themselves?
Just then, a short, tubby orderly carrying a Nexar hood greeted Baj in a less than friendly manner.
âI wouldnât hang around here, mate. All the joyâll rub off on you.â
Baj started coughing. He felt utterly breathless. He had begun a regimen of light chemotherapy. The bloody coughing had nearly vanished, but he felt weak and sick to his stomach.
Baj said, snorting a bit, âAll thisâit hasnât seemed to affect you .â
âNo,â the man said bitterly. âI just hoods âem, and bury âem in pleasure. I donât like it, but itâs me job, innit?â He squinted at Baj. âYou poorly, man?â
âJust a little. Do they . . . ever get better?â
âHa!â said the orderly. Then he leaned in, confidentially. There was a stench of eel and vinegar on his breath. âThis is a place of where the spirit thrives. And even the ghosts live well.â The man greasily chortled for a moment, then slapped Bajâs shoulder.
âRight, mate,â said Baj.
AS BAJ LEFT ST. CLEMENTS, the injustice of his dismissal from research hit him anew. When he passed through the gate, he turned around to see the old NHS sign bolted to a brick pillar. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching. If he wasnât careful, heâd end up struck off the medical registerâor much worse, perhaps in St. Clements himself, guffawing at nothing, and planted beneath a Nexar hood.
He pulled out his old-fashioned fountain pen and wrote on the sign: âFuck Harry.â He coughed, and a few pink flecks of faintly bloody spittle landed on the sign. Then he walked away, trying not to look rushed, until breaking into a trot.
âItâs going . . . to get worse . . . and then . . . itâs going to get better,â he said to himself, jogging along, gasping for air in gulps.
THE NEXT TIME Cuthbert came to see him, the doctor observed that, as Cuthbert saw it, the animals were vying for control over him, and the animals wanted out of their cages. He was in full, FlÅt-induced hallucinosis. Walking into the consult room, he showed Ingallâs Sign markedly, taking long strides and leaning forward excessively.
âIâve no say in matters anymore, doc,â he said.
âIf you donât stop the FlÅt,â he told Cuthbert, âit is indeed over. And you canât go around saying you hear animals anymore, my friend. You canât.â
Cuthbert had looked down at the Afshar rug with its paisley patterns. âThe FlÅt is one thing,â he said, âbut the animals, with all due respect, doctor, I could never just tell them to hush up. Itâs not just withdrawal. Even when I drink the FlÅt, the voices come on.â
âThatâs not a good symptom, Cuthbert. Itâs called hallucinosis. It will only grow worse if you donât stop.â
âBut their message is for everyoneâfor me, for you, for England, for the world. There might just be a little white pony what knows yow, Baj.â
With that, Baj at long last lost his patience. All his professional restraint seemed to fly off like a flock of irritable starlings rousted from a tremendous, withering tree.
âCuthbert! For fuckâs sake!â he bellowed. âCanât you bloody see, you fool? Itâs the FlÅt. The FlÅt! Itâs standard first-FlÅt-withdrawal syndrome. There are no fucking animals. There are no voices. You are delusional, my friend. Itâs FlÅt withdrawal.â
The doctor was almost weeping now, standing up from his seat, and the spectacle appalled Cuthbert, who lurched up and backed away, toward the door of the office, doddering on his old legs, his dry lips moving but nothing coming out.
âNo. Stay!â cried Baj as Cuthbert opened the door. âYouâve got to listen to me. I donât want to lose you, my friend. The RedWatch will be after you, you know? Theyâll beat