ANOTHER FRUITCAKE

ANOTHER FRUITCAKE

Edward couldn’t bear being called Edward. The very sound of the name was anathema to him; at least, that was what his analyst had deduced.

"Well Edward, I can't see what's so bad about it," said the chap. "All right, so it's not special like, say, Elvis; or particularly memorable like what'sit - Winston. But it's solid; quite distinctive. Why, there are lots who would be proud of it. Many of my clients have really odd names, yet don’t get phobic about them.

Edward, it seemed, couldn't care less about anybody else; what their names were or their lack of hang-ups. It was his own name that was causing the problem, and the analyst was obviously expected to work out why.

"I really can't;" the fellow had to admit, "unless there's some deep-rooted aversion that you developed in your early days, perhaps. The trouble is, it could take months to get to the cause, and I wonder whether it would really be worth it."

Edward said nothing. He simply stared back with the fixed gaze that the analyst had come to recognise as a grim determination to press on; a look encountered regularly throughout their association.

"Very well then. If you're adamant, we'll begin next week. Initially, we'll try and avoid drugs. Perhaps hypnotism might help.” He buzzed through on the intercom. "Book Edward an appointment for Wednesday, will you Polly."

After the patient was out of the surgery the analyst sat, rhythmically tapping his nails on the desk. "Another fruitcake!" he snorted resentfully, slamming shut the case-boxfile.

* *

Since then, there had been four Wednesday sessions spent on this, the latest of Edward’s troubles. Previously, the analyst had dealt with his claustrophobia - which was the original complaint - then the depression. These maladies he had successfully diagnosed and, more or less, cured. Yet now, after eight wasted hours, he was still no nearer to cracking the most insignificant problem of all; one, he suspected, his patient may have manufactured purely as an excuse to go on attending the sessions – attention seeking, craving a cuddle, so to speak.

On the fifth Wednesday, he decided to bring matters to a head, opening the meeting with a summary of progress, to date. “There’s been absolutely no progress, at all,” he complained. You’re clearly holding back on me; wasting my time."

Edward lay defiantly quiet on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

The analyst flapped his notebook closed, and scratched his furrowed brow with the blunt end of a pencil. One eyebrow raised as a wicked thought crept across his mind. Perhaps he would call Edward's bluff; give him a dose of shock treatment. That would prove, once and for all, whether the problem really existed. Yes; he would do it, he decided.

He got up and went over to his cabinet, unlocked it, and fumbled inside for a couple of minutes. When he turned around, he was brandishing a massive syringe; a type typically used on large quadrupeds by veterinarians. "I don’t want to overly concern you," he lied, charging the thing with some dark fluid, "but I can think of only one satisfactory way to fully open your mind on this phobia." He waved the vicious instrument, mercilessly, under Edward's nose; its tip moist and sharp.

"Uncomfortable as it will be for you," he tried to make the prospect even grimmer, "it seems we'll have to use Cartol 90, a truth inducer which I shall inject into the lumber region between the lower vertebrae. Regrettably, the actual entry can be extremely painful, and frequently causes major trauma, particularly when the fluid reaches the brain. But don't worry; you'll survive it, I'm sure. Only one in five suffer permanent paralysis. OK with you Edward?"

The anticipated decision to abort the treatment did not come. Instead, and once again, the analyst was met with the glassy stare.

"That's it!" the syringe was thrown across the floor. "I've had enough. God knows I've worked hard on you, and your mental illnesses. All right, the claustrophobia I could understand. Nobody should have kept you confined in the way they did. And the depression clearly sprang from the latter years, when you were neglected. But your name, for heaven's sake. Look, we can get it changed if you like. You can choose your own, dammit! I'm not wasting any more of my time on you; not unless you try to help yourself. Now, go away and think of a name that you would be happy to be called by. And don't bother me again until you have."

* *

It had only been a week since the last consultation when Edward was back in the waiting room. I wonder what name he's come up with, the analyst thought. “Teddy! That’ll be it. Typical! Well, he's going to have to wait his turn before he gets to tell me. Others have been waiting longer.

He looked down his appointments list. It was going to be a busy afternoon. Now, who was there? Among others, the Sprats whingeing on about their infernal dietary mismatch, Lou the completely loopy woman, and that awful arachnophobic Muffet creature. “More fruitcakes!” he spat as he buzzed Reception.

"Bring in the first patient, please Polly," he requested in a sigh of resignation. "Oh, and after that, put the kettle on will you. We’ll all have tea."

*  *  *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

Thanks for reading this piece. I have a number of other stories here on ABC.

Also, I have a crime thriller novel available for Kindle or PC on Amazon, entitled:-

‘Eighteen to Twelve’.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/EIGHTEEN-to-TWELVE-ebook/dp/B009171P0C/ref=sr_1_...