Mr Toppit Read Online Free

he shouted, “She’s my
friend
!”
    I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but they had the grace to remain at my sides.
    I found Dr. Honey’s office at the other end of the corridor. I knocked, and a muffled sound came from inside. He was in the middle of his lunch. On his desk everything had been arranged with mathematical precision—a plastic cup of coffee, a KitKat, a bag of crisps, and a sandwich placed exactly in the center of a square of greaseproof paper, all equidistant from each other. He was probably an expert on obsessive-compulsive disorders.
    “I want to take Rachel out of here,” I said.
    Dr. Honey nodded slowly. He cleared his throat. “Do you think that should be your decision,” he said, “or hers?”
    “I don’t think she’s capable of making that kind of decision,” I said.
    “So you think you should do it for her? Impose it?”
    “Don’t you impose things here? In this place?”
    “As a matter of fact, we impose very little. We try to …” he searched for the word “… 
suggest
a structure under which a patient can confront the issues that concern them. Has something upset you?”
    “I’m not upset,” I lied. “I’m worried about Rachel.” I didn’t want to talk about Matthew yet, but I knew I had to come up with something quickly. Dr. Honey had the air of a theatergoer waiting for a late curtain to rise.
    “I think some of the other patients are …” And then I paused. I didn’t know how to go on and, to my amazement, the word “horrid” limped out of my mouth, like a straggler at the end of a race.
    “Horrid,” he repeated thoughtfully. He turned his head away from me briefly and looked out of the window. Then he swung back, fixing me with his eyes. “This is not an hotel or a health farm. Our patients are not here to improve their table manners. Nor, may I remind you, is it a prison. Anyone, including your sister, may leave when they wish. She is as free to go as you are.”
    I struggled on lamely, now forced to play my remaining cards. “Matthew … I don’t know his last name …”
    “Sumner,” he said.
    I could feel my palms sweating. “He said some really strange things.”
    “Strange?”
    I tried to lighten the atmosphere. “I don’t suppose you use that as a technical term much here.”
    “Not often. No.”
    “He seems to be obsessed with these books, my father’s books.” It sounded impossibly feeble. “You know, they’re quite—”
    He cut in: “Yes, I know all about them. Obsessed? My goodness, the books are famous. It can’t be a surprise that yourfather’s extraordinary creation of Mr. Toppit might strike a chord in someone whose issues stem from an ambivalent attitude to authority figures. You know, Mr. Toppit has an almost iconic significance: his need to be obeyed, his withholding of approval. Naturally Matthew is interested. I doubt if it’s obsession. Personally, I’m a great admirer of the books. They’re as dark as Grimm but not so one-note. We use them sometimes in our group sessions. They’re a surprising link: everyone has such a clear memory of when they first read them.”
    “You mean like where you were when Kennedy was shot?”
    He smiled wearily. “We aren’t strangers here to the children of well-known figures: film stars, politicians, the corporate world. The burden of an achieving parent can seem formidable,” he said.
    I shook my head. “He wasn’t an achieving parent. He just wrote some books.”
    “Rachel, if I may say so, seems more comfortable with that than you do.” He arranged a patient look on his face. “Your sister—and please do not take this the wrong way—is not a well person, is not a
functional
person, to use our jargon. She identifies very strongly with the books—perhaps too strongly—but they represent a kind of golden age to her. That’s an area we touched on in many of our sessions the last time she was here. She told me then that she is writing the official biography of