Brothers of the Head by Brian Aldiss Page B

Collins’ surgery in Deepdale Norton.
    She took me through into her office and made us both a cup of coffee as I poured out my tale of woe. I even brought myself to tell how the third head had opened its eyes.
    â€˜You mustn’t be frightened,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing – supernatural.’ But she flicked her gaze away from mine, as if she was also alarmed.
    â€˜If Barry really is dead, if it’s just the APPCOR that keeps his body – well, from putrefying … then couldn’t your surgeon do the operation and cut Tom free?’ I asked. In the silence, I added, ‘I know it would be a major operation.’
    â€˜I’m sure the possibility has occurred to Sir Allardyce,’ Dr Collins said. ‘Look, I’ll phone him. I’ve got the number of his rooms in Harley Street; sit down, Robbie.’
    Sir Allardyce was away. He was expected to look in to collect messages at 12.30. Then he was off to attend a one-day conference in Milan. His secretary promised that he would phone back at 12.30.
    So I killed time. I went to see my Aunt Hetty, I had a drink and a sandwich in the pub with Bert and, at 12.20, I was back at the surgery. The call came through at 12.50.
    Sir Allardyce had already been giving the matter consideration and was in consultation with his colleagues. I was to be reassured that the matter was still very much on his mind.
    This much I heard, watching Sir Allardyce’s talking head on the vision plate, before I interrupted. I told him that it was urgent, and that Tom was heading towards a breakdown, dragging a corpse round with him, and that I feared evil things unless help for him was forthcoming.
    â€˜I know exactly how you must feel, Miss Howe,’ he said. ‘But this is an absolutely unique case, and we must proceed with due care. We discharged your brother from hospital because he was unhappy there, but in my opinion it would be best if we brought him into a London hospital for observation.’
    That sounded sensible to me. I said I would accompany Tom wherever he went.
    Sir Allardyce looked at a calendar I could not see. ‘Today is Wednesday. I shall be back in England on Friday. I will have my secretary arrange to have your brother collected in an ambulance on Friday and brought direct to London. Will that suit you? We will ring back and settle all the details of the arrangements with Dr Collins.’
    So it was left. Only two more nights, then Tom would be in proper hands. I returned to the Head with relief.
    Tom was restless that afternoon. He went out and wandered in the direction of the lake, returning not long before sunset. After exchanging a word with me, he slipped upstairs and played his guitar for half an hour. ‘Two-Way Romeo’ was one of the numbers. Then silence.
    I cooked him some sausages and chips and he went to bed early. Father was stuffing a dead tern. I went out for a walk in the moonlight, strolling along what we always called The Feather, a fine curve of sand sculptured by wind, with water on either side of it. The night seemed limitless. I longed – oh, I don’t know for what!
    Father had retired when I returned. I crept softly upstairs, pausing outside Tom’s room. Silence. I went to bed and slept eventually.
    When I woke, I found myself sitting up. Clouds had blown over the moon and it was dark. Outside was the endless sound of the sea; inside, the noise of father snoring. Nothing else.
    Getting up, I padded barefoot down the passage. Something compelled me to enter Tom’s room.
    The dimness fluctuated as clouds moved away from the moon’s face. I saw three heads lying on the pillow. All were still. I approached. Tom’s eyes were closed. Barry’s eyes were closed. The eyes in the other head opened. Slowly, it turned towards me. The eyes opened wider.
    As if this muscular exertion was a severe strain, the mouth fell open. Never to my knowledge had it opened before. I