Murphy's Revenge

1

Dr Jeffers said it was all about demystifying the profession,
having a glass-fronted office, rather than just a brass nameplate
and a daunting set of stairs. Big, airy, modern, attractive,
no more frightening than a hairdresser’s, although three
times the price.
Susan, his receptionist, wasn’t so sure, even after Dr Jeffers
assured her that their clients wouldn’t actually have to sit
where they could be seen through the glass – that would be
a step too far.
There was a comfortable waiting room with a TV and a
DVD player out of sight and . . . well, she would say out of
mind, but it was hardly the place. No, Susan thought a psychiatrist
was a psychiatrist was a psychiatrist, and if you went
to one people still thought you were mental. That’s the way
it is. She didn’t know anyone – apart from Americans – who
had reconciled themselves to the idea that going to a psychiatrist
was anything other than something dark and secretive.
You didn’t go to a psychiatrist, as every American TV show
seemed to pretend, for a bit of a chat, you went because
there was something – well, wrong with your head.
Susan had been in this job with Dr Jeffers for three years
now, ever since he had first opened his private practice, and she had every sympathy for the poor creatures who came
through their door, but there was no denying that a lot of
them were barking. It was just that there were different
degrees of barking, the way there were different pedigrees
of dogs.
Susan liked her modern office, but she felt like she was
on show. People were looking at her all the time. Occasionally
drunks would come up to the window and make obscene
gestures. Once a junkie with a ghetto-blaster over his
shoulder had come in and asked in all seriousness if she sold
batteries.
Dr Jeffers might have thought he was demystifying mental
illness, he might have thought his patients would just stroll
nonchalantly in, have a cup of coffee and a bagel and chat
about their problems while reclining on a soft leather chair,
but you only had to take a look out of the window at the
poor chap walking up and down outside to know that at
least as far as the average Londoner was concerned, the
stigma of going to a psychiatrist, no matter what dire strait
you were in, remained as strong and widespread as ever. She
saw it every day. The pacing. The watch-glancing. The
smoking. The move towards the office, the move away. The
waiting for pedestrians to pass by, the concern that even a
complete stranger would see you entering a psychiatrist’s
office – the unspoken fear that that same stranger would
then wait outside for you to emerge, then laugh in your face
and call you a mental case.
Susan sipped her coffee, tried to concentrate on her
computer screen, but her eyes kept being drawn back to the
man pacing outside. He was of average height, his hair slightly
receding, but cut short as well, he had on a combat jacket over black jeans, his face was heavy with stubble and he was
chewing gum with a nervous rapidity that couldn’t have been
good for his fillings – Susan had spent five years as a dentist’s
receptionist and knew about these things. The man had a
newspaper under his arm – then it wasn’t under his arm and
he was studying an inside page – then it was folded away –
then he chewed some more and paced this way and that –
then he had the paper out again and apparently opened to
the same page. When he held it up Susan recognised the
banner: it was the Ham and High, the Hampstead and Highgate
Express – the local weekly. The new one had come out this
morning and she already had a copy on her desk, but there
was a different headline on the paper the man was examining,
so he wasn’t even reading this week’s edition.
Susan checked her appointments book. Mr Marinelli was
in with the doctor now, then they’d close for lunch, and Mr
Simms was due at two on the dot. And it certainly wasn’t
Mr Simms outside. The latter was fat and fifty and this guy
was . . . well, he was quite attractive, or might be if he took
a little better care of himself.
Right, here he comes. Spitting his chewing gum out on the pavement,
the dirty devil. Putting in a fresh stick.
Susan busied herself at her keyboard as the door opened
and the man entered. She could hear his gum being worked
hard before he spoke. She looked up. He was nervous all
right. The newspaper was now rolled up and held tight in
his fist, as if he was going to swat a wasp. Susan smiled
professionally.
‘Good morning. How can I—?’
‘Dr Jeffers – is this Dr Jeffers – yes, of course it is . . . the
sign, I mean, I wanted to make an – well, make an enquiry. No – no, I need to see him. Look, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat
. . . I just can’t – do you understand?’
‘Sir, if you’ll just—’
‘I need to talk to him. He’s good, isn’t he? He can sort me
out, can’t he? Can’t he?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr . . . ?’
‘Murphy. Martin Murphy. Is he here, can I see him?’
‘Mr Murphy, you don’t have an appointment?’ Which was,
of course, a rhetorical question.
‘No, I . . . Look, I’m here now.’
‘The doctor is with a client, Mr Murphy. You don’t have
a referral?’
‘A what?’
‘A referral from your GP. Usually we expect—’
‘No – no! Look, I don’t have anything like that, but a guy
at work recommended him, said he was the bee’s knees. I
wasn’t going to come but I haven’t been sleeping, I haven’t
been eating. It’s making me mental!’
‘Mr Murphy, I’m sorry, but even with a referral, we don’t
have any appointments for at least—’
Susan jumped back as Murphy slapped his hand down
hard on her desk. ‘Please,’ he said. It wasn’t threatening,
exactly. But she’d had enough.
‘Perhaps if you leave your number I can get Dr Jeffers to
phone you.’
‘Do I look like I can wait that long?’
‘I can’t really tell.’
It was cold and dismissive and slightly demeaning, and she
regretted the words as soon as she said them. He looked hurt.
He straightened. He had cool blue eyes and they suddenly
didn’t look as mental as the rest of him. ‘Why not?’ he said bluntly.
‘Why not what?’
‘Why can’t you tell?’
‘Because I’m not a psychiatrist.’
‘But you’re his representative here on earth. You should
be able to tell. A nurse isn’t a doctor, but if someone hobbles
into Casualty with his leg pointing north and his foot pointing
east she can tell that he’s probably broken his ankle. You’re
the border guard, you’re the Maginot Line, you have to have
some fucking idea of what’s wrong with someone when they
come through that door, or else what’s the fucking point in
you sitting there?’
Susan’s mouth had dropped open about halfway through
this tirade, and was still gaping like a vandalised drawbridge
when the door behind her opened and a tall, bespectacled
man in a plain grey suit emerged. Murphy immediately
pivoted towards him, extending his hand. The man looked
surprised and somewhat reluctantly extended his own
hand.
‘Dr Jeffers, please, you have to—’ Murphy began.
‘I’m not Dr Jeffers,’ said Mr Marinelli, his face flushing
rapidly.
‘Do I hear my name?’ Dr Jeffers called jovially from his
consulting room behind Marinelli.
Murphy held on to Marinelli’s hand. ‘There’s two of you,’
he said. ‘You’re twins. Like that movie with Jeremy Irons.’
Then Jeffers himself appeared in the doorway, and Murphy
shook his head and let go of the other man’s hand. ‘You’re
not twins,’ he said.
Jeffers was a few inches shorter than Marinelli, with dark
hair and a sharp aquiline nose; he had the confident smileand eyes of someone perfectly content with himself, his looks
and his wardrobe.
Marinelli wiped Murphy’s sweat off his hand and sidled
past him.
‘We’ll see you next week, then,’ Dr Jeffers called out.
Marinelli waved back, but did not look round. He was already
halfway out of the door, putting sunglasses on so that London
wouldn’t recognise him. Jeffers turned his attention to
Murphy, who was now extending his hand.
Jeffers didn’t take it. ‘Now,’ he said, over his glasses, ‘who
are you?’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Jeffers . . .’ Susan began.
The doctor held up a pacifying hand. ‘That’s all right,
Susan.’ He looked at Murphy again. ‘Well?’
‘Martin Murphy. I need to see you right now,’ Murphy
said, ‘or I will kill myself on your plush new carpet.’