“You're helping her already just by being here."
“I hope so."
“What doesn't help is all this constant paranoia."
“I know,” he said. “Listen, ignore all that shit. I don't know what's been getting into me lately."
Now he felt stupid, his outlook having shifted in an instant like the pattern in a kaleidoscope. Sesha Roffey had shifted it for him, by so kindly, so very wisely withholding her sympathy. He should thank her. She was absolutely sensible and right; why not just draw a veil over the verticar business? Why did life's grotesque grab-bag of happenings have to add up to a meaningful whole? Wasn't that presupposing order, telos, deity? Sesha Roffey was the adult, measured and level-headed. Like Ruth was the adult. Like Frances. They were all of them identical in that one essential respect. Adults to his child.
And then Paulie thought, But one would be right to presuppose deity, were this a boxworld. And this woman before me, this poor put-upon PsyTri employee, might well be our Maya, the secret weaver of our world. As such, she would be above petty vanities like presenting herself as the planet's foremost beauty; her subtlety of feeling would find more flavour in the humble quotidian, in ordinary personhood. She would be unaware, almost certainly unconscious of her status, much as I myself often come to forget when ensconced within my boxworld.
“You're still thinking...” She was staring at him, reading his eyes. “I don't believe it.” She came forward and grasped the doorhandle and stood there waiting. “Please just go."
He said, “Maybe it's the dethan tabs, the Crowning Glory. And the Vitamin C. Maybe it's a deadly combination."
Sesha Roffey said nothing. She just remained there, tight-lipped, holding the door, ready to close it on sick Paulie Rayle and his ramblings.
“Okay. Enough is enough. I know. I'm sorry. Forget it.” He did what she wanted, and heard the door shutting firmly behind him.
* * * *
Back in his own room, Paulie took out, from the folds of the two spare shirts in his rucksack, the Shintube Dreambox, the trodes wrapped tightly around it. Here, he reminded himself, is a source of the most profound bliss. All I need do is hook, speakstart and enter into the bliss belly. And yet, I have no desire, none at all, to avail myself of this wonderful release. So can I be a genuine addict, a true Dreambox junkie?
I need sleep, he thought, lying down and attaching the trodes. My precious siesta. What was the time? Five minutes to three. Although he didn't really like having to use it, you always woke up with such a splitting headache, he activated the Chill function. The Dreambox set about coercing his reticular system into instigating a shutdown.
He was fetched out when the box heard a knock at his door.
As he had expected, his skull had turned to lead whilst shrinking two sizes too small for his brain. With any luck, though, the sleep would have curbed his paranoia.
He tore off the trodes, fumbled the box out of sight under the pillow and opened the door. It was Senor Sleek again, and Paulie wondered mock-indignantly, If this is my own boxworld we're in, why am I letting you trump me in the handsome stakes?
“Frances invites you for a drink,” the man said solemnly. “Providing it is convenient, yes?"
Paulie nodded. “Okay, yeah. Thanks.” He yawned. “That's fine. That'd be nice."
“If you would care to come this way..."
As he followed the man out along the passageway Paulie noticed that he sported a small round shaven patch of scalp around a tiny red zitlike scar, not quite concealed by the lustrous blue-black hair. A Mindseye? His own head felt like it had been fitted with one of the things by a cowboy clinician with a blunt-bitted hand-drill.
Senor Sleek did not stop off at Sesha Roffey's room; the invitation was evidently exclusive. Paulie wondered if Sesha had yet managed to clear her mind of all the crap he'd laid on her? Sleep might have helped with that.
The man led him up another flight of steps, and then another, up and up around the great cool shady central patio with its opulent tiling and its jungle of lush terracotta-potted ferns. Frances had always been fern-crazy. The whole place might have stood unchanged for a thousand years, one felt. Ruth would have been in her element.
They emerged onto a roof garden protected by a photochromic heliodome that tamed the blazing orb overhead. A riot of flowers, to very few of which Paulie could put names. A swimming pool, with wet footprints leading from it to a heavy dark antique wooden table. Drinks. And Frances sitting there, smiling, in a sheeny black swimsuit under an open turquoise towelling robe, her sodden hair backswept, her facial lines and creases more apparent, here, yet at no cost to the sensuality of her countenance; time's tendency toward caricature was, thus far, at any rate, working in her favour. She would still turn heads at seventy, he thought. A woman never less than handsome.
“Did I wake you?” she inquired with concern. “Do you need more time to rest?"
Paulie shook his head, paying dearly for it. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“A little better than you, at the moment, I should say. Is that a headache? Can I get you something?"
“I'll be okay."
“Nonsense, why suffer? Xabier?"
Her man nodded and disappeared.
Paulie sat down.
“Sangria? Or would you prefer horchata?"
“What's that?"
“Milk, tiger nuts. Nice. No?"
“Yeah, why not?"
She poured him a glass.
“Thanks."
It was irritating, the way she felt so free to sit there studying him, looking him over like an artifact.
“Bruises,” she observed. “Scratches. I noticed them before."
He shrugged. “Don't ask."
“You know you really ought to wear your hair down, the way you used to.” And only then, after commenting on his appearance, his sad lack of Psychotrichological Congruence, did she inquire,
“How are Ruth and Kali?"
It was an order of priorities that abruptly brought home to him the simple fact that Frances was not some neutral mentor. She was a woman he had married and left, was someone not necessarily beyond ex-wifely behaviour, for all his sentimental sanctification of her.
“We're all fine,” he said.
“That's good.” Frances sipped at her drink. “Why don't we have them join us?” She was ahead of him, ready to prove him wrong. “It can't be much fun, stuck out in ... where is it? ... Cambridgeshire?” He found it disingenuous, the haste with which she sought to correct any mistaken impression. “And I'd love to see the baby. How old is she now?"
“Three months."
“See if Ruth wants to come over."
The ‘See?-You-shouldn't-misjudge-me’ subtext could scarcely have been more blatant.
“This is Ruth's kind of place,” Paulie admitted.
“And your kind?"
She knew he liked this part of the world; they had come here together, years ago, spent more than one long lazy weekend escaping cold, grey, wet northern climes. Weekends of wine and sunshine and lovemaking.
How they had made love.
He said, “You've done very well for yourself."
“I've been lucky.” Diplomatically, she did not touch upon his own, somewhat less exalted position. “Although I suspect you don't entirely approve of psychotrichology?"
“If it helps people it helps people."
“Believe me, Paulie, it does help."
“If you say so."
Frances looked away. “I might have known you would carry a chip on your shoulder."
She shifted in her seat, the robe fell from her thigh and Paulie saw that the crotch of her swimsuit had gone askew, cutting in between the labia, leaving her half-exposed to his gaze. To his embarrassment, Frances caught him before he could avert his eyes. She seemed amused, and did not close her thighs immediately.
Yeah, Paulie thought. Yeah, I know. How crass. His physical response had been instantaneous, taking precedence over everyt
hing else. And all because of that one little glimpse. He was hard, his stomach churning with the hot, sickly syrup of desire, and Frances knew it. How crass and pathetic and male.
He turned his head away, gave her the time and privacy to adjust herself.
“Find out if Ruth would like to join us,” Frances repeated, and then asked, “Would you care for a swim?"
“I never learnt. Water scares me. Don't you remember?” Already, he was slipping into old patterns, assuming the same old stance with her. “Never did overcome it.” You're dead right about that chip on my shoulder, he thought. I wouldn't blame you if you felt like sending me straight back. For I can't help you. I'm no good to you.
Senor Sleek reappeared with two headache tablets. Paulie thanked him and took them.
“They're very good,” Frances assured him. “Gracias, Xabier."
Her man went off again, and Paulie wondered whether that billowing white shirt featured in Xabier's terms and conditions of employment.
“I thought...” Frances began, weighing her words, “You see, Paul, I thought you might be the one to understand."
Paulie couldn't deny that he was flattered. This would be catnip to anyone's ego. As to what he was being called upon to comprehend, he had little idea, and even less confidence in his powers of ratiocination. He was, after all, no great shakes as an architect of utopias.
“Something,” said Frances slowly, “is about to happen to me. I believe it will be something in the nature of a ... of a rebirth."
His innards knotted as he thought, Oh God no, no, please, not Religion. Bitterly, he asked himself, Why didn't I anticipate this? Why else would they call it Angel Syndrome? He couldn't for the life of him see why she should choose him, of all people, to bear witness to a declaration for Jesus.
“I seem to have offended you,” she observed.
“It's just the taste of those tablets."
“Do I sound as though I'm raving?"
“I'm just not sure what you're telling me."
“You've studied philosophy. All of this is your métier. As I recall, one of the reasons we ... parted company was your desire to devote yourself to the life of the mind."
She was giving him undue credit. His motives had been twisted, sick, selfish. He recalled them now, recalled them clearly. He had treated their parting as a test of his integrity—could he turn his back on all that wealth?—and had justified it by deciding that there had never been a true meeting of minds, that they were mismatched as a couple in terms of temperament as well as age. He was warped. If what Frances now required were the services of a thinker, there were countless better bets. With her money, she could hire pretty much any Professor Emeritus, amass a team of top-notch emulacra. What was this, keeping it in the family?
“I have great respect for your intelligence, Paul.” She spoke earnestly. “But more than that, I know ... I just feel, very strongly ... that you are the right person to approach with this."
Paulie told her, “My mind's not what it was."
Acknowledging his warning with the faintest of smiles, she continued, “I believe that I am about to undergo some form of transcendence ... does that make sense?"
Oh Christ, he thought bone-wearily. Oh God. Here we go.
He asked, “What makes you think that?"
“It's more a case of feeling.” She reached out and, gently, placed a hand—warm, laden with rings and immaculately manicured—on his. A shiver, electric, intense, sent his whole arm tingling; he still hadn't become reaccustomed to physical contact with her. “Something very strange is happening to me, Paul. It's as if I'm preparing for something.” Apologetically, she added, “I expect I'm starting to sound deranged?"
Paulie shook his head. “Weird things happen to people.” He thought, If it's derangement we're dealing in, let me give you my thoughts on this world. This subreal boxworld.
“For some while now there have been intimations.” Frances lifted her glass, and Paulie saw that her hand was trembling. She sipped. “I've looked into those other cases of so-called Angel Syndrome. Every single one of those people developed the conviction that he or she was in the process of becoming something more, something other than a mortal human being."
“An angel?"
“Exactly. Perhaps because of their age ... telotherapy was considered very risky, to begin with, potentially carcinogenic, and these elderly people must have felt they had very little to lose ... their age might account for it, or perhaps it was simple coincidence, but they all appeared to share a rather narrowly religious turn of mind. And so they interpreted the experience accordingly.” Frances's fingers gripped his hand. “Don't worry, Paul ... I'm not professing to be about to sprout wings."
“So what made you go in for it?” Paulie wanted to know. “Telotherapy. Doesn't it cost the earth?"
Frances nodded gravely. “The expense is horrendous. I can only say I succumbed to fear and vanity. Does that surprise you? Perhaps these are my just deserts."
He forced a wry smile. “So does it seem to be working? Is there any way of telling, yet?"
“You mean is the AS an additional effect or does it supplant the intended outcome? Am I going mad instead of staying young?” Frances shrugged. “It's very hard to ascertain. One thing I do know is, it would be a mistake to force all of this into a comfortable category, such as Religious Experience. I've always thought of myself as an agnostic, and then when you came along, and presented me with an entirely new set of perspectives on life. You see, I did take you seriously, listening and learning. I loved our conversations. Why couldn't I get it through to you that I wasn't bored, that this head-in-the-clouds business wasn't spoiling things between us? You'd be amazed, Paul, at how much of your outlook rubbed off on me. You dismiss yourself far too readily.” She squeezed his hand again. “As I was saying, those others who went in for the therapy all chose, or were led, to explain their feelings in terms of established religion, which is something I've managed to resist, touch wood. Although I don't see why I shouldn't define religion a little more loosely then they did ... or do, depending on which side of the Styx one ought to consider people frozen at the point of death. Curious, isn't it, how every one of them went for cryostorage?” Frances toyed with her glass, traced the rim with her fingertip. “And another curious thing: three of them ... one man and two women, so I believe ... during their final, vegetative phase, were more than once heard to murmur a word that sounded like,” she leaned toward him and whispered it, “Undertake."
Ever the actress, Paulie thought. The sense of theatre.
Frances frowned. “Undertake ... now what do you suppose that might signify?"
Paulie thought, Scared old people dreaming bad dreams about men in black top hats come to take them away? But he said nothing, for Frances's own mind had doubtless conjured up a similarly morbid image.
“Undertake ... a journey?” He spoke softly, reaching for, if not a positive gloss, at least an interpretation less macabre.
But his ex-wife's face had taken on a strained, haunted look. Before he knew it, he had grasped her hand in his.
She looked hard at him. “I'm frightened, Paul."
He wished he could have done more to help her.
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* * *
Chapter 16
Ruth was giving Kali a change when Robin Richly turned up at the door again. She knew it was Robin Richly because he always did a certain kind of knock, like he wanted to amuse you by rapping out his own jaunty little signature tune. He was one of those older people who irritated Ruth by trying too hard to appear young-minded, as if it was something offensive, being ninety-five or whatever he was.
She let him wait, only answering the door after she had finished with Kali and washed her hands.
“Ruth? Apologies for bothering you again. Hello again Kali, my lovely little darling.” He chucked Kali's cheek. “Only Paul's back on the line. I'm sure he's really missing you both. I know I should, in his position."
>
Ruth got the baby sling out again and walked with Robin across to his cottage. On the way, he burst into some annoying old folk song, catching Ruth's eye two or three times as he sang the silly diddly-daddly lyrics, as though trying to get her to join in. Fat chance. If nothing else, the song put Kali to sleep.
When it came down to it, though, Ruth reflected, it wasn't so bad, having Robin Richly for a neighbour. You could do a lot worse. She thought, I'm a cow when I'm stressed.
Down the path at high speed on her decrepit yellow foldaway bike came Miranda Portland, who organized weekend retreats and offered individual tutoring in poetry and macrame. She went around in a camouflage army coat, Wellingtons, and a light-blue headscarf with a red cycling helmet stuck over it, yet didn't quite qualify, to Ruth's mind, as a classic English Eccentric; she was a bit too knowing, too deliberate about it. Ruth wasn't pleased to see her now; she wouldn't have felt like chatting even if there had been time.
“Ruth! How've you been keeping? You're looking well."
You liar, Ruth thought. I look like shit.
“How's the little one?” Miranda braked shudderingly beside them. “Oh, she's asleep, the little love! Ruth, you really ought to drop in and see us. Although I know what it gets like with babies, they can become your whole world. So how's Paul?"
“He's all right, yeah."
So far as Robin, Miranda, and all the others knew, Paul did most of the furniture-making while Ruth herself took it easy and looked after Kali. If any of them found out that he spent half his time lying hooked up to that box, they'd probably vote to kick him out of the village. Miranda didn't mention that flying car the PsyTri woman came down in, but Ruth could tell there had been a lot of talk. Well, they could keep their fucking noses out.
“Well, do stay in touch.” With a nod to Robin, Miranda stood up from her saddle and pedalled off.
Five minutes later they were at Robin Richly's place. It was full of ancient electrical junk and had a musty smell about it, that usual man-living-alone smell.
“Cup of tea?” Robin offered.
“Yeah, please. Thanks."
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