Kids' Book Club

CHAPTER 1: A COMPLEX SITUATION

From the Case Notes of Doctor Jerbal Argon, Psych Brotherhood

1. ARTEMIS Fowl, once self-proclaimed teenage criminal mastermind, now prefers the term juvenile genius. Apparently he has changed. (Note to self: harrumph.)

2. For the past six months Artemis has been undergoing weekly therapy sessions at my clinic in Haven City in an attempt to overcome a severe case of Atlantis Complex, a psychological condition that he developed as a result of meddling in fairy magic. (Serves him right, silly Mud Boy.)

3. Remember to submit outrageous bill to Lower Elements Police.

4. Artemis appears to be cured, and in record time too. Is this likely? Or even possible?

5. Discuss my theory of relativity with Artemis. Could make for a very interesting chapter in my v-book: Foiling Fowl: Outsmarting the Smarty-pants. (Publishers love the title: cha-ching!)

6. Order more painkillers for my blasted hip.

7. Issue clean bill of mental health for Artemis. Final session today.

Doctor Argon’s Office, Haven City, the Lower Elements

Artemis Fowl grew impatient. Doctor Argon was late. This final session was just as unnecessary as the past half dozen had been. He was completely cured, for heaven’s sake, and had been since week eighteen. His prodigious intellect had accelerated the process and he should not have to twiddle his thumbs at the behest of a gnome psychiatrist.

At first Artemis paced the office, refusing to be calmed by the waterwall with its gently pulsing mood lights, then he sat for a minute in the oxygen booth, which he found calmed him a little too much.

Oxygen booth indeed, he thought, quickly ducking out of the glass-walled chamber.

Finally the door hissed and slid aside on runners, admitting Doctor Jerbal Argon to his own office. The squat gnome limped directly to his chair. He dropped into the embrace of its many pads, slapping the armrest controls until the gel sac under his right hip glowed gently.

‘Aaaah,’ he sighed. ‘My hip is killing me. Nothing helps, honestly. People think they know pain, but they have no idea.’ ‘You’re late,’ noted Artemis in fluent Gnommish, his voice devoid of sympathy. 

‘I am not a pixie priest, Doctor. What Hey-Hey Monks do after first gong is of little interest to me. Can we proceed with my rehabilitation? Or would you prefer to waste more of my time?’

Argon huffed a little, then swung his bulk forward, open- ing a sim-paper file on his desk.‘Why is it that the saner you get the nastier you are?’

Artemis crossed his legs, his body language relaxed for the first time. ‘Such repressed anger, Doctor. Where does it all stem from?’

‘Let’s stick to your disposition, shall we, Artemis?’ Argon snagged a stack of cards from his file. ‘I am going to show you some ink blots and you tell me what the shapes suggest to you.’

Artemis’s moan was extended and theatrical. ‘Ink blots. Oh, please. My lifespan is considerably shorter than yours, Doctor. I prefer not to waste valuable time on worthless pseudo tests. We may as well read tea leaves or divine the future in turkey entrails.’

‘Ink blots are a reliable indication of mental health,’ Argon objected. ‘Tried and tested.’

‘Tested by psychiatrists for psychiatrists,’ snorted Artemis.

Argon slapped a card down on the table. ‘What do you see in this ink blot?’

‘I see an ink blot,’ said Artemis. ‘Yes, but what does the blot suggest to you?’ Artemis smirked in a supremely annoying fashion. ‘I see

card five hundred and thirty-four.’ ‘Pardon me?’ ‘Card five hundred and thirty-four,’ repeated Artemis. ‘Of

a series of six hundred standard ink-blot cards. I memorized them during our sessions. You don’t even shuffle.’

Argon checked the number on the back of the card: 534. Of course.

‘Knowing the number does not answer the question. What do you see?’

Artemis allowed his lip to wobble. ‘I see an axe dripping with blood. Also a scared child and an elf clothed in the skin of a troll.’

‘Really?’ Argon was interested now.

‘No. Not really. I see a secure building, perhaps a family home, with four windows. A trustworthy pet and a pathway leading from the door into the distance. I think, if you check your manual, you will find that these answers fall inside healthy parameters.’

Argon did not need to check. The Mud Boy was right, as usual. Perhaps he could blindside Artemis with his new theory. It was not part of the programme but might earn him a little respect.