Inside Out

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“I’m slightly disturbed by these dreams you’ve been having,” the doctor said, in the solicitous manner he adopted for all his consultations.

“You shouldn’t be,” Margaret told him. “They frightened me, at first, but they don’t any longer.”

Doctor Huxley frowned at that. Perhaps he thought that it was impolite of her to stop being frightened of the dreams even though he hadn’t yet contrived to explain them. He seemed to have put away his textbook Freud for the time being. Perhaps it would have been kinder had she managed to summon up some forgotten memory of unexpectedly coming across her parents engaged in the sweaty commerce of love, so that he could seize upon it as the commonplace root of her trouble. She had read enough of the great psychotherapist’s works to make the fiction convincing, but she didn’t want to descend to dishonesty.

“I’m not at all sure that the drug is having the desired effect,” the doctor told her. “I’m not sure the Ministry knows what they’re doing. I think the experiment ought to be stopped, before it does someone harm.”

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