A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [113]
It was possible that he took a bus. Though he had no specific memory of being on a bus.
When he came round he was standing in the doctor’s surgery, in front of the reception desk. A woman seated at a computer monitor was saying, “Can I help you?” Her tone of voice suggested that she had already said this several times.
She leant forward and repeated the question, but more slowly and more gently, the way you did when you realized that the person you were addressing was not a time waster but suffering from genuine mental impairment.
“I want to see Dr. Barghoutian,” said George.
Yes, now that he was here, that seemed like a good idea. Perhaps that was the reason he had come.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t think so,” said George.
“I’m afraid Dr. Barghoutian is fully booked today. If it’s urgent you could see another doctor.”
“I want to see Dr. Barghoutian.”
“I’m sorry. Dr. Barghoutian is seeing other patients.”
George could not remember the words you used to politely disagree with someone. “I want to see Dr. Barghoutian.”
“I’m really sorry, but…”
The trip to the surgery had clearly used up all of George’s energy (perhaps he had walked). He had no idea what he was planning to say to Dr. Barghoutian, but his entire being seemed to have been focused on getting into that little room. Now that it was impossible, he simply could not conceive of what he might do instead. He felt profoundly lonely and oddly cold (his clothing was wet; perhaps it had been raining outside). He lowered himself to the floor and curled into the angle between the carpet and the wooden panel of the reception desk and cried a little.
He hugged his knees. He was not going to move again. He was going to stay here forever.
Someone placed a blanket over him. Either that or he dreamt that someone was placing a blanket over him.
He remembered reading, somewhere, that shortly before one died of exposure one felt pleasantly warm and comfortable and this was a sign that the end was near.
Except that the end was not near. And he was not going to stay in this position forever because someone was saying, “Mr. Hall…? Mr. Hall…?” and when he opened his eyes he found himself looking at Dr. Barghoutian who was crouching in front of him, and George had been so far away that it took him several seconds to work out where he was, and why Dr. Barghoutian should be there as well.
He was helped to his feet and ushered down the corridor and into Dr. Barghoutian’s consulting room where he was eased into a chair.
He could not speak for several minutes. Dr. Barghoutian did not seem unduly concerned, simply sat back and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
George summoned his energy and began to speak. On any other day he would have been disturbed by his inability to form sentences, but he was past caring. He sounded like a man crawling into an oasis in a cartoon. “Got cancer…Dying…Really frightened…Daughter’s wedding…”
Dr. Barghoutian allowed him to carry on in this manner for some time. The pressure inside George’s head eased a little and his grip on syntax began to return. “I want to go into hospital…I want to go into a psychiatric hospital…Please…I need to be looked after…Somewhere safe…”
Dr. Barghoutian let him grind to a halt. “This wedding is on Saturday, I presume.”
George nodded.
Dr. Barghoutian tapped his pencil on his teeth a couple of times. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
George felt better hearing him say the words.
“You’re going to come back and see me on Monday morning.”
George felt a good deal worse. “But…”
Dr. Barghoutian held up his