Always the Maybe

Always the Maybe Peter Rolls
A darkened room, warm and quiet; a leather couch, softly-lit. Two faces: Stockhausen, pale and calm; Driscoll, flushed and tense. Doctor and patient; watcher and watched.
In the ceiling, a video camera blinks its green light - and sees what it sees.
On the couch, Driscoll relaxes his neck, closes his eyes.
In the shadows, Stockhausen stands tall; his voice is smooth. ‘So - my dear fellow - what shall we talk about?’
‘The dream, doctor. I’m still having the dream.’
Stockhausen polishes his glasses. ‘Tell me about your dream.’
‘I told you last time. The woman.’
‘Tell me again. For the tape.’
Driscoll opens his eyes. ‘Tape? What tape?’
Stockhausen points to the green light. ‘The video-tape. For the record.’
Driscoll sits up. ‘What record?’
‘For the protocol. Tell me about the woman, Mr Driscoll.’
‘What protocol?’
‘For the analysis, my dear fellow. As we discussed.’
Driscoll lies down and closes his eyes.
Stockhausen paces slowly in the shadows. ‘Tell me about the woman.’
‘I told you before. She wears a red dress and sits on a park bench. But now ....’
‘Now?’
‘Now it’s not just one woman.’
‘There are more women? In your dream?’
‘Now there are seven of them.’
The doctor sits beside the couch. ‘Seven women? Good … Very good.’
The patient’s eyes jerk open. ‘What the hell is so good about it?’
‘Progress, Mr Driscoll ... Seven is a good number. Seven sins, seven sorrows, seven plagues of Egypt.’
‘Plagues of Egypt! What has that got to do with it?’
‘Just so.’ Stockhausen clicks his fingers. ‘What, what, what? … If seven is in the answer, maybe soon we see the question ... No? Maybe - always the maybe. Yes?’
‘If you say so.’ Driscoll shuts his eyes and does his relax-routine: toes-fingers-face.
‘Now,’ the doctor resumes his pacing, up and back. ‘These seven women - what do they look like? In your dream.’
‘They’re all in red. Their clothes are red, their boots are red and they have red cowboy hats – like Clint Eastwood, but in red.’
The doctor purses his lips … ‘Hmmm. And these seven women in red, with the hats of Clint Eastwood – but in red. What do they do? In your dream. Do they also sit on the park bench?’
‘Not now. They come out of the bushes and they run round the park.’
Stockhausen stops pacing. ‘Anything else, Mr Driscoll? Think carefully.’
‘Sometimes they sing.’
‘Good. They run and sometimes they sing … And can you tell me what it is they sing - sometimes?’
‘Always.’
Stockhausen’s left eye twitches. ‘Think carefully, Mr Driscoll. Is it sometimes they sing - or is it always?’
‘Always - but only sometimes.’
Stockhausen’s right eye droops, his voice tightens. ‘Sometimes or always? Which is it, Mr Driscoll?’
‘It’s a song.‘ Driscoll quavers the words. ‘Always’ … ‘I’ll be loving you always.’
Behind his back, the doctor’s fingers clench and stretch and clutch at the air. ‘So - the seven women in red dresses that run round the park, wearing the hats of Clint Eastwood but in red - sometimes they are singing and sometimes not. But when they sing, they always sing ‘Always’?’
‘I just thought I should mention it.’
‘Of course, my dear fellow.’ Stockhausen’s smile flickers. ‘Later, perhaps, we sing the song together ... But first tell me more about these seven women. The women that sing Always, but do not always sing ... For the video, Mr Driscoll. For the protocol ... Their faces … They are black? - white? - brown?’
‘White. Their faces are stark white. And there are red slits where their mouths should be.’
‘Red and white? Interesting ... And these seven women - the ones that sometimes sing … with the red hats and white faces and the red slits where their mouths should be … Where do they go? In your dream.’

‘They go back into the bushes. But last night …’
‘Last night …?’
‘Last night, as they ran across the park …’ Driscoll dabs his face with a handkerchief.
‘Take your time, Mr Driscoll.’
‘… they were being chased by a dog.’
‘A dog?’ Stockhausen stops pacing. ‘ Tell me about the dog.’
‘It was a big dog. A black dog.’
‘A big, black dog?’
‘A shaggy big, black dog.’
‘A shaggy big black dog? You give me a shaggy dog story?’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘No, no. Is good. Your mind seeks the answer - always the seeking … So, there were the women in red and the dog that was black. And what happened next? In your dream.’
‘The women looked at me as they ran. It was terrifying - the red hats and the white faces and red slits where the mouths should be. And the eyes … all the eyes.’
Stockhausen leans forward. ‘Tell me about the eyes. Mr Driscoll.’
‘They were blue. And …’
‘And …? For the video, please. The eyes were blue and…’
‘They crinkled, doctor. All their eyes just … crinkled.’
‘Crinkled!’ Stockhausen is no longer calm. ‘They crinkled?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not just a problem, Mr Driscoll. It is an epidemic. You are the third patient this week who has seen the black dog and the blue eyes crinkling.’
Driscoll looks at him. ‘How can that happen?’
Stockhausen puts his head in his hands. ‘God knows. Somehow, we have a dream-virus in here.’
‘Virus!’ Driscoll’s voice grows shrill.‘ Other patients have this dream?’
‘Not only the patients, my dear fellow. Please to move over.’ Stockhausen lies down on the couch, beside Driscoll. ‘Now, let us both visit our dreams and say what we see. Everything. For the camera. For the protocol ...’
The two figures lie side by side and describe their dreams … Driscoll has seven women in red. Stockhausen has six vestal virgins. All have blue eyes that crinkle …
After a while, the door opens and a dog comes in: a big, black, shaggy dog. It jumps on to the foot of the couch, looks at the two men and settles, smiling to itself - a blue-eyed, crinkly smile … It dreams of chasing, chasing … always the chasing …
Overhead, the green light blinks and the camera sees what it sees ... Doctor, patient and dog ... For the record. For the protocol ... For the maybe - always the maybe ...