The Anarchist

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.

The problems started just outside Ripon when Yantra decided that he felt the need for another Tantric experience and Jayne refused.

He pulled Biddy over and told Jayne to get out. Naturally enough, Jayne complained that he was acting the bastard. He agreed and apologized to her, explaining that the stress of London must already be biting.

Still, he was sulking. And when Yantra sulked he had little else to take it out on but the road. Finally, Jayne went for his fly button and said that as long as he recommended using the mirror and indicating then she’d comply. He told her thanks, but the mood had passed. She accused him of being childish. He half smiled and said that anyone who had lost touch with the child in themself, had lost touch with their soul. She attempted to kindle this into some sort of a conversation but he wasn’t having it.

Then Biddy took out the front light of someone’s Escort.

At the best of times, Yantra had problems with names and addresses. But trying to explain that legal appellations were labels without meaning, merely handcuffs of the establishment, and that the corpulent, bald Yorkshireman in the suit was in fact standing outside his address did not help the situation.

The man looked down at his tiny, glistening black shoes and breathed hard. Was it possible, he wondered, that the van might perhaps be uninsured? Nor was he impressed when Yantra opined that insurance was indicative of a rejection of destiny and faith in the principle of ultimate good.

‘Please, man,’ whined Jayne, when he reached into the car for his mobile phone. ‘I mean, you won’t exactly be profiting any by calling the pigs. All you’ll be doing is harming us. You know, for the, well, sheer sadism of it.’

‘Yeah, sadism, man.’

She indicated for Yantra to shut up.

‘And like, I’m sure there’s some way we can pay you for the damage. You know, I feel rotten about your vehicle and that. And, well, I’d be willing to do virtually anything,’ she tugged at his jacket sleeve and grinned coyly, ‘to make things good.’

The man reddened. He looked up at Yantra who was nodding in complicity.

‘Anythink?’ the man mouthed.

‘Do you, you know, wanna follow the van into the country and discuss it with me?’

‘And wha’ about ‘im?’ he said warily.

‘He’s cool. Very cool. Aren’t you, baby?’ Yantra nodded, attempting to push a smile through his revulsion.

‘And you, you travel in t’car?’ She nodded. ‘And ‘ow does I know yer not gonna, well, do us in? Rob us and the likes?’

She looked hurt.

‘Because we’re pacifists,’ she told him earnestly.

‘Pacifists, ay? I see. Well now.’ Yantra moved back into the van. ‘What’s yer name? Yer very attractive for an, you knows, an ‘ippy. ‘Ope yer don’ mind t’word ‘ippy,’ Yantra heard the man stammer as he stepped back into Biddy.