“No, Ben-“
“-Because even our best man can’t go about pissing off the clients who make this a premier league firm thanks to their patronage and their money. At your best you’re still an asset to us. I want you to find out where that best has gone.”
“Ben?”
“You’ve got some time off, unpaid of course. The next time you’re here I want it to be the old Ruth.”
He lowered his attention to the paper on the desk in a manner that was both irritating and insulting. Ruth had never liked him, but at that moment she wanted to grab him by the lapels and punch him in the face. The only thing that stopped her was that every word had been true.
In the toilet, she blinked away tears of frustration and rage and kicked the cubicle door so hard it almost burst off its hinges; her hatred for the job made her feel even worse. It had never been what she wanted to do, but her father had been so keen she hadn’t been able to refuse him. But that wasn’t the real cause of her sudden bout of incompetence; it was the scurrying, black lizard-thing that had taken up residence in her head.
For the first time she had an inkling how the victims of abuse suffered in later life from the hideous repressed memories that manipulated their subconscious. Whatever had truly happened that early morning beneath Albert Bridge had turned her into a different person: depressive, anxious, underconfident, hesitant, pathetic.
She put her hands over her eyes and tried to hold the emotions back.
Church was spending too long surfing the web and he knew his phone bill would be horrendous, but there was something almost soothing in the crashing waves of information. It was zen mediation for the new age; every time he felt an independent thought enter his head he would click on the hotlink and jump to a new site with new images and words to hypnotise him. He had been around a score of different subjects-cult TV, music, new science, even delving into some of the archaeology sites, but somehow he had found himself at www.forteantimes.com-and everything had gone horribly wrong.
He knew vaguely of the magazine the website represented. The journal of strange phenomena, Fortean Times it called itself, an erudite publication which examined every odd happening, from crop circles and UFOs to contemporary folklore, bizarre deaths to crazy coincidences, with a ready wit and a sharp intellect. He always flicked through copies in Smiths, but he’d never gone so far as buying one.
On the lead page was a brief story:
In the last few weeks the world has gone totally weird! As you know, we continually compile all reports of strange phenomena from around the globe for an annual index to show if the world is getting weirder. Since Christmas the number of reports has increased twentyfold. Postings on the Fortean newsgroup {alt.misc.forteana} indicate an astonishing increase in all categories, from electronic voice phenomena and hauntings via amazing cryptozoological sightings to UFOs and accounts of more big cats in the wilderness. What’s going on!?!
Church went through the report twice, feeling increasingly unnerved for reasons he couldn’t explain. Briefly he considered how he should have read itas cranky but fun-but it sparked disturbing connections in his mind. He clicked on the hotlink to Usenet. When alt.misc.forteana appeared, he scrolled slowly through the postings. In Nottingham, a sound engineer for Central TV had recorded strange giggling voices when his microphone should have been picking up white noise from a radio. A rain of fish had fallen on Struy in the Scottish Highlands. Mysterious lights had been seen moving slowly far beneath the surface of Ennerdale Water in the Lake District. A postmistress from Norwich wrote passionately about a conversation with her dead father late one evening. Unconnected incidents, but as he worked his way down the never ending list of messages he was staggered by the breathtaking diversity of unbelievable things happening around the country, to people from all walks of life, in all areas. The accounts were heartfelt, which made them even more disturbing. It put his own odd experience into some kind of context.
One posting leapt out at him from [email protected]. It said simply:
All this is linked. And I have proof.
Email me if you want to know more.
He vacillated for a moment or two, then rattled off a quick reply requesting more information.
Further down the list there was a message from one of the Fortean Times editors, Bob Rickard, talking in general terms about the magazine’s philosophy. With a certain apprehension, Church typed out the details of his experience at Albert Bridge and sent it off for Rickard’s views. Then he returned to the list and immersed himself in the tidal wave of weirdness.
With bleary eyes and a dry mouth, he eventually came offline at 1 a.m. feeling an odd mixture of excitement, agitation, concern, and curiosity that left his head spinning. It was a pleasure to feel anything after two years of hermetically sealed life.
Away from the computer, he became aware once again of the hidden memory’s horrible presence at the back of his head; his mood dampened instantly and he knew there would be no relief for him until that desperate event was put into some kind of perspective. He was so lost in his introspection that at first he didn’t notice the figure outside as he began to draw the curtains. But a passing car disturbed him and within seconds he had grown rigid and cold. From his first-floor vantage point, the figure was half-hidden by the overhanging branches of the tree across the road, but the subtle way the body was held was as unmistakable to him as his own reflection.
And a second later he was running through the flat and down the stairs, feeling the first tremors of shock ripple through his body, wincing as the cold night air froze the sweat that seemed to be seeping from every pore. Desperation and disbelief propelled him out into the road, but the figure was gone, and although he went a hundred yards in both directions, there was no sign of the person who had been watching his window. Finally he sagged to his knees at the front gate and held his head, wondering if he had gone insane, feeling his thoughts stumble out of control. There were tears where he thought he had exhausted the well. It had been Marianne, as surely as the sun came up at dawn.
And Marianne had been dead for two years.
chapter two
different views
from the same window
nactivity did not sit well with Ruth and it seemed only right that her enforced absence from work should be put to good use. Although she knew the buried trauma of Albert Bridge was responsible for her daytime confusions, black moods and constantly disturbed nights, she was determined she would not be paralysed by it; practicality was one of the strengths which had seen her rise so rapidly in the firm.
No one had been arrested for the Albert Bridge murder, although photofits based on Ruth and Church’s descriptions had been given wide circulation throughout the media; the suspect had appeared so grotesque that Ruth found it hard to believe he hadn’t been picked up within hours. Yet the investigation had drawn repeated blanks and as the days turned to weeks it became increasingly apparent it wasn’t going anywhere. One advantage of Ruth’s position with Cooper, Sedgwick & Tides was her direct access to the Met, where she found plenty of contacts who weren’t averse to allowing her a glimpse into a restricted file or digging up some particular snippet of information. So it was relatively easy to find herself that morning in an empty room, bare apart from a rickety table, with the murder file.
The victim was a low-grade Ministry of Defence civil servant named Maurice Gibbons, a fact which had at first raised suspicion of some shadier motive beyond a simple mugging. When it became apparent the only secrets Gibbons had access to centred on the acquisition of furniture for MoD property, all conspiracy scenarios were quickly discarded. He was forty-eight and lived with his wife in Crouch End; both their children had left home. The only gap in the information was exactly what he was doing at Albert Bridge at that time of night. He had told his wife he was calling in at his local for a pint and she had gone to bed early, not realising he hadn’t returned home. She didn’t remember him leaving with his briefcase, although it was possib
le he had picked it up from the hall on the way out; why he had felt the need to take a briefcase to the pub was not discussed. And that was about it. He had no enemies; everything pointed to a random killing. Ruth jotted down Gibbons’ address, phone number and his wife’s name and slipped out, pausing to flash a thankful smile at the detective lounging by the coffee machine.
While there could be a completely reasonable explanation for his appearance at Albert Bridge-an illicit liaison, hereto or homo-to ignore it wasn’t the correct way to conduct an investigation. Ruth knew she would have to interview the wife.
Her decision to take action had raised her mood slightly, but it seemed morbidity and depression were still waiting at the flat door, emotions so unnatural to her she had no idea how to cope. Bitterly, she set off for the kitchen to make a strong coffee in the hope that a shock of caffeine would sluice it from her system. As she passed the answer machine, the red light was flashing and she flicked it to play.
It was Church. “We need to talk,” he said.
They met in the Nag’s Head pub in Covent Garden just before the lunchtime rush. Church had a pint of Winter Warmer and Ruth a mineral water, which they took to a table at the back where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Church felt in turmoil; he had barely slept since the shock of seeing-or thinking he had seen-Marianne outside the flat. He had tried to convince himself it was a hallucination brought on by all the turbulence in his subconscious, but it added to the queasy unreality that had infected his life. It had had one good effect, though: it had shocked him so severely that he could no longer passively accept what had happened to him.
“I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again. The last time we spoke you didn’t sound too enthusiastic about opening this can of worms any further,” Ruth said.
“You can only bury your head in the sand for so long. That is, if it’s been affecting you the same way it’s affected me,” Church began cautiously. He tapped the side of his head. “I can’t remember a thing about what happened, but my subconscious can see it in full, glorious Technicolor, and that little bastard at the back of my head won’t let me rest until I sort it out.” Ruth nodded. “So,” he added, almost dismissively, “what I’m saying is, you were right.”
“I do love to hear people say that.” Ruth appraised Church carefully behind her smile. She instinctively felt he was a man she could trust; more than that, she felt he was someone she could actually like, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was that attracted her. There was an intensity about him that hinted at great depths, but an intriguing darkness too. “So what do you suggest?”
Church took out a folded printout of the email he had received from Bob Rickard, the Fortean Times editor. “I made a few enquiries online about what options are available for people with repressed memories.”
“This happens all the time, does it?”
“You’d be surprised. Apparently, it’s de rigueur if you’ve been abducted by aliens. You thought that aching rectum was just haemorrhoids? Here’s how you find out you’ve really had a nocturnal anal probe. Regression hypnosis. To be honest, the expert I contacted wasn’t, let’s say, enthusiastic about its effectiveness. Some people think it can screw you up even more. There’s something called False Memory Syndrome where your memory’s been polluted by stuff that’s leaked in from your imagination, things you’ve read, other memories, so your mind actually creates a fantasy that it believes is real. The Royal College of Psychiatrists has banned its members from using any hypnotic method to recover memories, so this guy says. But then there’re a whole bunch of other experts who claim it does work.”
“And the alternative?”
“Years, maybe decades, of therapy.”
Ruth sighed. “I’m not too sure I’m comfortable with someone stomping around with hobnail boots in the depths of my mind.”
“So we’d only do it if we were desperate, right?” Church’s statement hung in the air for a moment before he turned over the printout to reveal several scrawled names and numbers. “I’ve got a list of qualified people here.”
Ruth closed her eyes and jabbed her finger down at random. “They say a leap of faith can cause miracles.”
“Don’t go getting all religious on me,” Church said as he circled the name. “I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. The last thing I need is you telling me it was the Devil we saw.”
The appointment was fixed for three days hence. As the time grew closer, Church and Ruth found themselves growing increasingly anxious, as if whatever lay deep in their heads sensed its imminent removal and fought to stay in the comforting dark. Church received his first email from LauraDuSC~legion.com. She was Laura DuSantiago, a software designer at a computer games company in Bristol. She didn’t actually say how the strange phenomena were connected, but she dropped some broad hints of a personal experience which had given her a unique insight. The ever more disturbing aspects of his own life had left Church oddly intrigued by what she had to say and he fired back an email straight away.
The day was bleakly cold, with depressing sheets of rain sweeping along Kensington High Street as Church and Ruth made their way west from the tube. There was no hint of spring around the corner. The street scene was a muddy mess of browns and greys, with the occasional red plastic sign adding a garish dash of colour. A heavy smog of car fumes had been dampened down to pavement level by the continuous downpour.
“When you’re a kid the world never looks like this. What happened to all the magic?” Church said as they negotiated the honking, steaming traffic which was backed up in both directions for no apparent reason.
“Didn’t they pass a law or something? It was putting the workers off their toil.” Ruth led them to shelter in W. H. Smiths’ doorway for a while in the hope that the cloudburst would blow over, but their anxiety to reach the therapist’s office soon drove them out again with Ruth holding a copy of Marie Claire over her head.
Their destination lay up a side road just off the High Street. They buzzed the entryphone and dashed in out of the rain. “The pubs are open now,” Church suggested. Ruth smiled wanly; for a second she almost turned back.
The reception smelled of new carpets and polished furniture. It was functional and blandly decorated, with a blonde Sloane smiling behind a low desk. Stephen Delano, the therapist, stepped out of the back room the moment they entered, as if they had tripped some silent alarm. He was in his forties, with light brown hair that had been blow-dried back from a high forehead and a smile that wasn’t exactly insincere, but which made Church uneasy nonetheless. He strode over and shook their hands forcefully.
“Good to see you. Come on through.” He led them into the rear office which was dark, warm and filled with several deep, comfortable chairs. The blinds were down and it was lit ambiently by a couple of small, well-placed lamps. Several pieces of recording equipment were sitting near the chairs. “Welcome to the womb,” Delano said. “I think you’ll feel comfortable and secure here. You need to feel at ease.”
Ruth slipped into one of the chairs, put her head back and closed her eyes. “Wake me when it’s over.”
“You’re absolutely sure you want to go through this together?” Delano continued. “I think it would be more effective to do it separately, if only to prevent what one is saying influencing the other. This isn’t like surgery. Memories are delicate, easily corrupted by outside sources.”
“We do it together,” Church said firmly. When they had discussed it earlier, they both instinctively felt it was something they could only face up to together.
“Well, you’re the bosses.” Delano clapped his hands, then ushered Church into a chair next to Ruth’s and manoeuvred a reel-to-reel recorder between them. “So we have a good record of what you say,” he explained. “I can transfer it to a cassette for you to take away, and I’ll store the master here.”
After a brief explanation of the principle, he dimmed the lights even further with a hand-held remote control. Church expected to
feel sleepy in the gloomy warmth, but the anxiety had set an uncomfortable resonance which seemed to be buzzing around his body. He turned to look at Ruth, her face pale in the dark. She smiled at him, but the unease was apparent in her eyes. Delano pulled up a chair opposite and began to talk in measured tones that were so low Church occasionally had trouble hearing him. After a minute or two, the words were rolling in and out of his consciousness like distant thunder and he was suspended in time.
For what could have been one minute or ten, the sensation was pleasurable, but then Church began to get an odd feeling of disquiet. On a level he couldn’t quite grasp, he was sensing they were not alone in the room. He wanted to shout out a warning to Ruth and Delano, but his mouth wouldn’t respond, nor would his neck muscles when he tried to turn his head so he could look around. He was convinced there was a presence somewhere in the shadows in the corner of the room, malign, watching them balefully, waiting for the right moment to make its move. When the sensation faded a moment later, Church convinced himself it was just a by-product of Delano’s hypnosis, but it didn’t go away completely.
“It is the morning of February 7,” Delano intoned calmly. “Where are you, Jack?”
Church found himself talking even though he wasn’t consciously aware of moving his mouth. “I can’t sleep. I’ve gone out for a walk to wear myself out so I’ll drop off quickly. I have bad dreams.” He swallowed; his throat felt like it was closing up. “It’s foggy, a real pea-souper. I’ve never seen it like that before, like something out of Dickens. I see a woman washing something in the river …” A spasm convulsed him. “No ..
World's End Page 3
