Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  Back in his cozy lounge room, I took a seat on the old couch and Gordon sat across from me in his favourite overstuffed brown chair, with its very large rounded arms. No sooner had he sat than two of his dogs appeared and leapt straight into his lap. He yelled, shooing them off, “Come on, you lot, get out of here! We’ve got company! Yes, that’s right. There’s someone else in the world apart from you mongrels!” The two dogs stared for a moment, then trotted off, tails high. He looked at me, a little embarrassed. “Sorry about that. What a madhouse!”

  I rather liked that it was such a madhouse, to be honest, but I didn’t want to tell him that, in case it sounded somehow condescending. I liked that things were always happening here, that there was such a lot of life about. I loved my own home, for its peacefulness, for its grounds and for its view of the distant estuary, but it was a house for quiet contemplation and reflection. Gordon’s house, by contrast, was a place for making things happen.

  I explained the situation with Julia.

  Gordon’s manner changed, growing serious and thoughtful. His lounge room, as with much of the small house, was full of jammed bookcases, none of which matched, just like his dogs. The whole collection looked like something put together over time by someone with limited funds but a great passion for books and knowledge. The shelves, bent and straining, managed to hold some wonderful old books, and not all of them were science and engineering texts. He was soon up on his feet and perusing his shelves, squinting hard because he was too proud to get spectacles, and then he would complain about fierce headaches. This was something we argued about a lot. I knew he would much rather buy a book than something as useful and practical as spectacles. He would rather buy a book than clothes. Most of the time he would rather buy a book than food, too, if it came to that. He managed on sandwiches and crackers and soup, and was generally hardly even aware of food. It was a tedious necessity. I had only seen him sit down and enjoy a good meal for its own sake when I invited him to my home for a friendly dinner; he always had to have a notebook with him, or a technical journal, or a new book open on his lap or next to his plate. And his plates often went cold if inspiration should strike mid-meal. I understood this; I had found that intriguing ideas for stories popped up at all kinds of inopportune moments, including over dinner. While I didn’t have a notebook next to my plate, I did have a well-trained memory for things. Gordon and I talked a great deal about creative impulses and what they meant, how they worked. Such conversations inevitably boiled down to Gordon ruminating about the functions of the human brain and how it must work in order to produce the kinds of things it could produce.

  He came back into the room, bearing a thick book. “You say she seemed to speak in a different voice, almost, describing things she had never seen, but describing them correctly … ”

  “Yes. And, of course, killing me.”

  “Hmm, yes … ” Already he was off again, skimming lines of minute text. “How do you feel about hypnosis?”

  Surprised, I stared at him. “Pardon?”

  “Do you think she’d agree to going under?” He sat in his old chair again, book open in his lap.

  “She might … ” I really had no way of knowing. I did know she was deeply worried about what might be going on in her head, though I had not discussed with her my darkest, most alarming fears: that something had taken root in her brain, in a place where it would not appear to her consciousness. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” I said.

  4

  I invited Gordon to join us for dinner that evening.

  He laid out the evening meal for his dogs before we left. As usual, he purchased the finest cuts of beef he could afford for them, meat that would grace a table for nobility, while no doubt contemplating a strawberry jam sandwich for himself and perhaps some fortifying tea. It is strange when one finds oneself envying the food of dogs.

  I telephoned for Rutherford to come and fetch us, and at length, we left. Rutherford did the honours with my bicycle, gently placing it in the Bentley’s immaculate boot, where it looked small in the great space. He greeted Gordon, too, with genuine respect, “Good afternoon, Mr Duncombe. I trust you are well today?”

  Gordon, who came from a decidedly working-class background in the English Midlands, had a difficult time dealing with the idea of servants. It never occurred to him simply to speak to them as he would to me, for example — and he had had enough trouble working out how to address me, too, in the beginning, because of the ridiculous class nonsense. He regarded them as some sort of posh automaton, to which one must speak extremely carefully for fear of the thing going on a crazed rampage of destruction. He’d been attempting to deal with this for some years now, and had, lately, decided to try a strategy of simply nodding and repeating back the main greeting. He said, “Afternoon, Rutherford,” and looked relieved to have achieved this much. He climbed into the back of the Bentley, still marvelling at the space and appointments of the car, and sat a respectful distance from me. I suspected he would love to talk to Rutherford about the engineering aspects of the car, but I knew that he never would, because who knew what the Rutherford-thing might do in retaliation?

  Back home, I informed Murray that there would be another guest for dinner. Gordon would not stay the night even if our discussions ran late. He needed to look after his dogs, who fretted, he said, if he was away from home too long. Murray nodded, said, “Right you are, ma’am,” and went back to the kitchen, ready to terrorise poor Ryan, her apprentice, afresh.

  I took Gordon inside. Rutherford asked if sir would care for a drink, and Gordon asked for a cup of tea, three teaspoons of sugar, thank you. The same as always. Rutherford disappeared to prepare the drinks. Whilst we waited, I fetched Julia, who had been napping. Waking, seeing me, she smiled. “I say, what a perfectly splendid bed!”

  Ah, something that met her approval at last, I thought. “Will you be joining us for dinner, Julia?”

  She perked up further. “What’s on the menu tonight? Your cook would not say.”

  I smiled. “Murray is like that, I’m afraid. I don’t know, either. Dinner is always a surprise. Murray takes these things very seriously. Dinner must be an event.”

  Julia looked nonplussed. “But you know how my stomach is, Ruth. There are — ”

  I knew, of course. One could not help but know about Julia’s “delicate” internals. I explained that I had already taken the liberty of briefing Murray on Miss Templesmith’s dietary concerns. “All will be well, fear not.”

  She looked happy for the first time since I had seen her. I thought this would be an opportune moment, and mentioned that I had invited my old friend Gordon Duncombe to dinner as well. Julia liked meeting new people — after all there might be a fortnight’s stay at their estates on offer at some point — and brightened considerably. Julia, at least in the old days, spent much of the year staying at a succession of friends’ and relatives’ estates; she was hardly ever actually home. I explained that Mr Duncombe was out in the drawing room as we spoke, and that he might have some useful thoughts about her condition.

  “Is he a medical man?” she asked, climbing out of bed and searching for decent clothing — which Vicky had left folded on the chair.

  “Mr Duncombe is something of a Renaissance man, if you will.”

  “I see,” she said, washing her face and hands. “Known him long, have you?”

  “We met shortly after I settled here. And no, we’re not ‘like that’. Gordon is a very good friend. He’s also an inventor of things, I might add, and he dabbles a little in magic.”

  She looked at me in the mirror. “Magic? Rabbits out of the hat stuff, then?”

  “Not as such. I mean he dabbles a little in what one might call ‘real’ magic. As well as his inventions.”

  “Extraordinary,” she said. “These days, I gather, most true magicians work for the government or conduct research at universities.”

  I was surprised to hear this. I had never known.

  “So your Mr Du
ncombe. He builds things, and dabbles in the other as well? How remarkable! Can he fly?”

  I smiled. “Not with magic, no. He is attempting to build a time machine, though.”

  “I say. He could scarcely be more colourful, could he?” she said, amused.

  A few minutes later, I had made the introductions. Rutherford hovered nearby offering to fetch things as required. I asked him what time dinner would be tonight. “I believe dinner service will commence at half past six. And no, I do not know what Murray has planned. Discreet study of her shopping lists and ingredients would suggest, perhaps, a roast, but this could merely be one of her ruses.”

  Gordon was talking to Aunt Julia. “Ruth has told me a great deal about you, Miss Templesmith, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Julia looked amused. “Pardon me for asking, but is that a West Yorkshire accent, Mr Duncombe?”

  “Fourth generation, born and bred, as they say. Whereabouts in England are you from, if I might ask?”

  I rolled my eyes. Gordon had just “asked for it”. Julia started in, probably unable to believe her luck. “Well, and this is a fascinating question, one on which I have spent quite a considerable sum these many years, though I must first preface my remarks by saying that the Templesmith country seat — ”

  I interrupted. “How’s your tea, Gordon? Need a refill?” I glared at Julia, who smirked.

  He glanced across at me like a man suddenly aware he is in deep waters without a life-preserver. “Yes, please. Thank you.” Rutherford provided the fresh cup almost as soon as Gordon had placed the request.

  Aunt Julia wisely adjusted her approach. “Ruth tells me you are building a time machine, Mr Duncombe?”

  He looked up from his tea, face slightly flushed. “Ah, well. Yes, or rather, trying to, at any rate,” he said. “There have been some technical, and possibly conceptual problems, at least so far — ”

  “Tell Julia how you destroyed your own barn — twice!” I said, teasing gently. Gordon did his best not to be flustered.

  “It was the wrong voltage, and in any case, I had no way to know the capacitors were full, now, did I?”

  Julia was quite taken by the thought of travelling through time. “I’ve read Mr Wells’ marvellous book, many times. It’s one of my favourites. I do admire those hard-working Morlocks, don’t you, Mr Duncombe?”

  Gordon, looking pleased to find a like-minded soul at last, leaned forward in his seat. “Speaking strictly confidentially, I can let you know that I am in occasional contact with Mr Wells, through the post. He assures me that the book is a carefully disguised memoir.”

  “You are pulling my leg!” she said, amused, watching him over her teacup.

  “I should think not, Miss Templesmith,” he said, a little nettled.

  It was time to intercede. “Julia, I believe Gordon might be able to help with your condition, somewhat.”

  She looked up, blinking, surprised, at me. “Oh yes. Yes, of course. Mr Duncombe, you are also a medical man?”

  Gordon looked concerned, frowning a little, and he took a long draught of his tea. “I have been something of a dilettante in my reading over time, but I could not claim to have studied medicine formally.”

  “My niece informs me that you are also versed in the … ” She looked like she felt awkward about using the term. “In the magical arts. That you ‘dabble,’ as Ruth put it. Is that quite safe?”

  He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Oh, well, yes, ah, yes. Absolutely. You take all the right precautions, and do everything according to standardised procedures. It’s no more dangerous than working in any of the physical sciences, I should say.”

  I interrupted again. “My Aunt Julia, Gordon, is neglecting to mention her own abilities beyond what one might call the strictly empirical. Isn’t that right, Julia?”

  She quickly smoothed over any appearance that she was miffed to have her sport spoiled, and said to Gordon, “Since I was a girl, I have been able to see other parts of reality, Mr Duncombe. Parts not readily apparent to other people.”

  “Indeed?” he said. “What do you see?”

  Julia, surprised out of her wits, stopped and stared at him. All her life she had been accustomed to either lack of interest or outright scepticism or condescending comments of “Of course you do, dear … ” No-one in her life had simply asked her, straight out, what she could see. At length, I saw she looked very different. She looked, for her, vulnerable. When she spoke, her voice lacked its usual brisk humorous tone. “Well,” she said. “I see all sorts of things. I … ”

  I prompted her. “Tell Gordon about your dreams.”

  “Ah, yes, yes of course,” she said, looking at me with relief. To Gordon she explained about how, shortly before she embarked on her epic journey out to Australia, she had begun having dreams “qualitatively different” from the colourful dreams that were her normal experience. And when Gordon gently prompted her to describe these dreams, he saw, as I had in the hospital, the change stealing over her. She sat differently. Her voice dropped into a flat, deep — and very sad — monotone. Her eyes stared at things only visible from inside her mind. Gordon listened, transfixed, to the narrative as the voice described entering my house without difficulty, without alerting either Rutherford or Young Ryan, and then the business-like search through my post, my modest collection of heirlooms, and then into my study upstairs where the voice described a thorough, professional investigation of my desk’s contents without any interest in the stack of manuscript pages piled next to my faithful Imperial typewriter. At last, the intruder made his way, without hesitation or searching, to my bedroom, where he negotiated the door without effort, and then …

  I interrupted, shaking Julia’s shoulder vigorously. She seemed to wake as if from a deep sleep and glanced about at our horrified faces. “Oh dear,” she said, upset, “it happened again, didn’t it?”

  “How is your head feeling now?” Gordon asked, without any of his usual politeness.

  She touched her head delicately. “It’s rather sore, I must say. I feel somewhat … weak, I’m dreadfully sorry. Perhaps I should go and lie down.”

  I did my best to reassure her that all was well, despite her insistence that things were clearly not. I asked Rutherford to fetch a stiff drink for her, and she did not, unusually for her, protest.

  “Gordon, any thoughts?” I asked.

  After Rutherford retreated, Gordon looked concerned, but also confused. “There are many worrying aspects, I must say. The ability of whomever it is to move through the house — and it’s clearly this house, no question — without making a sound is most troubling. Particularly since the outer doors are locked, as a matter of course … ”

  Julia was surprised. “You lock your doors?” Back home, village life was still such that locks were rarely needed. Here, things were different.

  “It’s because of the elves,” I began, and Gordon nodded, crossing himself discreetly.

  Julia was baffled. “Elves? There aren’t any elves left. They died out over a thousand years ago, everyone knows that.”

  “It’s rather a long story, Julia. But they are a problem, sometimes breaking into houses, looking to steal food.”

  She was surprised — again. “You cannot be serious, Ruth!”

  “If we might return to the matter at hand,” I said.

  Gordon said, “Miss Templesmith, I believe it might be helpful to — ”

  “How can you possibly have elves here, I ask you. You know as well as I do how far away from home this is, we’re at the end of the world, for goodness’ sake. We could not be further away and remain on this planet!”

  “Miss Templesmith,” Gordon said, resorting to a tone a shade stronger than was perhaps called for. “I would be only too pleased to discuss with you the paradoxical problem of the elves. For now, I’m trying to help you with your concerns. Is that understood?”

  She had the grace to look startled at his manner. “I say … Mr Duncombe!”

  �
��I apologise, of course, Miss Templesmith, but I feel we ought to focus — ”

  I said, “Julia, listen to him. He has an idea.”

  Gordon explained his notion of hypnosis. This wasn’t a form of any kind of magic. Indeed, he had only learned about it after reading Sigmund Freud’s texts on psychoanalysis; Freud employed the technique extensively in order to access areas of the mind not readily available to one’s conscious perception. It was a controversial technique. The medical establishment, most particularly the neurologists, argued that Freud was a fraud, and that he was making up his findings as he went along, and quite possibly harming as many patients as he claimed to help. Nonetheless, the technique of hypnosis had been with us for many years. Julia had heard of it, but only in the carnival sideshow realm of things.

  “Are you sure it’s quite safe?” she asked Gordon. He said he believed so, if one went about it with the right precautions and minimised the time in which the hypnotic subject was “under”.

  “I must confess,” he went on. “I do not have a great deal of practical experience with it. But I think, if we — ”

  “Ruth, dear. What do you think?” Julia asked me.

  “I think it might help. But it is of course up to you.”

  “Will you be quite gentle, Mr Duncombe?” she said, and allowed herself the tiniest of mischievous smiles.

  Gordon, noticing, blushed. He gathered himself. “I will do my very best for you, Miss Templesmith.”

  “Then let’s have a try,” she said.

  5

  Dinner that night was a grand construction featuring roast duck at its centre. Another triumph for Murray. Julia, who put aside her anxiety about her dreams long enough to enjoy seconds, sat after each of four courses, exclaiming that, “I could not possibly eat another bite!” while Gordon, another healthy eater if someone else was going to all the trouble, leaned back and complained, “It’s that after-Christmas-dinner feeling all over again!” As Ryan and Vicky cleared away the clutter, I excused myself from the long table and nipped back to the hot and aromatic kitchen where I congratulated an exhausted, damp-faced Murray on another excellent meal. For her part, she only nodded, and pointed out how it could have been so much better, and “bloody Rutherford” had not helped by spying on her in order to find out what was on the menu. “You’ll need to have a word with him, ma’am. If you don’t, I will!” She was serious. She was always like this. No wonderful effort was ever good enough for her. She always apologised for various parts of the creation. It was like God apologising for cloudless sunsets.