Fox
John Farquhar Young
“I need long copper rods.”
In the interview room the elderly, gaunt faced and unkempt man sitting across from me extends his hands beyond his shoulders. “At least this long. Sixty of them.”
The fingers on his left hand are nicotine stained.
I scribble on my notepad. “Sixty copper rods - about four or five feet long.”
For an instant the old chap - Josh Harris is his name - grins at me. I note the long brownish yellow teeth. “I know what you are thinking. You’re saying to yourself, ‘This chap is a bit crazy.’ In your position I might be thinking much the same. Well maybe I’m crazy and maybe I’m not.”
“This is a case for Fox,” I imagine the team leader deciding with a chuckle.
My name is not Fox. That’s my nickname. My real name is Harry. ‘Fox’ is a jocular reference to the ‘X-files’ Fox Mulder, the FBI chap whose sister was abducted by aliens and who is constantly searching for the truth which is supposedly ‘out there’.
But, I do not believe that the truth is out there. I believe that ‘out there’ is a great roiling mass of destructive, antisocial irrationality. Some of it flows in the direction of the courts. And so, Josh has come to me, to ‘Fox’.
Decades ago I got a degree in anthropology, and I am supposed to know a bit about odd beliefs, and the convictions of odd people like the old man sitting in front of me. I am also considered to be a good practitioner - but not ‘good’ in the sense of getting good results. ‘Good’ means ‘safe’, ‘good’ means ‘wily’. If something goes wrong - the supervised chap kills himself, say, or he slaughters someone, or he is publicly gruesome in some eye-catching or newsworthy way then I make sure the Service can hold up its collective hands and with collective shrug can say, “ We did everything we reasonably could, didn’t we?”; and the courts and inspectors, and anyone else of consequence can nod and say “Yes, yes fine fellows, so you did!”. An exaggeration? Perhaps, but containing a germ of truth. Gradually over the years we have increasingly become obsessed with reputation management. I am good at that. I am valued and take some satisfaction in being ‘Fox’.
I am several months away from retirement. What I will do with myself then – that’s not something I really want to think about.
Josh is looking at me expectantly as I marshal my thoughts. “So, let’s see if we can agree what the problem is,” I begin. Getting agreement about ‘the problem’ is always a good first step in a case, though getting that far is sometimes hard if not impossible.
I continue: “You accept that you are finding it difficult to look after yourself now that you’re not as fit as you once were.” Josh nods. “And...” I pause for emphasis “... you accept that you need some assistance at home, food-wise and cleaning the house - that sort of thing.” Again he nods. “But the problem is this: you don’t want to let anyone onto your property for a reason nobody fully understands.” Another nod. “But then armed with a big stick you chased police officers who were trying to assist you. And that’s why the Court ordered reports and then put you on a supervision order. And so, here we are. So why do you need copper rods?”
“I need to neutralise the flow of pfi,” he says earnestly. “There’s something really nasty building up in the ground just next to my cottage. I don’t like it at all.”
“The flow of fi,” I repeat slowly.
He watches me write ‘F-I’ in big block capitals. “Spelt P-F-I not F-I,” he adds helpfully. I nod and amend my note.
From a plastic shopping bag he produces an ominously thick, grimy brown folder with frayed edges.
“It’s all in here,” he says, patting the file as if it were some sort of pet.
I groan inwardly. I hope he doesn’t want me to read that stuff.
“I have an interest in consciousness,” he continues. “Of course thinking has moved on considerably over the years. I try to keep up, though I have very limited resources.” I note his uncut fingernails as he paws the folder. He smiles wanly. “I do my best.” He pauses and casts an enquiring glance in my direction. Satisfied that I am paying attention he continues. “Well, there are many different theories of consciousness floating about. One of them is labelled ‘panpsychism’. Have you heard of that theory?”
Without waiting for an answer he adopts the confident manner and tone of a lecturer. “The basic version: panpsychism suggests that consciousness is a property of all atoms in the universe but the degree to which the organisation of matter develops self-awareness and intelligence is dependent on the complexity of a system and the degree to which pfi is concentrated.”
The lecture rolls on. “In animals and particularly in human brains, the concentration is very high.”
“So rocks and trees can be conscious?” I venture.
Josh frowns, perhaps suspecting that I am not taking him seriously. “Yes, yes I know - a very eccentric viewpoint. And some might say one reminiscent of primitive beliefs about spirits residing in rocks and trees.”
I know a bit about this - the ‘genius familiae’, the ‘lares’ of ancient Roman religion, ‘brownies’ in Scottish folklore, the English ‘boggart’ and so on. Even today the belief that locations have spirits is found in many cultures across the planet. Animistic stuff!
“Ok, but even if we accept all that then why are you concerned about what’s happening on your property?”
Josh draws a breath, looks for a moment out of the window, then seemingly acknowledging the importance of my question proceeds with the lesson. “Complex systems which combine complex currents of earth energies - what people sometimes call ley lines – intersecting with underground water courses can concentrate pfi and thus elevate the consciousness of a particular spot.” His voice trails off. Then he leans forward and stares at me in a disconcertingly intense manner. The tempo of his voice slows to underline the gravity of his pronouncements. “I’m going to tell you something that I did not tell the other people. Complex systems of consciousness have tendencies - some verge towards destructive self-assertiveness and others seek to protect and even to nourish. Something conscious and hungry is developing on my land and it’s not at all pleasant. It can influence things.” He emphasizes the last four words. “It is interfering with the electricity.”
Josh is supposedly not insane. The psychiatric report ordered by the court says so. But conscious rocks! Plus entities that interfere with the electricity supply! Definitely crazy. Draw out his thinking. In my notepad I write a big ‘M’ followed by a question mark: ‘M’ for monomania, the Victorians’ name for fixed notions about the world and one’s place in it, internally coherent, backed up by volumes of signs and supposed evidence but totally impervious to contrary facts and contradiction. In essence one or two stations short of sectionable insanity. Don’t challenge his convictions, I remind myself.
I return to the copper rods.
“I need the copper rods to disrupt the pattern of currents and stop the development of the consciousness system,” he explains.
“How do you know about these currents – this system?”
“I can sense them ... by dowsing.”
Ah yes, I might have guessed. Dowsing. Miscellaneous fragments about a special type of dowsing - ‘earth energy’ dowsing I think they call it - begin to emerge from the large place in my memory reserved for ‘odd beliefs’. “So you have been dowsing your property?”
“What do you know about dowsing?”
“Not much,” I admit. About as much as I know about conscious rocks, I think, and suppress an urge to smile. “I don’t think that people know how it works - if it works,” I add as an afterthought.
“No, not many do,” says Josh admits. “Pfi has something to do with it. We are often dimly aware of things beyond the reach of our normal senses.”
“Would I be aware of this ...” I struggle to find the correct word “...this development on your property?” I sense an opportunity.
Josh studies me for a long moment. “You might – with preparation,” he says, clearly wary about my intentions.
“Well,” I continue, “It would be good if I could visit and perhaps begin to get sense of the source of your concern. Experience this for myself so to speak. No promises of course, but maybe, just maybe, if I can describe it in my own words, it might help me to get you the copper rods you want. Then we can move on from there.”
To find the loose thread in unravelling the knot of a person’s fixation you must sometimes appear to take the nonsense seriously. And so I will visit Josh’s supposedly accursed property. A first tokenistic step - but useful.
“Can we arrange a time for me to visit?” I suggest, while at the same time smoothly producing my diary.
Two days later, as I near Josh’s country cottage I find the lane blocked by a police car. “There’s been a fire,” a police officer announces after I identify myself and announce the nature of my interest in Josh. The officer shakes his head. “Fatality, I’m afraid. Some sort of electrical fire. That’s the first guess.”
As I begin my return to the office I reflect on Josh’s worry about his electricity supply. Dodgy wiring rather than a demon, I think. Almost automatically I start to compose the report I will submit to the court. As always the words flow easily.
Though clearly eccentric, not least because of his commitment to pseudo-scientific convictions about the pervasive nature of consciousness in the world, Mr Harris was not assessed as being mentally ill. I am not however sure that his conviction that a malevolent entity of some description was present and developing on his land and interfering with his electricity supply, surfaced in the course of the psychiatric examination. I had intended to speak to his doctor regarding the need for a psychiatric review of the case.
Mr Harris’s convictions represented a considerable impediment to accepting the assistance which his impaired living circumstances clearly made necessary. He was, nevertheless, willing to allow me to visit him at his home and I am confident that further progress could have been made.
Late afternoon: My thoughts keep returning to Josh Harris. That’s my problem too! I suddenly find myself thinking. Shutting myself off from reality. Not embracing the prospect of life after retirement.
I can do the job well. But I am imprisoned by what I can do well! In my mind I suddenly have a brief vivid image of myself standing on a ledge about to leap into the unknown - into a life after Fox.
A wave of exhilaration washes over me as I think about resigning. I have money enough to survive until I get my pension – more than enough. Just go now! The impulse gathers strength. I start to type. Keep it brief! I will not attempt to provide reasons for my resignation. There are no reasonable reasons.
I print off the final version of my resignation letter. I sign my name, and then in a moment of mischief add “...a.k.a. ‘Fox’.”
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