats, Dr Philenor?’ he echoed. ‘How could anyone experience a sense of threat in such a well-run establishment as your excellent clinic? Why, I was just remarking to Orderly Nastes the other day how safe and secure I have felt here since you rescued me from my unfortunate… episode.’

There was a scattering of applause from the staff around the table, quickly silenced by a severe look from Dr Philenor. But his features softened as he turned back to Brimstone. ‘Now, Dr Brimstone, a crucial question: on a scale of one to ten, one representing total madness and ten perfect mental health, how would you rate your current condition?’

‘Tell him eleven,’ growled George, who’d been hovering invisibly at Brimstone’s shoulder throughout the whole of the proceedings.

Brimstone had opened his mouth to respond before he realised an etheric ganglia was now wrapped around his pre-frontal cortex, a sure sign that the ESC helmet was at long last activated. He closed his mouth carefully. It was Sod’s Law that it had happened at this precise time. Once the helmet became functional, the endolg skin broadcast signals directly to the control console in the arm of Philenor’s chair. If Brimstone continued to lie, Philenor would know at once. Worse, the doctor had only to press a button to activate the helmet’s emergency surgical programme, designed to leave Brimstone in a vegetative state – hence no further trouble to anybody – for eighteen months. When Brimstone first arrived at the asylum, staff explained the surgery was a therapy, not a punishment, but it was a therapy he could ill-afford at the moment.

‘Come now, Dr Philenor,’ he said carefully, ‘that is hardly for me to say. Only a lunatic would presume to judge his own sanity. I am content to leave my evaluation to the kindly, caring, and, above all, highly trained and eminently qualified experts gathered in this room.’ He lowered his eyes modestly to murmurs of approval around the table.

‘Well said.’ Dr Philenor nodded and ticked another box on his evaluation sheet. He looked up again at Brimstone and actually smiled. ‘What’s this I hear about your invisible companion?’

Brimstone froze. Somebody must have grassed him up and now he was trapped. He knew from long experience he was the only one who could see George, so admitting his existence was asking for a diagnosis of delusional schizophrenia – a ticket to permanent incarceration if ever there was one. On the other hand, denying George while the ESC helmet was functioning would show at once he’d been lying and invite immediate surgery with eighteen months’ vegetation until his brain healed up again. But there was always Plan B. After all, he’d never really expected to talk his way past the Review Board. He raised the little finger of his left hand and twirled it widdershins in the secret stand-by signal he’d agreed with George. George pulled himself erect, licked his lips and snarled in a very satisfactory manner.

But this was only stand-by. Despite everything, there remained the possibility of escaping without violence. Brimstone held Dr Philenor’s eye and smiled back. ‘I take it you mean my imaginary companion?’ he said easily. ‘The little friend I… conjured up… for company throughout the long days and nights of my lonely, yet therapeutically necessary and medically ethical, solitary confinement?’ There was just the barest possibility the helmet might not react. His statement was not a complete lie. He had conjured George from the hideously dangerous nether regions beyond the deepest pits of Hael. And the techniques he used had indeed involved the use of the visual imagination. A living endolg would have spotted the deceit at once, but it might slip past the ESC.

Dr Philenor glanced at the miniature viewscreen set into the arm of his chair, but if it was glowing red (or even amber) he showed no sign as he asked, ‘Did you give this companion a name?’

Brimstone fought down the urge to glance over his shoulder. ‘George,’ he said.

Dr Philenor glanced at him quizzically. ‘Pardon?’

‘George,’ Brimstone said a little more loudly.

‘You gave him my first name?’

Brimstone nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, of course. What better companion could I have in my hour of need? I spent many hours in imaginary conversation attempting to envision what wisdom you might impart to me had you been really present, which, of course, I never believed for a moment you were.’ Once again there was just enough truth in there to fool the helmet… if he was very, very lucky.

The idiot Philenor still failed to react. ‘Are you telling me, Dr Brimstone, that you do not believe this companion actually exists?’

George leaned down to whisper, ‘Which one do you want me to slaughter first?’

‘None of them until I give the signal,’ Brimstone hissed through gritted teeth. He was beginning to harbour a suspicion that the helmet might be broken – psychiatric equipment was delicate at the best of times. To test the idea, he said loudly and clearly to Dr Philenor, ‘Of course not. Complete figment of my imagination.’ There was no way such a bare-faced lie could get past the helmet unless it was malfunctioning. A risk, of course, but if he knew the ESC was faulty and Dr Philenor did not, then he could get away with murder. If, on the other hand, the alarm went off, he could always trigger Plan B and set George to kill off the Review Board, then help him fight his way out of the asylum.

A very strange thing happened. Brimstone distinctly saw the flash of red on the arm of Philenor’s chair. But instead of raising the alarm, Dr Philenor only said quietly, ‘Very good, Dr Brimstone’ and ticked another box. He set down the clipboard and turned to his companions. ‘It seems to me,’ he told them, ‘that our patient has been completely rehabilitated. He entered our clinic a mental and emotional wreck and is now, thanks to our patience, care and skill, a man of totally sound mind, ready to resume his place as an intelligent and productive member of society.’ He paused, then added, ‘Perhaps I might have your considered opinions.’

Six moustaches (one of which was false) glanced at Brimstone, glanced at Philenor, then vied to voice their agreement:

‘Yes.’

‘Definitely.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘ Certainment, Dr Philenor.’

‘You’re so right, Boss.’

‘Correct in every detail, Master.’

Philenor allowed them to grovel for a moment longer, then said loudly, ‘But…’

There was a stunned silence as they looked at him. With their attention diverted, Brimstone risked a quick glance over his shoulder. George, all fangs and feathers and rippling muscles, was crouched ready to spring on his signal.