Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

At that point, Bond had known there was something seriously wrong with him. He had immediately made arrangements to return to London and see Sir James.

Bond approached Royal Avenue and sat heavily on a bench, staring at the street, watching the buses, taxis, and people go by. Bond felt removed from the scene, almost as if he were floating out-of-body. It was an unfamiliar, disconcerting sensation.

Should he go back to the doctor? Sir James was still away on some kind of tour, so he would have to see Sir James’s colleague, Dr. Feare, again.

Bond remembered the appointment with the neurologist a month ago. When he had arrived at Molony’s office on Harley Street, he was surprised to find that Molony was on an extended, worldwide lecture tour as a guest neurologist. Miss Reilly, the unpleasant, middle-aged woman who served as the clinic’s nurse, informed Bond that he would have to see Molony’s relatively new assistant, who had introduced herself as Dr. Kimberley Feare. Bond was taken aback, for Dr. Feare was petite, blond, and extremely attractive.

“How long have you worked for Dr. Molony?” he had asked.

“Not long. I was lucky to get the job. Sir James is probably the best neurologist in the world. He’s in India at the moment, and he’s working his way west toward Africa,” she said in a girlish, playful voice. Bond liked her immediately. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Bond? I understand your file is classified. You’re with SIS, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then the only other person outside this office who shall see my report will be your chief,” she said, making a note in the folder. “As you know, we’re very careful about confidentiality with government civil servants.”

Bond went through the examination, X rays, an EEG, and returned a day later for a CAT scan. After he had described his various Himalayan injuries to Dr. Feare, she suspected that he might have some damage to his skull. At one point during the expedition up the third tallest mountain in the world, Bond had been hit on the head and knocked unconscious. Exacerbated by the oxygen deprivation at high altitude, the injury could be the cause of the headaches; there might be a blood clot, a crack in the skull, or any number of ailments associated with a blowto the head. The tests came back with somewhat alarming news. The EEC had picked up a lesion on the temporal lobe of Bond’s brain. Dr. Feare was of the opinion that it wasn’t terribly serious, but the blackout in Jamaica was probably a result of “post-traumatic epilepsy.” Although it was a rare condition, it wasn’t extraordinary. It was possible, however, that it could occur again without warning.

“With this kind of thing, we could perform a little surgery and remove the lesion with a laser,” she had said. “But that’s a last resort. I think we should first try to get rid of it with medication and rest.

Pure and simple.”

Dr. Feare gave Bond an additional diagnosis of “too much stress,” and recommended to M that he take it easy—for at least three months. She had prescribed carbamazepine and painkillers and told him to take two tablets at lunchtime and two before bedtime. Dr. Feare warned him that if things hadn’t improved in three months, surgery might be the next step. The worst thing about it was that he was forbidden to drive. He wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol, either, but Bond ignored that directive.

Unfortunately, the pills didn’t work at all. Bond had been struggling with the intense pain in the back of his head for months now, and it was driving him mad. There was only one thing to do—go back to see Dr. Feare.

Bond stood and continued the stroll toward the square lined with plane trees, where for many years he had owned a comfortable flat on the ground floor of a converted Regency house.

He was convinced that a mission was the only thing that could bring him back on track. It had always worked in the past. The only way he could put the demons to rest was to go after the Union and, if possible, destroy the entire organization. If M wouldn’t put him on the assignment, then by God he would just have to do it himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he had deliberately disobeyed orders. It would be for the good of SIS and Britain. The Union was the most evil menace to threaten international law and order since his old enemies, SPECTRE. Its members had to be smoked out and exterminated like pests.

But Bond knew that he was not in good shape, and it made him irate. He was well aware that the Union was out there, waiting for the right moment. Bond was probably the number-one man on their hit list after what he did to their organization in the Himalayas. He should be prepared for a surprise attack, and he wasn’t. It could occur at any time. Bond knew that if he didn’t do something about his vulnerability soon, he just might be spending his next holiday in the morgue.

Lost in thought, Bond ambled up the street, closer to his home, when he suddenly noticed a familiar woman walking toward him. She had shoulder-length golden hair, blue eyes, and shocking-pink lips. The woman looked past him and kept walking, but Bond was paralyzed with shock.

It was his dead wife, Tracy!

Bond closed his eyes tightly and opened them. He turned to watch her walk away from him, and then realized that it wasn’t her after all. Of course it wasn’t. How could it be?

Shaken by the experience, Bond continued his walk, but he felt his heart pounding. He was perspiring heavily, and it was not a warm day. What the hell was wrong? he asked himself.

He had imagined it. That was the only explanation. He chalked the hallucination up to his fatigue, stress, and the headaches. He had been thinking a lot about Helena, and that was probably the catalyst. Sure, that was it.

Best to get home and have a nap.

Bond increased his pace until he was a block away from his street. He was stopped at the intersection by a traffic light. He glanced at his wristwatch again: 1:33. He had taken twenty minutes to walk what normally took him five. He had better snap out of it!

While waiting for the light to change, Bond casually looked across King’s Road to the other side of the street. A man was standing on the corner, staring right at him. He was tall, had dark hair, and … NO!

Bond suddenly felt dizzy and disoriented. His heart felt as if it was going to push itself through his chest. His mouth grew dry and he had trouble swallowing.

The man across the street was himself, or at least he looked like himself. He wasn’t moving; he just stood staring right at Bond!

A bus passed by, momentarily blocking Bond’s view of the opposite side of the street. When the bus had gone, Bond saw that there was now no one on the corner. Bond ran across the street, dodging traffic, and began to look for the man, but he didn’t see anyone remotely resembling him.

His head was throbbing in pain and he felt sick.

Bond’s mind flashed briefly on the fortune cookie from the Chinese restaurant.

Meeting your double means certain death.

His eyes were playing tricks on him, he told himself.

Bond stumbled as he attempted to cross back to his side of the street. A taxi almost hit him and the horn blared loudly. A very unpleasant, suffocating feeling of anxiety rushed over him and locked around his chest cavity. He gasped for breath, felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, and reached out for a phone box for support.

Instead, he crashed to the pavement.

When Bond opened his eyes, he was in his favorite armchair in the sitting room of his flat. The old-fashioned white and gold Cole wallpaper and deep red curtains gave him a feeling of serenity at first, but then he bolted upright in fright.

How the hell did I get here?