O'Farrell's Law Read Free

now.
    â€œSchool.”
    â€œClass.”
    â€œCapital.”
    â€œPunishment.” Damn! The man had meant “capitol.”
    â€œBirth.”
    Death was the first word that entered O’Farrell’s mind, the reply he should have given according to the rules of the examination. Cheating, he said, “Baby.”
    â€œAge.”
    â€œRetire.”
    â€œRat.”
    â€œEnemy.” Could have done better there.
    â€œAccuse.”
    â€œDefend.”
    â€œTraitor.”
    â€œSpy.”
    â€œHang.”
    â€œKill” was the word but O’Farrell didn’t say it: his mind wouldn’t produce a substitute and Symmons said, “Quicker! You’re not allowed to consider the responses! You know that! Hang.”
    â€œPicture.”
    â€œSex.”
    â€œWrong.” Why the hell had he said that; it didn’t even make sense! O’Farrell hoped the perspiration wasn’t obvious on his face.
    â€œGamble.”
    â€œStreak.”
    â€œFamily.”
    â€œLife.”
    â€œWife.”
    â€œProtector.” Better: much better.
    â€œSentence.”
    â€œJustice.” Damn again! Why hadn’t he said someming like “words” or “book”!
    â€œEvil.”
    â€œDestroy.” How he felt. But maybe there should have been a different reply. It sounded like a piece of dialogue from one of those ridiculous revenge films where the hero bulged wim muscles and glistened with oil and could take out twenty opponents with a flick of his wrist without disarranging his hairstyle.
    â€œDedication.”
    Once more O’Farrell stopped short of the instinctive response—“absolute”—but without the hesitation that had brought about the previous rebuke. He said, “Resolution.”
    Symmons raised both hands in a warding-off gesture and said, “Okay. Enough!”
    Enough for what or for whom? queried O’Farrell. He wasn’t sure (careful, never decide upon anything unless you’re absolutely sure) but he had the impression of another change from their earlier encounters: before this Ping-Pong of words had always seemed to last longer than it had today. Continuing the analogy, O’Farrell wondered who had won the game. He wanted desperately to ask the psychologist how he had done, but he didn’t. The question would have shown an uncertain man and he could never be shown to be uncertain. O’Farrell said, without sufficient thought, “You sure?”
    Symmons smiled, a baring of teeth more than a humorous expression. He said, “That’s the trouble. Ever being sure.”
    Don’t react, thought O’Farrell: the stupid bastard was playing another sort of word game. What the fuck (obscene, he remembered) right did this supposedly scientific, aloof son of a bitch have to make judgments on the state of someone else’s mind? Didn’t statistics prove that these jerks—psychiatrists or psychologists or whatever they liked to call themselves—had the highest mentally disordered suicide rates of any claimed medical profession? Important to present the correct reaction, O’Farrell thought: glibly confident, he decided. He said, “Your problem, doc: you’re the one who’s got to be sure.”
    â€œYou’re right,” agreed the other man, discomfortingly. “My problem; always my problem.”
    Symmons smiled, waiting, and O’Farrell smiled back, waiting. The silence built up, growing pressure behind a weakened dam about to burst. Mustn’t break, O’Farrell told himself. Mustn’t break; couldn’t break. It had to be Symmons who spoke first: who had to give in.
    He did. The psychologist said, “How do you feel about colors?”
    O’Farrell smiled again, enjoying his victory, and said, “Why don’t you find out?”
    O’Farrell considered the color test—matching colors, identifying colors, blending colors into