CARSON McDERMOTT

by
COLIN JACKSON

He shakes his head and mutters something. It�s directed at the whining voices we can hear. A group of teenagers are bickering with each other on the forecourt, ten floors below.

�Mr. McDermott, if we could make a start on the exercises��

�Please son,� he interrupts. There is a sincere begging to the tone of his voice, �call me Carson�please�.

I smile and he comes away from the window. Not that he dared venture too close. Carson McDermott�s flat is so depressing that I�m surprised he is capable of agoraphobia. He really is stuck between a rock and a hard place, the outside world and this flat. He keeps it clean at least.

There are four tear marks, like snowflakes, forming a rectangle on one of the walls. Carson only has one picture up in the living room, of a horse, but for some reason he hasn�t used it to cover this blue-tack �faux-pas�. Perhaps he realises that the marks detract from the wallpaper�s ugly shade of brown.

�Now.� Carson. Do you remember what I said last week about not drinking coffee or tea, before or during my visits?�

He doesn�t reply. He puts one of the mugs on the table beside me and with the enthusiasm of a child handing out Christmas gifts says, �that�s for you son�.

�No thanks, Mr. McDermott. And it would be better for your sake if you didn�t drink that.�

I smile at him as I gesture towards the mug he has just sipped from. He looks offended. He peers towards my cup of coffee (which I told him earlier I didn�t want) and I feel incredibly rude, an ungrateful intruder in to his home.

�It�s just that the caffeine makes it much more difficult for you to relax during the exercises. You remember me explaining this last week?�

He remembers fine. His eyes maintain their na�ve, pensioner vulnerability. I wonder for a moment if he�s only interested in company, instead of help. He can get that from the lady that does his grocery shopping.

After some faffing around, I manage to get the coffee cup away from his reach and through to the kitchen. I almost pour it away, but stop myself. Maybe he can heat it up later when I�ve gone.

Back in the living room.

�Now Carson,� I say. �You remember the exercises we�ve been doing?�

�Oh, yes son�very helpful, very helpful indeed. But the thing is�I�ve lost the tape.�

�That�s all right� I say, �I�ve got another one in my bag. I�ve got a tape player too.�

The left hand corner of his mouth twitches.

�We could do the exercises without the tape if we had to� I tell him. There is a brief silence while he digests this information.

Staring at his crestfallen face, I consciously try not to blink. I like being able to speak forcefully at a patient. I�m not bullying or aggressive, just assertive. It�s good practice.

�Carson, today we�re going to go outside. We�ll do the exercise first. Then we�ll go outside, just for a moment.�

He screws up his eyes in angst, shakes his head. �Son, wait..�

�It�s alright.� I state. �It�s going to be fine. We�re only going to walk down to the end of the corridor. Technically, it�s hardly even outside. I am going to be with you every step of the way. I am going to make sure that you are secure throughout our session. We are going to make progress today. We made progress last week and we will make progress today.�

I cringe at the way this last bit comes out. The way I�m talking, it�s as if I�m trying to convince myself, rather than him. He picks up on this and gives me a sympathetic look.

�Now�you relax in your chair,� I say.

�Thing is son� he interrupts, �I�m not even sure if the problem is one that can be solved. Now, you� he points a finger at me, �are a hypnotherapist. What I really want is,�

I interrupt him. �Well, Carson. I believe it can be solved and we are going to try to solve it. Now you agree that it makes sense to at least try, don�t you?�

He sighs and puts a finger to his mouth. It rests in between his lips. He is deep in thought for a moment, then he nods in the affirmative.

�Good.�

I stand. �Now, the technique we will be using is the same as last week, the river and the mountain.�

�Can I go to the toilet first?� he asks.

�You don�t need to ask my permission to go to the toilet Mr McDermott.�

�It�s just that I�ve been drinking coffee all morning,� he informs me, getting out of his chair.

When he�s gone, I go through to the hall and open the front door, glad to see the rain has stopped. There are signs of muddy footprints around the welcome mat. I didn�t get a chance to check them out when I first got here because he was waiting for the sound of my footsteps. When I arrived, the door opened slightly and a quivering ghostly hand appeared, rather like they do in the �Scooby doo� cartoons, grabbing at thin air, attempting to pull me in to the house as quickly as possible. The footprints aren�t his, they�re too small. They belong to children, teenagers probably, maybe the paper boy.

I return to the living room and set up the tape recorder. He comes in, subdued, tucking his shirt in to his ill-fitting trousers. �Ready son� he says, with an air of resignation.

�Mr. McDermott�Carson. Please sit, and relax.�

He does so.

�Remember that relaxation is the key to the exercise. Remember last week. Breathing is the key to relaxation. Please, follow my lead.�

I breathe in, a loud drawn out sucking of air, and hold it. He does the same. I hold. He holds.

I blow out slowly. When I hear him exhale, I put my thumb up to indicate it�s going well. He mirrors this gesture. It�s as if we�re under water, communicating like scuba divers. I stick my hand in the air and count with my fingers, �four, three, two, one� to the sound of expelling air. Then I breathe in again. He does too. We repeat this process four times. Then I press play on the tape recorder and take a seat.

The voice we hear is loud and clear and American. It takes us through the rituals. Now and again I peek to make sure Carson has his eyes closed. First of all we�re breathing �in a circular motion�. Then we�re being advised to imagine ourselves standing by the river. We admire the mountain and listen to the soothing flow of crystal clear water. A synthesizer makes soothing noises throughout. We can smell the fresh green grass of the meadow near by.

Unfortunately we can also hear the piercing, moronic expletives of children who should be at school.

�Gabby ya Rat-catchin fanny!! Heeky � heeky � heeky - heeky.�

Their words are incomprehensible, but the sentiment is not. They are chasing each other around the concrete forecourt below. There is some excited laughter as well as stamping of feet. Carson seems to be able to ignore it. He remains still, throughout the exercise, till the end.

��remember to return to the river and mountain when you seek the benefits of relaxation� the woman oozes. I never get tired of her voice. It ranks right up there with the lady who did the sexy rabbit in the old Cadbury�s caramel advert. �Now open your eyes� she says �stretch, and smile.�

He follows instructions but his smile is weak. I rise and congratulate him on his efforts.

�Excellent� I say. �Now we�re completely relaxed, we can go to the front door. There�s nothing to worry about.�

Carson gets out of his chair and follows me in to the hall. I wonder if he really is hypnotically cushioned from bad memories, or just putting on a brave show. I take slow, measured steps to the door and place my hand on the snib.

His breathing goes a little haywire when he sees the light from the window.

�It�s all right� I say, dropping my hand back by my side. �It�s fine. Come on, take a few more deep breaths. The fresh air will calm you down.� Gradually, he stabilizes. I put a hand on his shoulder. �You can just stand with the door open for a while. You don�t even have to go outside yet.�

His eyes glaze over at this prospect and his body tenses. He looks like an old soldier about to venture over the top of the trenches. I can just imagine him running outside to confront the world on the landing, swinging punches at thin air, trying to connect with some invisible enemy, to rid himself of the anxious hell that has been building inside for days.

A strange calm comes over him when I put my hand back to the snib. It makes me wonder whether this has all been an act. He takes one step forward, hitches his trousers around his waist and nods once to indicate he�s ready. Slowly, I open the door.

A cool draught drifts past me and in to the hall. Carson opens his mouth slightly.

�Very good,� I say. �The breeze has a calming effect doesn�t it?�

He doesn�t reply. I decide to remain silent for a while, till he gets used to the fresh air.

After a few seconds I check my watch, delighted with the progress we�re making in such a short time. If all my appointments go this well, there might not be any point in training for the diploma. Three grand seems pretty excessive for a qualification in hypnotherapy, especially when you can pick it up from reading books in the library. The money I�ve saved might be better spent on more leaflet distribution to advertise my services.

�Okay, Mr McDermott, now I�m going to walk out on to the landing. In your own time, please follow me.�

As soon as my foot touches the welcome mat, Carson�s breathing kicks in to life with the ferocity of a snake writhing in a bag, trapped, panicked and angry. The intensity of it startles me and for a horrible moment I think he�s having a heart attack.

I dash back inside and slam the door shut. He staggers back in to the hall and falls to his knees.

�Breathe Carson, it�s all right Mr McDermott, breathe.�

His arms are crossed over his chest now, each hand clasping a shoulder. He seems to be winded, mouth open, locked in a silent scream, till suddenly his chest heaves again and he takes a huge gulp at the air around him.

�You�re doing really well, Mr McDermott, breathe.�

I place my hand on his back and rub between the shoulder blades. Drool runs down his chin and on to the floor. He goes through a series of �gut wrenching� movements, until eventually he is reduced to an exhausted, heaving mass. He weeps, trying not to at first, trying to stop it, but making things worse as he loses control.

In the living room, I put the coffee in front of him. There is a sad silence to accompany our sense of failure. It makes me feel guilty. I try to talk him out of it, to make him look on the positive side, but it doesn�t work. I might be doing more harm than good. It�s like someone saying �Cheer up!� or �It doesn�t cost anything to smile.� Only tactless morons come out with such phrases. The very nature of what they�re saying highlights the persons� misery.

I am no longer welcome. Carson uses silence to widen the gulf between us and I feel compelled to leave as he mentally withdraws. It�s a relief when I finally exit his flat.

On the landing outside I have a look at the view. It�s abysmal. The wasteland has a few washing lines on it. Sunny weather seems out of place in this area. I feel nervous going down the stairs. Even young children make me jumpy here.

Although he is technically agoraphobic, I can not help but think of Carson as a special case. Tomorrow, I have an appointment with a businessman at three thirty. The man�s fear of flying is as intense as he is arrogant. During our first session, he brought a list of the names of flights that have crashed in the last two years. It�s on the increase. He was trying to assert that his fear is not irrational, and therefore not technically a phobia. He�s got a point. The oil company he works for are less sympathetic to this attitude.

Similarly, Carson�s fear is only irrational from a certain angle. If he ever makes it past the end of his corridor, he will be greeted with an ugly red scrawl of spray paint that arches its way up and down the side of the wall like an evil snake. Chances are he has all ready seen it. It reads �C.McD. � Hell awaits.� I purposely don�t look at it, as I bound down the stairs.

Outside the building my pace is quick and I am too fast to warrant the attention of teenagers mucking about near by. One of them shouts something but I don�t think it�s directed at me. I relax a bit when I reach my car. I start the engine and glance at the side of the building. There is a lot of graffiti, but one slogan in particular is daubed so large, that it is visible from the bypass where I�m headed. It�s a menacing scrawl of yellow and I think it might even be illuminous in the dark. I�ve got no intention of coming here at night to find out. �Scumbag McDermott out� it screams, �Paedophiles out�.

� Colin Jackson
Reproduced with permission

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