Obeliscal. Monochrome. The grey city contour spreads across the massive office window, dwarfing its occupant and constituent parts. Solely, the coloured phosphorescence of the computer monitor belies the drabness of the panorama. A digital time-piece edges towards 6 p.m. At the desk, a black-suited professional intensely scrutinises a file, quite thick. A frown of concern crosses his brow. He runs his hand through his short cropped brown hair, his face is showing some stubble. Clearly a complex problem, he thinks to himself. Pressing the intercom he speaks through the silence:

"Send the patient in please."
"Certainly, Dr Star."
The office door clicks open and a young woman is shown through by the receptionist.
"Please, take a seat Ms Torvil," says Star, standing politely.

The snow blonde woman, looks about nervously, clutching her handbag. She has a ghost-like complexion and wide skeletal eyes. Tentatively she takes the seat in front of the doctor's desk.

"Your regular therapist is busy, I hear?" says Star, resuming his seat.
"Yes, Dr Dickson. I believe she's on holiday in Tahiti."
"I see . . . so how can I be of help today, Ms Torvil."
"It's my stories."
"Your stories? I'm sorry . . ."
"You see I'm a writer and my stories aren't the same anymore . . . I mean they're different . . . " she says becoming suddenly tense, "I mean, I have to sleep with a knife under my pillow and . . ."
"Ms Torvil, slow down," he says motioning with his hand, "do you think you can explain this to me a little better?"
"It's the isomorphs, doctor, you know, the soul rippers," she emphasises maniacally, handing the good doctor a magazine. "Read this article!" Star takes the glossy and begins to read aloud:
" 'Isomorphing' or 'soul ripping' as it is known, has become the latest fad of the dispossessed middle-classes. Those who once enjoyed privilege in our society and who now find themselves faced with a new life among the underclasses are resorting to the most grotesque forms of impersonation to reclaim their lost wealth and position in society . . ."
"They undergo plastic surgery," she interjects, "have their voice box modified, their fingerprints altered. Some even have their retinas reconstructed to avoid being exposed!"
"Ms Torvil . . . this magazine . . . these people who wrote this . . . they are radical lunatics" he confides, "I have heard of some of these rumours, but I assure you . . ."
"No, no, I'm sure it's true. An isomorph is following me. In fact sometimes I wonder, if I'm actually who I am. How else can you explain the monstrous change in my stories, they've just become so devoid of imagination."
"Look, Ms Torvil, I think we should make a further appointment for some more intensive therapy, in the meantime I'll prescribe some Valium, I think . . . "
"But what about tonight, doctor" she pleads, "what about tomorrow. Look! I have to carry this everywhere!" Reaching into her handbag she quickly brandishes a knife and begins waving it about mischievously. Then she leans forward in her seat and whispers: "I just don't know who to trust anymore, doctor."

Star is taken aback, surreptitiously he opens the side-draw of his desk exposing a revolver. He is becoming more than a little unnerved.

Attempting to diffuse the situation Star makes a suggestion to his patient: "If another person has taken over your name and persona, Ms Torvil, then I fear it would be too far too late to worry." Star watches his revolver in the corner of his eyes and continues: "And if your writing has become so poor and devoid of imagination, then . . . surely that makes you an unattractive target . . . don't you think?"

The silence returns. Torvil stares pensively towards the cityscape. The knife drops from her hand to the floor. "Yes," she says, "perhaps you're right."

Star retrieves the knife and drops it in the drawer with the revolver, then writes out a prescription for his newly acquired patient.

"Ms Torvil, I want you to take one tablet each day and whenever you suffer an anxiety attack,we can discuss this further on your next visit." He shows her out. "Thank you, Doctor," she says.

Star is relieved, he walks passed his desk to a small washroom on the side of his office. The light has been left on. Switching on the tap, he washes the sweat from his hands and looks into the mirror above the basin. "Isomorphs?" he says, apparently to himself. "What an incredible concept. What do you think Doctor Star?"

A reflection in the mirror is his subject. A body, in fact, seated behind him. Slumped against the wall. A 'clean as a whistle' bullet hole in the forehead does not diminish an exact resemblance to the good doctor. However, the good doctor is the dead doctor.

The phone purrs back in the office. The isomorph moves back to answer it. "Hello . . . hi honey", he says to Star's wife, "yeah, sure, I'll pick some up on the way home . . . my day? . . . well to be honest, it's been a real killer . . . OK then, bye . . . love you too."

Oh yes, he thinks to himself, that damn body!

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Copyright © 1997 Leigh McIlwain