The talking cure – that was what they called it, he’d heard. Well, they were right. He’d never talked so much in his life. George, Perry’s friend, asked him an endless battery of questions, some of them laughably trivial, some deeply searching, and some highly personal and very embarrassing. All were designed, he understood, to assess his mental state and ascertain his needs, treatment-wise. Perry had been right – he did like George, a rotund, genial man with a wry sense of humour and a lot of sharp intelligence behind thick, heavy glasses.
George, after meeting him that first time, suggested he admit himself to a psychiatric clinic for a few days. They wouldn’t be able to cure him in such a short time, but they’d set him on the right path towards recovery and prepare him for the remainder of his treatment, which would be home-based.
He declined. The thought of incarceration, no matter how civilised and friendly, filled him with terror. It fed into one of his most deep-seated fears – that of the scientist’s lab and the instruments which poked and prodded at the alien lying on the examination table. His father had planted those ideas from an early age, and whilst his many foster parents hadn’t added further fuel to them, the fear still remained with him.
So Alice and Perry became his carers. Alice mostly, because Perry was at work during the day and often had functions to attend in the evenings. She became an expert at detecting his mood swings, knowing instantly when he’d discovered her hiding place for the box and taken an illicit hit. Of course, hiding a box from a man who could see through anything except lead was almost impossible. Her only weapon was psychology – she knew that he wouldn’t search in her underwear drawer, for example. Not at first, anyway.
The box had to be moved to the clinic where he was now a day patient. But even there, it wasn’t possible to hide it entirely from his x-ray vision, and it soon became apparent that wherever they put it, he would find it. He could fly anywhere quicker than they could drive, scan an area vaster than they could reach within a reasonable length of time, so it wasn’t even practical to store it offsite somewhere.
“Clark, what do you suggest we do?” asked George one day. “I know you’re trying your best, but it’s just not working, is it?”
“No.” He’d tried to stick to the regime; he really had. But as soon as they made things a little hard for him, he faltered. If they made things really hard, asking the questions that he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to, the other person came out and began searching systematically for the box. He’d become very good at searching over the past few weeks, and he always, always found it and got his hit.
“Ideally, I’d prefer that it was your choice not to look for the kryptonite in the first place, rather than our responsibility to hide it from you,” George continued. “But I don’t think you’re quite ready for that yet, are you?”
“No.”
“So, what should we do? Is there anything we can do with lead shielding? Plant decoys, perhaps?”
Clark shook his head. “I’d find it. It doesn’t take long with superspeed.”
“Well, then, is there anything we can do about your powers? Is there something which resists all your powers, not just some of them?”
His gaze, which up to now had been fixed on a neutral point somewhere on the carpet, snapped up to meet George’s. Yes, there was, and he had a fairly good idea where to find some of it. “Green kryptonite,” he said. “It weakens me.”
“Okay, then that’s the answer,” said George. “Do you know where we can find some?”
**************
He was eavesdropping on a conversation again. Some sixth sense always kicked in and told him when people were talking about him. He’d always ignored it in the past - after a few blows to his pride and self-esteem, he’d learnt that it was best not to listen in. But lately, he found that he wanted to know what people were saying about him. This time he was upstairs in his room at Perry’s house, and two people were downstairs in the lounge arguing.
“George, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you realise what that stuff can do to him?” said Perry.
“He said it weakens him – sounds ideal to me. We make a shield of the stuff and put the red kryptonite inside. He won’t be able to reach it,” replied George.
“What he neglected to tell you was that it can kill him,” said Perry. “It doesn’t just weaken him, it causes massive pain and nausea, and if he’s exposed for long enough, he’ll die.”
“Jeez, he never mentioned that!”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave stuff like that lying around near him, do you?” said Perry.
There was a long pause, during which Clark heard someone pour out a large glass of something – probably brandy. The decanter stopper was replaced, and then George spoke in a low voice. “You think he’s suicidal?”
“What do you think?” replied Perry in an equally low voice.
There was another long pause.
“Well, you know him better than I do, Perry, but no – on balance, I don’t think he wants to take his own life. Besides, couldn’t he just fly off to wherever this stuff is and kill himself at any time - if he really wanted to?”
“True. But having the stuff conveniently to hand might just tip him over the edge if he was that way inclined,” said Perry. “Heck, it’s your decision, George. You’re the expert here. I’m just here as his friend.”
“And a damned good one, too. God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t rescued him.” George sighed. “I think we’re making progress, but he’s a hard nut to crack. He doesn’t give much away.”
“He’s used to internalising everything. That girlfriend of his – not the one he just broke up with, the one he nearly married – she didn’t do him any favours in that department,” said Perry.
“Yeah? What was she like?”
“Self-centred and a control freak. Treated him like her pet donkey.”
Clark tuned the rest of the conversation out – he didn’t want to hear a re-run of his relationship with Lana.
So they thought he was suicidal, did they? He rolled the idea around in his head for a while. True, he’d neglected to tell George the whole truth about green kryptonite, but that had been because the pain and nausea part hadn’t been relevant at the time. Also, he didn’t like telling anyone, even his therapist, about the things which hurt him. That didn’t mean he had an ulterior motive, did it?
No, he wasn’t suicidal. He laughed internally - perhaps he should drop downstairs and reassure them.
On the other hand, perhaps not. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten hours, fourteen minutes and twenty seconds to his next hit – boy, he was getting good at mental arithmetic these days.
He rolled over on the bed, curled up and pulled the covers over his head. Time for the nightly endurance test.
***************
The green kryptonite was duly obtained. Clark had been right – there were deposits in Shuster’s field, not so very far away from where he’d discovered the red variety. He’d been lucky not have gone too close, in fact.
The protection mechanism they came up with for the red kryptonite was simple – a nice, hefty lump of green kryptonite stored in the same box as the red. Clark was escorted to the clinic’s medicine cabinet to witness its installation, standing a safe distance away but still near enough to view the proceedings.
So now he had a new dependency. No longer could he help himself to red kryptonite whenever he needed it, he was one hundred percent dependent on others to fetch it for him.
It was a tough regime, and for a long time, he felt that they were being far too stingy with his crutch. Gradually, or not so gradually, it seemed to him, he was being forced out into the blinding light of total reality. He felt naked and exposed out there. Edges were sharp, nerves jangled, and he could see himself far too clearly.
He didn’t like what he saw. Clark Kent, the fine, upstanding farmer’s son from Kansas, was a wreck. All too often, he got the shakes and broke out into a sweat when he was waiting for his next hit. He was a burden to Perry and Alice, although they treated him as their own and never once gave the impression that they didn’t welcome him in their house. The staff at the clinic found him hard to cope with, because his special abilities made a mockery of some of their standard procedures.
Nevertheless, progress was made, and eventually he was down to one hit per day.
“Congratulations, Clark,” said George. “You’ve done really well and you should be proud of yourself for getting this far.”
Clark’s mouth twisted. “Thanks, George, but don’t you think we should save the celebrations until I’ve no longer memorised the location of every single piece of red kryptonite on the entire planet?”
George laughed. “Maybe, but this is an important milestone. How do you feel?”
Clark met George’s gaze. On the surface, this was a cosy chat between friends, but behind George’s amiable expression lay piercing enquiry and deadly serious analysis. “The truth?”
“However ugly, yes. I’ve heard it all, Clark – you can’t shock me.”
Clark drew in a slow breath. “If I could lay my hands on a piece of red kryptonite right this minute, I’d do it.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
George nodded. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t expect anything else at this stage. How do you think you’d feel after you’d taken the hit?”
“Guilty as hell,” Clark replied immediately.
“Anything else?”
“Maybe disappointed,” he said. “In myself, I mean. I’ve got this far, as you say, so it would be a shame to ruin all the good work.”
“Okay, so you still want to get better?”
Clark nodded.
“Good, because I’d like to try something a little different today. We’ve talked a lot, you and I, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” said Clark warily, wondering where George was leading him. “You know so much about me, you could be my official biographer if I ever needed one.”
George chuckled. “Now there’s a thought – Superman’s biographer. Well, if I’m ever strapped for cash, I’ll consider it. But for all that I know about you, Clark, there’s one thing we haven’t talked about at all.”
“What’s that?”
“Lois Lane.”
Oh, god. Why did George have to do this to him now? He’d been feeling so good - relaxed and pretty much in control. They’d been having a cosy chat and now George had turned it into an ordeal.
“Clark? You okay, buddy?”
He began to nod automatically, but then turned the movement into a quick head-shake. “No. Can we talk about something else?”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t this time. Take a few deep, slow breaths and then tell me all about Lois Lane.”
He snatched a glance at the nearest clock. Eight hours to his next hit. Too long. “I can’t, George.”
“Yes, you can,” insisted George, fixing Clark with those piercing, intelligent eyes of his. “Now do as I tell you and take those deep breaths. You want to lie down on the couch? You might feel more comfortable there.”
“Okay.” Anything to delay; keep the questions at bay. He moved over to George’s couch, a traditional psychiatrist’s model that he’d never have dreamt of being at ease on until his sessions with George. Nowadays it was his friend, a place where he could talk freely about himself without fear of embarrassment or worse.
Once he was settled, George came over and picked up his wrist, monitoring his pulse. “Okay, now take those deep breaths – remember what they taught you in those relaxation classes.”
Yeah, they were part of his treatment regime at the clinic. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon – how to relax your cares away with Dr Deirdre Watts. He could hear her soft Irish voice even now. “Find your centre, Clark. Find your sea of tranquillity and cast yourself free upon it.” Well, this was something he was pretty good at; one of his small successes at the clinic. He located that tranquil sea and was floating along as free as a bird in no time at all.
“Good.” George gave him his wrist back and settled back in his chair. “So tell me, Clark, who was Lois Lane?”
“A reporter at the Daily Planet,” he replied. That part was easy.
“And when did you first meet her?”
Now things were starting to get a little harder. “When she came back from the Congo.” Not the real truth, but the official truth. “She’d been missing, presumed dead, for years.”
“That must have been quite a shock, for you and everyone else.”
“It hit Perry the hardest, I think,” said Clark. “He was the only one left who’d known her before she disappeared. It took him a while to adjust, I think.”
“And what about you? How did it hit you?”
Clark recalled the first time he’d seen her. She’d bowled him over – literally. One second flat into their meeting and she’d kissed him right on the lips. It was as if someone had struck him right between his eyes.
“Well, I never knew her before, so it didn’t really have an impact on me,” he said.
“Really? Didn’t she kiss you that first time?”
Clark frowned. “George, if you already know all this, why are you asking me?”
“Because I like the sound of your voice. Now answer the question – did she kiss you?”
“Yes, she kissed me. But it didn’t mean anything,” he added quickly. “She mistook me for someone else.” Now it really was starting to get complicated. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep the official truth and the real truth straight in his head. George had a nasty habit of making you say things you didn’t mean to.
“I see. Let’s move on a little – you started working with her, didn’t you? Tell me about that.”
And so the session continued, with Clark relating a fairly sanitised version of events and George winkling out extra little details from him. Nothing too controversial, and Clark managed to keep to the official line throughout. He was feeling pretty pleased at having negotiated his way through George’s interrogation so neatly, when they reached the official end of the story.
“She disappeared again, didn’t she, Clark? What can you tell me about that?”
“Nothing,” he said immediately.
“Oh, come now. You were working pretty closely together - you must have some idea why she left.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
His heart was thumping in his chest, his sea of tranquillity a raging Force Nine hurricane. How could he explain parallel universes and duplicate Lois Lanes to George? Even if he could, there was no way he could explain the feelings of loss, of deep longing and love for a woman he’d never even met.
“Can’t.”
George sat forward in his chair. “Clark, this is important. I know it’s hard for you, but I want you to try. Give me anything you can – an idea, a hint, a small crumb of information. Anything will do.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on, buddy, you can do it. One little morsel. A nugget.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay, tell me why you can’t,” said George.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m an intelligent guy. Try me.”
God, he was so insistent. “George, believe me – I’d tell you if I could. You think I’m crazy now, but if I told you what you want to know, you’ll pack me straight off to the lunatic asylum. And I’ve already said too much.”
“Hey, this sounds really interesting,” said George. “I like a good tale from a wacko.”
“Not a very professional term, George,” said Clark. “Won’t you get struck off for telling me I’m a wacko?”
“Nah, you’d be surprised what we shrinks can get away with. My point, my friend, is that there is no way I’ll be packing you off to the asylum, or anywhere else, come to that. You’re not a wacko, just a guy with a story to tell,” said George. “So come on, let’s hear it. Why can’t you tell me the reason for Lois’s disappearance?”
Clark rolled his head back and forth on the couch. “I told you, I can’t.”
George sucked in air around his teeth. “Okay, buddy,” he said softly, patting Clark’s arm. “I guess we’re not going to crack it this time around. Sorry I pushed you, but this one’s important.”
Clark felt the relief roll over him in waves. No more grand inquisition. He felt totally drained; he was drenched in sweat and his pulse was galloping along like he’d just lifted a spaceship into orbit.
“Here.”
He looked up to find George offering him a glass of water. “Thanks,” he said, taking it in one trembling hand and then needing both to steady it as he sipped.
“Look, is it me?” asked George. “Is there anyone else you’d prefer to talk to about this?”
Clark shook his head. He now knew quite a few of the staff at the clinic, but George was the only one he could imagine talking to about this stuff. There was Perry, of course, but he wasn’t staff.
“Okay. You want to stay there a while, catch your breath? Have a snooze if you like.”
Clark nodded. “Thanks, George. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“Nah, only the ones who give me a hard time.” He grinned down at Clark. “We’re going to get there, buddy, don’t you worry.” Then he produced a blanket and draped it over Clark. “Want me to kiss you goodnight and tuck you in?”
“George, it’s eleven am.”
“Oh, you noticed? See, I told you you’re not a wacko.”
****************
The other person, the cool, calculating schemer, was on a mission, stalking the dimly-lit corridors of the clinic under cover of the night. At this time of day, there was only a skeleton staff manning the wards, and so it was easy to slip by unnoticed. If necessary, there was always the option of flying near the ceiling. Nobody ever looked up, not even the guard watching the security cameras.
It wasn’t hard to reach the medicine cabinet. It was even easier to break the lock – the schemer didn’t suffer the burden of a conscience to hold him back. Drawing out the lead box and placing it on the counter was hard, though. Hands trembled and the pulse quickened, making the task difficult and treacherous. A wrong move now, a bottle knocked over, or pills sent skittering across the formica floor - all would give him away and cause people to come running. People who would separate him from his goal.
But the box was safely extracted and placed on the counter. Now for the hardest part of all. He figured he had about a second to snatch the red rock before the green one forced him back. So a swift execution was needed. Lift lid, snatch rock, close lid. Simple.
Deep breath.
Lift lid – oh, Jeez! He staggered backwards, the pain nearly knocking him out instantly. His legs turned to jelly and he felt himself weave around, fighting for balance. He hadn’t realised it would be this bad – he didn’t remember being in this much agony the last time he’d encountered the green stuff. He could hardly believe his body was capable of inflicting this level of pain on him.
Almost blinded, he tipped himself forward towards the counter, reaching clumsily into the box to find his prize. White hot coals burnt his fingers, forcing him to snatch his hand away with a cry of surprise and pain. It burnt! He hadn’t known it would burn.
Blackness began to creep in at the edges of his vision. No... But he was powerless to stop it. He crashed against the counter and down to the floor, the clatter of the box informing him that he’d knocked it over somehow. Great. No respite from the pain, then.
Darkness rescued him, pulling him down into oblivion.
**************
