The Cairo Pulse

by B. B. Kindred

  “What happened to the UPS, Giz?”

  “You tell me. Both back-ups are down. Damn it.”

  “That’s weird –it smells like the sea. Can you smell it?”

  “I can, actually. It’s probably the burnout. Why are we whispering? Who’s going in there?”

  “I’m not going in.”

  “Well, I’m not going in.”

  “Look through the window, Giz.”

  “You look through the window.”

  “I’m not looking through the window.”

  “That’s what I like to see, concern for the subject your utmost priority.”

  “It’s okay.” I shouted. “I’m okay. I’m coming through, now.”

  I removed the headset and sensory deprivers then wandered back to the outer lab. Cairo asked me if I was all right, then she asked if I’d heard them. When I answered in the affirmative, a pinking of cheeks followed.

  “I think you might be an alien.” Gizmo said.

  Cairo offered a sharp look. “Pack it in, Gizmo.”

  The revelation prompted an adjournment to the house. I followed Gizmo into the kitchen while she made tea, compelled to the vicinity of mundane and familial. Leaning on the counter with one elbow, I watched her whippet frame as she filled the kettle. She slid me a smile on the way back, revealing the soft centre of the prickly pear. There was a rush inside me, like I wanted to put my arm around her and say everything would be okay, or slip her a handful of notes and tell her to buy something nice for herself. They were things nobody had ever done for her and things I would never get the chance to do because I’d never be a father.

  “What’s wrong?” She said.

  “It’s nothing. It’s passed. You just carry on, there.”

  “Oh, bugger the tea, let’s crack a bottle of red.”

  *

  I explained what had happened on my side of things without omission. After recounting the ‘hear my song’ stuff, Gizmo said, “Sounds like a message to me, mate.”

  The first session was discussed, the upshot being if I knew they were coming into the test room, the possibility of the songs I recounted being related to their own electro-magnetic fields was significantly reduced. It must have been a blow, but I admired their scientific thinking.

  “Right then.” Cairo said. “We’ve witnessed unprecedented activity that’s allowed you to hear things you can’t possibly hear and mess with equipment you can’t possibly mess with. You’ve had peak experiences without us setting up a pulse pattern, but we’ve witnessed spontaneous pulse activity. How are you feeling right now, Gabriel?”

  “I’m feeling fine, that memory was so vivid, it was wonderful. I’m not up there, if that’s what you’re asking. It didn’t happen straight away – the last time, I mean. It was the next day.”

  Vik stayed quiet throughout, curled up in a rattan chair, observation his preferred means of interaction. His was an easy silence, unlike those people who dominate the room with lack of participation, in fact, I’d have taken a punt that he generally found the antics of we puny humans mildly amusing. Cairo had told me that he had an unusual capacity for eidetic memory and could recount anything that happened in his presence with remarkable accuracy. Maybe that was why they took him into the lab with them.

  “There’s no map for what’s happened, we’re completely out on a limb here.” Cairo said. “The only real signpost is that it seems related to electro-magnetic fields, but I’m confident that’s not the whole story.”

  “Oh man, I wish we could do him again right now.” Said Gizmo.

  “Gizmo – he’s not a lab monkey, don’t talk about him like he’s not here.”

  “You do realise that you’ve just talked about him like he’s not here.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I haven’t come to any harm, if you want to carry on, I want to carry on.”

  My dad once said we all need to be part of something greater than ourselves. He qualified it with ‘unless you suffer from narcissistic personality disorder.’ I was curious how he knew what narcissistic personality disorder was, but didn’t like to ask. That’s what I was with Cairo, Gizmo and Vik, part of something greater than myself. I used to feel like that about being an architect, but I never fitted in. I was always unusual in an unfathomable way, which seemed to work in terms of design, but not my fellow architects.

  “Gabriel,” said Cairo. “Do you want to take this elsewhere? Do you want to go back to the hospital, or to your doctor?”

  “What would be the point? They had nothing to offer.”

  “We should take a day or two to work through what’s happened and see if we come up with anything useful. Gabriel, call me if anything unusual happens, anything at all. Text me, keep in touch. I’ll see you at the dinner on Friday, anyway. When I’ve worked out what our next step should be, we’ll regroup. Agreed?”

  Nods of concurrence cut through the buzz of excitement. ‘There are More Questions Than Answers’ by Johnny Nash was playing in my head.

  We were stuck between a rock and a hard place, really.

  It was a conundrum; they couldn’t see what was happening in my brain without wiring me up and wiring me up blew all the equipment. At the time, I didn’t care that much; I just wanted to do it again. I think I should have cared. I think I should have been completely freaked out.

  Once I’d said goodbye to the others, Cairo led me to the front door where I caught the fragrance of privet flower, a perennial reminder of youthful kisses that invariably took place behind the bushes. It mingled with the afterglow of a few sips of wine and headset-induced elation, making me dandelion-seed light. We walked to my car in silence, feet crunching on dry biscuit gravel.

  “Do you have a cigarette, Gabriel? It’s alcohol, it always makes me want one.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I opened the door and rummaged for the packet, glad I hadn’t relented earlier in the day. We shared it leaning against the car.

  “Nothing ever feels normal to people like us, does it?” She said.

  “No. I guess it’s the price we pay for having ideas above our station. And this whole thing is out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of exciting, too. Well, that’s easy for me to say.”

  “No, you’re right. There is a kind of excitement about it. Along with the terror.”

  She looked at me with upturned eyes, which I met without hesitation.

  “I feel it, Cairo. I know you feel it, too.”

  “I feel it. But…”

  I pinned her against the car and kissed her. Silk and curves and plump red lips melted into me as her breathing deepened, inciting my hunger to escape like a lion’s roar.

  “Does this feel normal?” I whispered.

  “Oh, yes, this feels normal.” She broke away from me. “Gabriel, you know damned well we can’t, not until… it would make everything compromised and messy and…”

  “I know, I know. We’ll forget it ever happened until we’re allowed to remember. We’ll forget it ever happened.” I curled my hand around her neck and kissed it until she relented. Then I led her towards the dark side of the house, where the shadows mingled with privet flower.

  Code 360, clearance AA eyes only.

  Progress Report.

  As previously advised CS and cohorts will be unreachable. However, GM prepared by use of hallucinogen to provoke uncharacteristic behaviour, recorded and stored. Father also endorsed line for use of pressure. Subject vulnerable and destabilised. Recommend immediate approach. Financial inducements unlikely to succeed, but remains first proposition. Will approach without witnesses. Signal required for go.

  Twelve

  After the staff had departed and all that remained was the ghost of industry, I used the office shower and changed into my black tie ensemble in preparation for the dinner that no longer s
eemed like a chore. I’d just done the annual James Bond impression when a figure came through the door, a smartly dressed man carrying a briefcase. His certainty provoked hackles.

  “Hi,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  “This won’t take long, Mr Meredith.” He said.

  Many replies came to mind, none of which were expressed. There are some potential clients who like to catch you unawares.

  “I need to talk to you about a matter of importance. Could we sit down for a moment?”

  The usual suspects poked through my consciousness, tax, VAT, legal action, insurance claim, but he reeked of affluence. I gestured for him to take a chair.

  He said he was from an organisation with an interest in Doctor Shore’s work and they needed a reliable person to report back to them, a person who was intimately involved with the project. I asked him if he was serious. He said ‘deadly’. I asked him what organisation. He said all I needed to know was that I would be well rewarded for my trouble. I wondered if he was a figment of my demented imagination, or even a joke. No one knew about my trips to Cairo’s lab except the interested parties. I told him to get out of my building. He said he was sorry to hear that, he’d much prefer the carrot than the stick and reached for the briefcase, retrieving a laptop and signalling for me to watch. It was a porn film. Bemused didn’t even begin to cover it until it dawned that one of the writhing bodies was me having sex in an unfamiliar bedroom with a woman who looked remarkably like Cairo. First, outright disbelief, second, shards of silver metal shock, third, a charge of arousal, not sexual, but all the senses sharpening, the brain commanded by General Sir Fight or Flight. The patient smirk he’d worn as the chameleon minutes ticked by only added fuel to the fire. Thoughts popping, flashbacks to my dream about Bentley in the coffee shop the day I’d experienced my first headset ecstasy, except it wasn’t a dream. Bentley had spiked my drink and the result was unpeeling in front of me. Humiliation and rage spawned a red mist that cloaked all but the primal.

  He said if I didn’t comply, the film would be all over the internet at the press of a button and if they said it was Cairo Shore, people would believe it.

  “Go to hell.” I said.

  He said he was sorry to hear that, too.

  “My organisation has several subsidiaries, one of them is Nursing Homes. Anything could happen to your father, a nasty virus, a change in medication, a fall, a sudden transfer.”

  Hoisting him by the lapels, I slammed him against the wall. Coursing adrenaline made him light and pliable. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  “I’m not playing. It’s your choice, Gabriel. Work for us or suffer the consequences. There’s more at stake than you realise.”

  I pressed my thumbs into his neck. “Do not try to shame a boy who grew up in Medlock, he has enough shame to last several lifetimes – And enough rage. Do your fucking worst.”

  Once he began to gasp for air, I remembered a more civilised self and threw him out onto the street. Well, I punched him first. A nice, clean left hook to the jaw.

  After waiting for a couple of minutes, I ran for the car, checking that nobody followed. A classic Manchester drizzle set the wipers whining as I sped through camera-free shortcuts leading to the Greengate Nursing Home. I went to phone Arlo but realised my mobile was still in the office. Reception was deserted, so I nabbed the phone and pressed zero – the usual designation for an outside line. It turned out the home had chosen an infuriating nine, by which time I was dabbing my face with a complementary tissue. “Arlo, listen, are you togged up, yet? Good. You need to go to the Imperial, now. Find Cairo Shore, she should be there in about half an hour. You can’t miss her; she’s striking and she’s got this red hair and she’ll be wearing a memorable dress. I’ll explain later, no time to talk. Keep her company until I get there and tell her I’m sorry I’m going to be late.”

  ‘Protection’ by Everything But The Girl played in my head as I walked into the lounge, finding a germ of peace in its kindly routine. My dad was checking the dimensions of the room with an imaginary tape measure. I took Amy, the assistant manager to one side and asked her what kind of mood he was in. Her unflappable tone highlighted my hysteria.

  “It’s like he knew you were coming, kept going to the door and saying your name. He’s having a good day, been very calm. Are you okay though, Gabriel? You’re a bit pale.” She looked me up and down. “Special occasion?”

  “No, I mean yes, Architects Dinner, I’m good, hard day, you know? That’s all. Just wanted to be with my dad. I was wondering… there’s a break in the rain.”

  “You want to take him outside for a few minutes?”

  “Would you mind? Just a little walk.”

  “No, go ahead, it’ll do him good. Not too far, though, or too long. If you get into any bother with him just call my mobile. I’ll come out.”

  I coaxed my dad into the outside world like a caveman blinking into the sunlight. I’d parked around the side so no-one would see me packing him into the car, which took a while as he struggled to get the hang of where to put his arms and legs. As I drove down the road, he shouted ‘whee’ before measuring the dashboard.

  “Now dad, we’re going to a special place.”

  “You can run but you can’t hide, Gabriel.”

  “What did you say, dad?”

  “It’s only a matter of time, Gabriel. It would be better to give in, now.”

  He returned to the measuring task as the sensation of hanging on to the ledge of sanity by my fingertips flipped in and out of consciousness. The songs in my head were shifting at a pace, no more than a few notes before the next one started, prompting an ancient sadness mingled with grief I couldn’t suppress, even though its origin remained a mystery. Never one for crying, when I had the urge, it was invariably at the most inopportune moment possible. I swallowed it down and concentrated on the road. My dad put his arm around me. “Now then.” He said, “It’s going to be all right.”

  Pulling up at the hotel entrance, I put the emergency lights on and enticed my dad out of the car. After reinstalling him in the back seat with instructions not to move, I ran into the hotel foyer to a backdrop of multi-coloured reflections and whooshing wet tyres. The first thing I encountered was Cheetham. He was clearly not sober.

  “Not now, Dave.” I said as he poked me on the shoulder.

  “Listen you…” He said.

  “Not now, Dave.” I shouted, causing the burble around me to quiet for a moment.

  I glanced at the entrance and headed back to the door with Cheetham following behind, a Corgi nipping at my heels. My dad was still in the car. He must have felt the same fear about me playing in the street when I was little which yanked the heartstrings. The soppiness was irritating, a quality inherited from him. He wasn’t a fan of what he’d call women’s stuff – a vast category that included such things as domestic efficiency, crying, fashion and interior design. He was beside himself when they started to employ female football presenters, saying that they’d ruined it. Our affection was bound up in the rituals we shared, which were many and often eccentric. Even though the proverbial clip around the ear was an accepted part of the culture I grew up in, my dad never once hit me. He always called me ‘monkey’ and I knew by the tone of delivery how much trouble I was in.

  “You can’t park there, you know.” Cheetham said.

  “I know, Dave. I’m going in a minute. Now, will you just please go away.”

  Returning to the car and bundling my dad out, I cursed my idiocy as we shuffled back through the entrance and into the cocktail lounge. Cheetham started on me as soon as we got in. “How many more times, Dave?” I snapped, pushing him aside, consequence invisible through urgency. He smacked into the door, which rattled at volume as glances in my direction ran through the room like a Mexican wave. Taking my dad’s hand, I weaved through the Prosecco and perfume, sk
imming for Cairo and Arlo. I picked them out near the bar, where Arlo, on spotting me, winked and gave me the thumbs up.

  “This place is full of penguins.” My dad said.

  “They’re not penguins, dad, they’re architects.” Now there’s a sentence you don’t say every day, I thought. Was I just crazy like Cheetham? Was he inexorably drawn to me because on some level we were members of the Royal Order of Losing the Plot? I’d panicked, been stupid and utterly unfair to my dad, dragging him away from all that seemed familiar and safe, just as this gathering seemed familiar and safe to me. On previous years when scanning the room, I’d be reminded that this wondrous and vivid city had been created wholly from the skill and imagination of those here present and our forebears. But not this time, this time, my thoughts were only that I’d done everything wrong. If I weren’t an idiot, I’d have played along with the sinister office interloper, humoured him, been compliant and bought a bit of time until we could work things out and devise a strategy. Instead, I’d been the cliché of a chicken with its head cut off. I needed to get rational and take my dad back to the nursing home.

  She looked stunning, strappy, shimmering peacock silk that would rustle invitingly once disturbed.

  “What’s up?” She said, running a finger over the furrowed brow. “Trouble at’ mill?”

  “And then some.” I put my arm around her waist. “I’m so sorry, it’s a long story, but I need to take my dad back to the nursing home. And there are things I need to tell you.”

  “No problem.” She said. “I’ll come with you.”

  Cairo Shore never seemed surprised by anything. We made a thankfully Cheetham-free exit as we returned to the car. Now I would miss the delight of intrigue as everyone wondered who the woman on my arm was. I’d miss the elegant place settings and the chilly room swelling to overheated and the desperately average food and the band playing too loudly while I tried to make conversation with my dining table neighbour. I’d miss the removal of dinner jackets and the speeches and the guest speaker who would always, to my delight, manage to offend the prissy. I’d miss the associates flinging themselves around the dance floor and the seniors wishing they still could. I’d miss staggering Stenkesson drooling over one of his young receptionists while his fourth wife was engaged in conversation elsewhere. It might be a black-tie affair, but it was just a fancy way of dancing round the fire. At the end of the day, we were a community. Maybe we could get back for the last gasp.