Tristan Hawkins - The Anarchist

And there was another matter. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was genuinely familial, though he hoped to God not. He couldn’t know. Still, year on year, the gnawing deepened. Of course, he’d said nothing to Jayne. Nor did he intend to until the groundwork had been done. For Yantra well knew that speaking to a woman about a child and introducing her to one were entirely different matters. Entirely different.

He pulled into the slow lane and unbuttoned his trousers. Jayne smiled nervously and arched down on him. She tried to recall when he’d last had an opportunity to wash and wondered at his reaction to her refusing. To Yantra, fingernail grime, armpit stench, flatulence and just about every other foul thing the body is capable of producing, were human and natural and thus warranted a certain earthy reverence. She half wondered whether he felt sexy at all and wasn’t using her as a method of getting clean.

But Jayne had Yantra quite wrong. He was neither particularly horny nor fussed about hygiene. To him this was Maithuna, a Tantric meditation technique of submitting himself to Shakti (the feminine principle, Mother of the Universe) through impassive intercourse. Silently he intoned a secret Tantric mantra in time with the rhythmic strokes below and adjusted his speed so that the road lines passed in a complimentary rhythm. Once or twice he felt himself succumb to the worldly aspect of what was going on and dragged himself back, Zen-fashion, to the mantra. Only when he climaxed and spoke aloud that he was consecrating his semen as a sacred offering, did he receive a notion that perhaps he was being somewhat hypocritical about things and that he’d squandered a perfectly good head-job concentrating on an enigmatic slab of discourse between Siva and Durga.

By Monday the heat had returned and Sheridan couldn’t be sure whether the waiting room was intolerably stuffy or it was dread that caused him to perspire so copiously.

He rolled things over again and managed to ease his disquiet temporarily. Of course Dr Dickinson wouldn’t give him a verdict there and then. He’d require tests. Arrange appointments for the future. Give Sheridan more time to come to terms with his predicament.

Yes, that’s what would happen.

He wouldn’t be dropping any bombshells on his wife and daughter tonight. And that would be fine. After all, he was sure that if he just had a week or two more, he could prepare himself for things. Think events through a bit more and work out a method of dealing with the circumstances. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was the first person on this planet to learn that he was unwell. People of Folucia’s age and younger had had to come to terms with mortal ailments. There could be no question that with his age and strength of character he’d cope. All he needed was a week or so’s grace. Yet, as he stared unseeing at the open magazine, his heart pealed and he barely had the strength to remain on his stool.

Of course, it was quite pointless denying it. Sheridan Entwhistle was more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.

Memories of Jennifer’s wedding dress, a brand new Folucia, his first magazine launch and the like momentarily rocketed into view – only to be snatched back into a barrel of impotent sentimentality. It struck Sheridan that his brain was out of defence mechanisms and the only thing dividing him and his fate was the sterile glaze of the fear itself.

He felt suddenly alone and badly regretted not sharing his fears with Jennifer. If she were sitting next to him this morning, he knew he wouldn’t be feeling nearly so abysmal. Besides, perhaps she already had an inkling that something was up. On several occasions over the weekend she’d asked him if everything was all right. As if the black coffee and low-fat margarine would have escaped her.

His name was called and he harnessed all the energy his liquid body had to stand.

There would have to be more tests, he told himself.

Time.

A little time.

Dr Dickinson was not a man who would pronounce a verdict like this without sufficient tests. Yet, on entering the surgery, he discovered to his comprehensive horror that he wasn’t to see his old friend Dr Dickinson.

She was perhaps thirty, with shortish blonde hair, gentian eyes and breasts, Sheridan considered, far too fulsome for a doctor. Nevertheless he explained things to her, answered her questions and, when asked to, removed his shirt.

She measured his pulse and blood pressure, weighed him on an old-fashioned balance and shone a miniature torch into his mouth and his eyes – all in virtual silence. It struck Sheridan that, to her, his body was little more than a fleshy machine. A machine that she had been trained to put right. It pleased him that there were no sudden expressions of horror as she jotted coded notes about his machine on her pad.

‘Breath in. Hold. Breath out. Relax now. Please try and relax, Sheridan.’

But Sheridan certainly couldn’t relax. Despite the curt efficiency of her pawings and shuddering frostiness of the stethoscope, she was vastly more than a machine to him.

‘Please Sheridan, relax,’ she breathed against the skin of his naked shoulder.

After some more minutes probing, she asked Sheridan to sit back down and told him that he would be pleased to know that she doubted very much that he had suffered a heart attack.

‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said with disguised relief, squeezing up his tie knot. ‘That really is all I wanted to know. I can only apologize for troubling you.’

She smiled and watched him rise, dig his shirt back into his trousers and swing on his jacket. When he was midway to the door, he beamed at her and said, ‘Once more. Thank you so much for your time, doctor.’

‘No,’ she said calmly, staring down and doodling vacantly on a pad. ‘The symptoms you described were those of a stroke.’

He halted. They stared at one another. She wasn’t smiling. She held out her palm and indicated the chair. Sheridan complied.

‘A stroke, right?’ he said stoically, wrenching up a small grin.

‘Yes, Sheridan. They could have been the symptoms of a mild stroke. But I don’t think they were. Now it’s up to you, of course, but would you care to know what I think did happen to you on Thursday?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I just got it into my head that it was … Sorry, please go on.’

‘I think that you have suffered from an anxiety attack, Sheridan.’

‘Right, well. Anxiety, eh?’

‘And have you any idea why you panicked and hyperventilated?’

‘Not the foggiest.’

‘Well, Sheridan, perhaps it’s nothing, but when a seemingly stable, professional forty-four-year-old begins to suffer panic attacks, I think it’s wise to find out why.’

‘Well, it was an unusually hot day. I probably got a little short of breath and panicked. I’m sure it was a one-off.’

‘And how long have you had the facial twitch?’

‘Sorry?’

‘And the tremors in your hand?’

The GP allowed her demeanour to melt into something akin to empathy. She forged a smile and explained to Sheridan that if there was anything he felt the need to discuss about his work, marriage, financial affairs, problems sleeping or anything else that might be worrying him, it was her job to listen. Or, if Sheridan would rather, she could refer him to someone else whose job it was to listen. Sheridan shook his head and assured her that at present his life was remarkably problem free. But if he ever felt the need he’d be sure to get in touch.

She glared at him in silence. He twitched and diverted his eyes. As Sheridan rose and walked out, she shook her head.

They pulled up at a service station and refuelled with some of the cans of petrol pilfered during the weekend stopover in Newcastle. The road was fairly clear and it seemed likely that they would make London by dusk.