Until Pascal Therome was three years of age he was a perfectly normal, healthy boy who had great energy and vitality, often a feature of the under fives. Pascal’s life changed when he was involved in a hit and run incident outside his home on the quiet back lanes of Bertric-Buree and spent five days in a coma following extensive head injuries. The doctors were not sure whether he would make a full recovery and doubted if he would regain the full use of his faculties within the year.

Through a miracle he came out of his coma requesting some ice cream and it was clear from the results of his head scan that all brain activity and physiology had returned to normal but the brain specialist did not notice an additional gland forming beneath his hypothalamus. The tremendous blow Pascal received had caused his hypothalamus to split into two separate parts and the new section mutated to offer a new sensory organ thereby adding a new sense to his young body once the neural pathways were completed.

Initially Pascal was unaware of his new ability and he returned to being the hyperactive, inquisitive little boy that his parents loved and cared for. Pascal first became aware of his new capacity when he was playing with his friend Sante during the summer holidays. They were playing in the sandpit on a hot August day using various spades, buckets and toy soldiers. Pascal passed each soldier to his friend without him asking for it. He seemed to intuitively know what his friend wanted to play with. As they went in for lunch Sante said,

"Pascal, it’s really weird. You passed me each toy I wanted to play with and I didn’t even ask you for them. How did you do that?"

"I dunno. I just knew what you wanted and let you have it. Isn’t that what’s friends do?" Pascal replied.

"I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we test it out? Your mum’s put a lot of different food on the table. I will think what I want to eat and let’s see if you can guess."

"Are you sure you want to play that game?" asked Pascal as he scratched his arm and brushed the sand out of his dark hair

"Sure, it’ll be fun. Here goes!"

Sante sat down at the table and pulled his plate towards him. "Now turn away as you might see what I’m looking at!"

Pascal turned his back and looked out of the window. He watched as elderly Monsieur Lautrec crept slowly up the road and Pascal heard the man’s voice within his head.

"Oh, my back aches today. I must go to the pharmacy and get some more painkillers. What shall I have for tea today?" Pascal could not believe what he had heard in his head. He stuck his head out of the open window to see if the man was talking to himself but he was just walking slowly up the lane in silence.

"I have chosen my food, " announced Sante offering Pascal a broad grin of excitement.

Pascal got a piece of bread, two slices of ham, some jam and a tomato and placed it on Sante’s plate.

"No, that’s not what I asked for. I wanted some peanut butter, jam and two slices of bread," Sante replied looking disappointed. Pascal just helped himself to some food and wondered why it didn’t work.

After Sante had gone home for his tea Pascal sat in the living room and watched TV. His dad came him and patted him on the head. He had returned from the surgery after a particularly gruelling day.

"Did you have a good day, son?"

"Yes, Sante and I played in the sandpit. It was great fun!"

"Well you enjoy your TV programme and I will read the newspaper. There’s a good boy!" Dr Jean Therome picked up the newspaper and started to read, sometimes staring into space as though in deep thought. Pascal’s attention moved from the TV to his handsome dad. He consciously started to hear his dad’s internally reasoned voice from behind his closed lips.

"Did I make the right diagnosis…?" Pascal wondered what diagnosis meant. "I’m sure that it was meningitis. All the signs were there, the rash, the high temperature. Should I have given that little girl more antibiotics? Time will tell, perhaps I should pray to God?"

Pascal understood that his dad was worried and said,

"Don’t worry dad it will turn out OK in the end."

"Sorry? What did you say, Pascal?" he replied returning his gaze to the little boy sitting before him.

"Dad, you’re a good doctor, the little girl will be fine," Pascal replied in friendship and concern.

Dr Therome was speechless and wondered how did his son know about Françoise Bantrume and her illness? He responded as most adults do with a complete dismissal. "Pascal, you should get ready for bed. Remember to brush your teeth."

"Do I have to?" Pascal whined.

"Yes. I’ll be up in a minute to read you a story." 

Pascal slowly climbed the stairs of their 18^th century house and went into the bathroom. He studied himself in the mirror and saw the same, familiar face in front of him. Pascal looked the same, slightly tanned from the sunshine but he certainly didn’t feel the same. Within himself something was different and constantly changing. He could hear other people’s voices and they had invaded his conscious mind. His dad coming up the stairs distracted him. He heard his thoughts as he came closer; he was worried about his son and could not understand how he knew about the sick little girl. His father read him a brief story and it relaxed Pascal’s mind as he heard the narrative in stereo; one spoken the other from inward thought and cognition. He fell asleep and his father kissed him on the forehead tenderly.

When Pascal started school at the age of six he found it very hard to concentrate or learn. He was soon placed in the slowest group, which did not match his true intellectual capacity. He was much happier within this smaller environment as he only heard the conscious thoughts of ten children, not the full class of thirty within the small, quiet group room.

Each day the whole school of three hundred children would gather in the main hall for assembly. This daily ritual was a nightmare for Pascal as he heard all three hundred voices rabbiting on in his head. His mind felt that it would explode and pains radiated from his right temple to the central cortex of his brain. Pascal wanted to scream but placed his hands over his ears to shut out the cacophony – this reflex action just amplified the melee. His teacher watched him puzzled by his rather bizarre behaviour. She decided to have a word with him after the assembly choosing not to intervene so publicly. Pascal suddenly got up and screamed at the top of his voice,

"Will you all just shut up! I can’t bear it!" His face was pale and contorted.

The whole school looked at him and for the briefest second the voices stopped soon replaced with louder and more aggressive, yet anxious voices of thought.

"Pascal Therome, leave the hall and wait outside my office!" shouted the Principal. Pascal left and some children sniggered under their breath. "Be quiet, the rest of you!"

Pascal enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere outside the Principal’s office, as both offices were devoid of conscious, thinking human beings. Pascal relished the silence and had no fear of punishment as his behaviour had brought about what he desired, quiescence and stillness.

Principal Dupre summoned Mrs Therome and informed her of the incident. She said that she was surprised at Pascal’s behaviour but also acknowledged that he was finding it difficult to settle into the routine of school life. They agreed that Pascal should go home for the afternoon ‘to cool off’ and they would meet the following day to discuss his future educational and emotional needs.

When Pascal was walking home with his mother she questioned him about the unfortunate and totally inappropriate incident. Pascal explained,

"Mum, I had a headache, it really hurt and the children were making a lot of noise. My head felt like it was going to explode."

"Let me feel your head. No you don’t have a temperature. How’s your head now?"

"It’s OK. I feel better now," replied Pascal licking his lollypop, an inappropriate punishment.

"But darling, Principal Dupre said that the whole school were silent when he was reading the story and you just stood up and shouted out rudely." Pascal read his mother’s mind and answered carefully.

"No mum, I did hear the voices of the other children and teachers. It was deafening!" Pascal started to cry and his mother changed the subject to avoid any further tears.

After Pascal was in bed his mother and father had a frank discussion about their son’s welfare. They wondered if his obvious stress was leading to a mental condition or illness. On one level they knew that Pascal seemed to know a lot about their own lives without being told. They just presumed that he listened from the top of the stairs to their private discussion but Doctor Therome recounted the TV incident to his wife and this added to her growing anxiety. They decided that Pascal should see a Child Psychologist as soon as possible. Dr Therome knew a colleague who owed him a favour and he was confident that Dr Felot would see Pascal before the end of the week. An appointment was swiftly arranged as Pascal lay in bed listening to both sound and thought waves passing through his bedroom floor.

After school on Friday Pascal was taken to see Dr Felot in his consultant’s room. As Pascal walked into the room he saw a small chubby man with curly white hair sitting behind a large wood and leather desk. Pascal was invited to sit down on a comfortable black leather chair to the right of the table. Pascal’s parents were asked to leave and the man and boy sat in total silence looking at each other in quiet reflection. Pascal tried to read Dr Felot’s thoughts but only read silence. This confused him so Pascal started to recite a poem in his mind to dispel his growing anxiety,

‘The butterfly, the cabbage white, the honest idiocy of his flight. He will never know until too late… until too late …’ Pascal struggled to remember the last line and began to break out in a cold sweat. He heard the man speak within his head,

"How to master the art of flying straight! Is that what you were trying to remember, Pascal?" asked the smiling doctor now knowing the possible cause of his distress.

"Yes," replied Pascal in total astonishment.

"Now I would like to run a few tests. I am going to ask my assistant to come into my room. She has been fully briefed. All I want you to do is to tell me what she is thinking. Can you do that for me?" asked Dr Felot.

"I’ll try, sir," said Pascal wiping his sweaty hands onto his blue shorts.

A very attractive young woman came into the consultation room and sat on a chair facing Pascal. She smiled at him and mentally composed herself. Pascal concentrated and began to hear her mellow voice emanating from her delicate skull.

"What did Dr Angette say, Pascal?" Dr Felot asked.

"Ten black cats go out at night. Six come back after a fright," he replied quickly and confidently.

"Would you like to think again and tell me the correct number of cats that came back?" urged the doctor.

"Oh, five. I think that I said six. Am I right?" asked Pascal.

"Yes, young man. There is nothing wrong with you that I can’t put right in time. You may leave the room, Dr Angette. Thank you for your assistance."

The young doctor left and winked at Pascal as she closed the door quietly. Pascal briefly saw the anxious faces of his parents before the frosted glass shut them out.

Dr Felot continued, "You have a gift that I also share. We have the ability to read people’s thoughts but your special gift needs to be trained for your own sanity. I will show you how to switch your capability on and off. Without this capacity someone with our gift would be driven insane by other people’s ramblings. Now I need to speak with your parents. Will you get them for me?"

Dr Felot explained Pascal’s condition to his incredulous parents. When he carefully explained about Pascal’s incredible gift he informed them that his powers could be controlled and channelled into a very useful purpose. Through sound management and strict discipline Pascal would soon catch up with his other peers at school and prove to be a model and industrious pupil. He also explained that his therapy would take at least six months to complete and he would need to see Pascal once a week until the treatment was completed.

"I cannot thank you enough, Paul," said Dr Therome as he shook Dr Felot’s hand in gratitude. "Please charge what you will, I will pay anything to have my only son happy."

"Jean, there is no need. Have this one on me after all someone helped me when I was Pascal’s age and look at me now. My gift has helped many patients through the years as I can read what they are thinking and sort out their psychological disorders without them needing to verbalise their problems."

"You are a kind man, Paul Felot. I owe you now!" said Jean Therome as he left the consultation room clutching his son’s hand. Dr Felot gave Pascal a lollipop and patted his head.

"I will see you next week and thank you Dr Felot," Pascal replied silently as he walked through the doorway.

Pascal found the therapy challenging initially but he had a good, patient therapist in Dr Felot. Their sessions commenced on a one-to-one basis and led up to small group situations where different adults and sometimes other children would come into the room and Pascal would have to use his new knowledge and skill to shut out their conscious thoughts. His final therapy session was a visit to a football match with some 5,000 spectators. He not only enjoyed a silent game but a large coke and popcorn as a reward. He was cured and now ready to face the real world with confidence. He hugged Dr Felot as they got into the car after the match.

Throughout his schooling Pascal’s grades improved and he expressed an interest in training as a vet. His parents supported his wish and Pascal completed a five-year training course graduating as a fully qualified veterinary surgeon from Lyon Universitaire. But where was he going to find his first placement as a junior vet? His father came up trumps by using a contact at his exclusive golf club. There was a vacancy for a junior vet in Riberac and the twenty-four year old Pascal secured the post with little difficulty.

Pascal certainly had a gift for being a veterinary surgeon as he could read the mind of the owners and of some larger mammals with higher brain development. His first castration of a one year-old Alsatian dog was particularly memorable. As the dog came into the surgery he kept saying, "Not my balls! Not my balls!" until the anaesthetic took effect. When the dog came round he sniffed around his rear and said, "They’ve gone! Where are they?"

During another consultation a rather heavy, plump Labrador bitch came into the surgery with her equally portly female owner.

"Madame, what seems to be the problem?" asked Pascal.

"My poor little Foo-Foo is finding it hard to walk and just sleeps all day except at mealtimes," replied the whimpering owner.

"How many times do you feed Foo-Foo?" asked Pascal.

"Only one meal a day plus a few little snacks!"

Pascal looked at the dog and listened to the woman’s voice. "I can’t tell him I feed her three times a day with meat and chocolate!"

"Madame you must stop feeding Foo-Foo chocolate and a single meal of meat and biscuits should suffice. If you follow this plan her general health will improve. Please come and see me in a week’s time and I will monitor Foo-Foo’s progress."

"Thank you Dr Therome. I will do as you say," said Mme Oubliet with a strange look on her face. Foo-Foo gave Pascal a mischievous look as she left his surgery.

Pascal’s most challenging case happened during his third year of practice. A local notorious farmer dabbled in breeding Saint-Huberts (bloodhounds) and several local people complained of his treatment of the dogs. Several neighbours lamented about the deplorable condition of the dog’s kennels and hinted that Pierre Gardin apparently killed the puppies that didn’t meet ‘Le Kennel Club Francais’ strict guidelines. It was Pascal’s challenge to find him out and to disclose him for what he really was, a cruel unkind man. Pascal waited for Pierre Gardin to make an appointment at the surgery and his prayers were answered when he listened to an answer phone message after returning from an emergency call.

Pascal drove his Land Cruiser up the dusty farm track to the Farm Gardin and saw the burly middle-aged man sitting on his veranda drinking a bottle of beer. To his right were several empty bottles of Stella and Pascal deduced that he was having yet another drinking binge.

"Monsieur Gardin? What seems to be the problem?" Pascal asked impatiently.

"You took your time, didn’t you? My bitch is off her food and shows no interest in my stud, Gustav."

Pascal found the bitch in the kennel panting heavily. He examined her carefully and concluded that she was suffering from a benign ovarian cyst that would require an immediate operation to relieve the pain. She should make a full recovery but the operation would be expensive. Pascal explained the situation to the belligerent farmer who begrudgingly agreed to pay for the treatment after a great deal of friendly persuasion and Pernod.

During her post operative recovery Pascal had the opportunity to speak with Monsieur Gardin who was remarkably sober for a Thursday evening when he visited the practice.

Pascal started the conversation thus,

"I hear that you are something of a breeder of Saint-Hubert. How many litters has Betine sired?"

"Who told you that?" he snarled disagreeably.

"I was reading your records and noticed that Betine has had puppies. I could also tell when I examined her prior to the operation."

"Betine has had four litters of pups ranging from 5 to 8 in number. She is a good mother," Pierre replied sounding a little more relaxed with the conversation.

"I also see that you sold four puppies from each of the four litters. What happened to the rest? Were they still born?" Pascal switched on his unique ability and read his thoughts.

"He thinks that I’m a fool. They weren’t still born, I had to get rid of them because they were imperfect and not suitable for the retail market." "They were still born, the poor mites," he answered dishonestly.

"That is very rare amongst this breed, are you sure you are telling me the whole story?" probed Pascal pushing his luck.

"Who the hell does he think he is? If he thinks that I’m going to tell him that I poisoned them with Pernod he has a long wait!" "Monsieur, I’m telling you the truth. Why don’t you read the records and you will see that what I’m telling you is the complete truth," Pierre retorted scratching his large belly and breaking wind heavily on the wooden chair.

Pascal read the notes and saw the post mortem of a puppy found abandoned in a field close to Gardin’s farm. The report stated that Pierre Gardin had denied ownership of the Saint-Hubert puppy and that the post mortem disclosed a high level of alcohol in its bloodstream. Pascal added,

"Tell me more about the dead puppy found last year in a field?"

"Does he know more than I am prepared to tell? What should I answer? I must deny it, once more!" "I know nothing of the matter. I breed Saint-Hubert and take good care of them. That is all you need to know!"

Pascal had listened to enough.

"Monsieur Gardin you are a liar, a cheat and a villain. I will not rest until you are forbidden to breed any more litters. I will be contacting the appropriate authorities in the morning to report you and by this time next week all your dogs will be impounded. I will be keeping Betine until after the inquest to prevent you from further abusing your poor dogs. I say good day to you, Monsieur."

"You know nothing Dr Therome. I will report you for malpractice and have you struck off!" Pierre shouted spraying Pascal in rancid saliva.

"Don’t push me as I will tell you exactly how you terminated the lives of the eight puppies but the story is too shocking to tell. You had better go before I take further action against you!" Pascal grabbed him firmly by the arm and escorted him from the premises. Monsieur Gardin left hurling abuse at the young, dedicated vet as he climbed into his rusting Citroen van.

At the weekend Pascal Therome spent a happy Saturday morning reading the local newspaper. His eyes were drawn to a short article…

‘A local farmer, Pierre Gardin (56) was found dead at his farmhouse on Friday morning. The post mortem revealed that he had drunk himself to death following a row with a neighbour. Three bottles of Pernod were found next to his body and the police have deemed the case as suicide.’

Pascal thought that this was a most apposite end for such a cruel man and he kept their discussion a closely guarded secret until he published his memoirs on his own 65^th birthday. He helped himself to another croissant and started to read the sport’s page.

Steven Longman-Marshall 19^th August 2002.