Twisted Nerve Page #6

lay back...

...drop your wrists four.

You're late. That's better.

One step, two step, three step...

four step, five step, six step...

Sorry, Susan.

Let's forget it, Georgie.

I dare say it was

my fault, really.

I'll get these things

packed up.

Well come on, take hold

of the other end.

Any cigarettes?

You're just putting

one out.

Alright.

What's the matter with

you this morning...

you're as jumpy as

a kitten?

Nothing.

You know, when

Gerry leaves...

I think I'll

move Georgie.

- Mum!

- Mmm?

I think it's time

Georgie went too.

Why?

Because it's too great

a responsibility.

Oh, what is?

Thinking we could cope.

We don't know enough.

Well there's nothing

to know.

He's just a child.

He may talk

like a child...

but look at him, Mum.

Look at him!

I have.

But he's a man!

As a matter of fact, he slept

down here the other night.

He what?!

Like a child.

Hadn't you heard?

Oh...

so that's what Gerry

was sniggering about!

He had a nightmare.

He was frightened.

He wanted his mum.

Nothing else.

Could have been

your father!

There's an awful lot of waste

in this world, isn't there?

There's an awful lot

to understand.

Mrs 'arper!

Yes, Clarkie?

It's for Georgie,

from Paris.

Well that'll be

his father.

Shall I take it?

No it's alright,

I'm going down...

Oh do the boy's bedroom will you

Darling, it's Clarkie's half-day.

Mmm... ok.

Hello?

No I'm sorry, Georgie's

out at the moment.

Is that his father?

Oh... hello, Mr Clifford!

No, no, this is

Mrs Harper.

We were beginning to

think you didn't exist!

Yes, yes, Georgie's

very well...

we've all grown very

fond of him.

Oh, that's very nice of

you to say so, thank you.

I'm sorry, I didn't

quite catch that...

would you repeat it?

I said my work's

almost finished...

and I'd like Georgie

to join me.

It's time he had

a holiday.

That was his father

on the 'phone.

You needn't

have worried...

he won't be here

much longer.

Good.

Yes, I thought

you'd say that.

This the lad's?

Yes, Clarkie.

- Mum...

- Mmm...

Has Georgie every mentioned

anyone named Durnley?

Who?

Martin Durnley.

No, why?

That was that man's

name, wasn't it?

Durnley?

You know...

one they said was done it

in by a psychopratt.

Now don't you go pulling

out all them old papers...

I want them for

me fires.

It's all they're fit for,

most of 'em.

What are you

looking for?

Just something I

remember reading.

- Mum.

- Mmm?

I'm going into

London.

London?

But you haven't

got time.

But hey, what about

the library...

you're supposed to

be there at one!

Yes, I remember the

incident very clearly.

I'm sure we did

take his name...

we always do

you know.

Should be in

here somewhere.

Let me see.

Yes, I thought so.

Here we are.

Oh, do come in.

That chair, nurse.

Susan, isn't it?

That's right.

Please sit down.

Thank you.

Mrs Durnley, I came to talk

to you about Georgie.

Georgie?

Isn't he sometimes

called 'Georgie'?

Who is?

Your son.

My son's name is Martin.

Oh. Is he here?

No, he's away.

Do you know where?

Naturally.

Somewhere I could

'phone him?

It's rather difficult.

It's very important

to me.

He's in France.

France?

Travelling.

Mrs Durnley, you're quite

sure of that?

Yes of course

I'm sure.

Hello, Georgie.

Where's Susan?

Out.

Oh.

You want to make

yourself useful...

I need some more firewood,

there's a good boy.

Look, what is all

this about?

You seem very anxious.

I am.

Well then, hadn't you better

come out with it?

Well, I'm not sure.

Not absolutely sure

that I can, yet.

Miss Harper, you're not in

some sort of trouble, are you?

Trouble?

Well if you are, you must

be quite frank about it.

You wouldn't be

the first girl that...

Oh no...

at least, not in

that way.

Then what are

you here for?

Mrs Durnley...

I don't quite know how

to say this, but...

I have to ask...

Is your son handicapped

in any way?

What do you mean?!

Forgive me but...

Is Martin... mentally

backward?

Retarded?

Martin, retarded?!

Certainly not!

He's a perfectly normal,

healthy boy!

I don't know what your

little game is...

or what you hope to

get out of this,

but I certainly don't want

to listen to any more of it.

You must go now.

Please!

I'm sorry.

I never meant to

upset you.

And thank you for

seeing me.

Goodbye, Mrs Durnley.

Don't go!

Please!

I'm sorry.

Tell me, why did you

come here today?

Do you know

where he is?

Mrs Harper?

I'm off, then.

Alright, Clarkie. See

you tomorrow.

That's right.

Ladies and gentlemen,

possibly the most important

scientific discovery...

of the last century.

The chromosome.

Invisible to the naked eye,

what we are,

how we look,

indeed in some cases

what we become,

depends on the number,

and nature, of these

little blighters.

We get... twenty-three

from mum,

twenty-three from dad.

Forty-six, in all.

And...

God help us if anything

goes wrong with them.

Now then,

I want you to look

at the chromosomes...

of a normal person.

Afterwards,

I shall want you to look

at those of someone...

who appears to

be normal.

Hello, Susan. What

brings you here?

Oh Shashie, I'm sorry,

but I must have a word.

Is there somewhere

we can talk?

Yes, of course.

Come on.

We can talk in here.

Now, the abnormal.

Do you see?

The abnormality

is here.

A translocated fusion.

Part of one chromosome

has split off,

and fused with another.

There is now a one

in three chance,

that any child

produced, will be...

...a Mongol.

That's what his

brother really is.

Not a sheep farmer

in Australia.

Hmm, rough.

Yes.

But that wasn't all.

In most cases,

bad luck.

An accident of nature.

The next child...

perfectly normal.

But, if the fusion is

permanent,

and a blood test

will show,

then we have to warn

the unfortunate person...

no more children.

They might just as well have

told her not to breath.

So she went ahead,

did she, and had Martin.

Oh dear, oh dear.

She's so lost, so

lonely, Shashie.

She didn't love, she

worshipped him.

Fed him, washed him,

dressed him.

There wasn't anything she

didn't do for him.

And everyday of

his life...

she searched him.

Searched for signs.

The shape of

his eyes,

and the palms of

his hands,

and the soles

of his little feet.

All the time,

scared to death at

what she might find.

Now...

let me impress on you,

any relatives of

a Mongol...

are usually as normal

as you or I.

If they're not, it has nothing

to do with Mongolism.

One in every seven hundred

is born a Mongol,

but, ten times

that number,

roughly, one in

every hundred,

suffers from other forms

of mental disturbance.

I find myself asking,

is it really the home,

the environment,

the way a person

is brought up,

that creates the...

neurotic, the psychopath,

the psychotic?

Or could it be some...

error in the chromosome

structure?

Working beyond

the compass...

of our most powerful

microscope,

could the poet have

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