“Cracking,” said Baj, still not believing Cuthbert had the intention—or the means—to do so.
IN THE NEXT, final week before things turned grim for Baj, he pressed the idea of a Flōt detox at the Whittington, but gently. Cuthbert would bring in copies of old scientific journal articles, meticulously scissored out and somehow printed—and almost no one printed anything these days—onto ivory paper, a passé resource hard to come by for anyone, let alone an Indigent.
The articles all came from the sober but tiny subset of psychology researchers who studied animal cognition. “Cats Shatter Applied Rules Barrier,” read one title from the 2010s. Another asked, “Do Bees Have an Imagination?”
The doctor began to wonder whether his secret patient was as crazy as he let on.
“Really, I’m not sure you’re quite as ill, at the end of the day, as you may be officially,” Dr. Bajwa found himself pronouncing at one point.
“Yes? S’that mean I oughn’t worry about the otters?”
“No,” said the doctor. “There’s a problem there—in not worrying at all, I mean. And I’ve been wanting to ask you, what—er, what do they—the otters—actually say? To you?”
“Oh, they’re complete sixes and sevens,” said Cuthbert. “Just mad and yampy as paper tigers in the rain—ha-ha. Things like ‘blah blah blah’ and so on. And let us out, or what.”
“I have a feeling you’re not being entirely frank now.”
“I am. But as I told you before, and it didn’t seem to make a difference. I told you: ‘gagoga.’ That’s the key.”
“But you see, it’s you who give their words meaning. The otters—or your brother, who is most likely dead—aren’t actually talking to you, are they? It’s more that you’re thinking about them talking to you, right?”
“Ar.”
“So I believe we may be getting somewhere.”
“I do, too. Somewhere.”
Still, each vaguely sensed that the other had a very different destination in mind.
TOWARD THE END OF JANUARY, Harry9’s newly empowered Privy Council asked that Parliament study another series of social reforms, this time regarding what it called “quality of life” and “national civility” issues. It was said to be motivated by the continued spread of the most powerful of the new suicide cults—Heaven’s Gate—but it sent a chill through the NHS élite and its harried GPs. This particular cult, which practiced ritual mass suicide along with mass animal sacrifices, had begun to infiltrate the Indigent populations, who had heretofore seemed immune to its promises of human transcendence to a “Next Level.” There were suspicions, too, that Heaven’s Gate was secretly behind the spread of Flōt addiction, and this was beginning to panic the rising British aristocracy (and, indeed, ruling classes around the world). The voteless Indigents were, after all, Britain’s new workforce par excellence.
The homeless, seen as especially vulnerable, were to be moved assertively toward controversial, unproven Nexar treatments if they wanted to keep their benefits. All provisions for any kind of free psychotherapy, except for something called “Family Integrity Counseling,” were to be abolished. Among the most powerful aristocrats, only a very young former Earl of Worcester, a callow thorn in Harry9’s side and distant cousin, promised to fight the proposals. Dr. Bajwa himself felt furious over the proposals, but powerless.
“I saw that Earl of Worcester on the TV,” Baj was telling Cuthbert. “They’ve said he’s secretly in deep with the Army of Anonymous, and some of the Irish Underground, but I don’t know. What do you think, Cuthbert? He sure doesn’t like Harry. Of course, Harry makes hatred very easy. But if it weren’t for Worcestershire, they say, Harry would have taken over every mind in Europe. He’s afraid. He’s still afraid of going too far—thank heavens.”
Cuthbert pursed his lips. “All these powerful people—none of them are really listenin’—not to me, not to anyone anymore. Not really. Not hard. If they were, they’d hear what’s coming—and it’s not good. But I don’t mind the king. I’ve not much use for this Earl of Worcester bloke.”
“What’s coming, my friend?”
“The end.”
ONE DAY, soon after this, Dr. Bajwa found himself wheezing badly after taking a run in Finsbury Park. He needed to bend over in his sky-blue training jacket and magnetic running shoes to gasp for breath. He coughed, and he noticed a few bright flecks of blood on his hand. A homeless man with an oily brown beanie hat and no upper front teeth saw him and put his hand on Baj’s back.
“Easy, mate,” the Indigent said. “You’re awright.”
“Right,” he said. “Fit as a fid—” He coughed again. “Fiddle!”
The doctor had no history of asthma or bronchitis, and he had never used tobacco, so he mostly felt unworried. Still, it was strange.