Apocalypse Now Now by Charlie Human

– Psychiatrist’ written on it in white type. I press the buzzer.
    ‘Yes?’ Basson says.
    ‘It’s Baxter,’ I answer.
    There’s a short silence and then the door clicks open.
    ‘Welcome,’ Dr Basson says in his thin, eager voice. He is tall and emaciated, his nose narrow and hawk-like, his cheekbones jutting sharply from his face. His watery blue eyes look surprised, but he smiles and runs a scarred hand through his greasy, thinning hair which is tied with a rainbow scrunchie at the back of his head to form a little rat-tail.
    He gestures for me to follow him into his consulting rooms. ‘Well, this is unexpected. Your next appointment isn’t until Wednesday.’
    ‘I think something’s wrong with me,’ I say.
    He gives me a concerned look. ‘Well, then I’m glad you came,’ he says. ‘You’re in luck. I don’t have any appointments this morning. Would you like to talk?’
    I nod quickly.
    ‘Coffee?’ he asks, limping over to an urn in the corner of the room.
    ‘Please,’ I say as I sit on the long leather couch next to his desk.
    I sit and stare at the two photographs on the wall, something I always do when I come here. One is of Table Mountain, and the other of an old sea captain, grizzled and bad-tempered, a long red beard cascading down his chin.
    On his desk there are two photo frames; one holding a picture of two men in military uniform, one turned so I can’t see what’s in it.
    I bounce my feet irritably on the ground. There’s a stack of magazines next to me and I flick listlessly through a few of them while Basson meticulously makes two cups of coffee. He has a painfully slow coffee-making ritual and the waiting is making me doubt my reasons for coming here.
    I’ve recently realised that my view of myself – that of the Machiavellian mastermind, unhindered by emotional ties andattachments – is flawed. That’s bound to cause me anxiety, right?
    My hypnogogic visions, the dreams about Boers and Mantises, are merely a biological reaction to stress; a kind of mental defragging process that has understandably been influenced by the historical stuff Rafe unrelentingly tries to shove down my throat.
    And my experience with the old homeless guy last night? Well, that was confirmation bias. I’m looking for answers and I made his ravings fit my need for a narrative.
    Basson shuffles over to give me my mug and then moves back to his desk where he lowers himself carefully into his chair.
    ‘I’m glad you came,’ he says. ‘But you’ve never really shown any enthusiasm for our sessions, so I admit I’m a little surprised.’
    ‘Esmé’s been kidnapped,’ I blurt out.
    Basson raises his eyebrows. ‘My God. When?’
    ‘Two nights ago,’ I say. ‘The police think it might be the Mountain Killer.’
    ‘Oh, Baxter,’ Basson says. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you OK?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m … hearing things; voices.’
    A pen materialises in his hand and he begins writing furiously, as if he’s possessed by some kind of creative spirit. ‘And what are these voices saying?’ he says.
    ‘They’re arguing,’ I reply ‘It’s like two parts of me are fighting each other.’
    His writing becomes more furious, like he’s trying to capture the very essence of my problem in words. ‘Stress can have a very powerful effect on the mind. Having someone that you love put in harm’s way can be very stressful. You do love her, don’t you, Baxter?’
    Crunch time. A direct question that I can’t avoid. Love. Thousands of songs, poems, books have been written about the disturbing quivering of internal organs in response to neuro-chemical stimuli. Is that what this feeling is? Inside I say yes.
    Outside I say, ‘No. Yes. Maybe.’
    He opens a desk drawer and pulls a brown folder from it. ‘I have some of your school reports here. They suggest you have a very high verbal and conceptual intelligence which is far beyond that of your peers. Like many