The Cairo Pulse

by B. B. Kindred

  There were none of those Lord of the Flies moments that might have been expected, but we were inexorably drawn to lighting fires at dusk, a primal instinct for safety, even though the evenings weren’t cool enough to warrant it. The others had become more careful around me since our meeting on the beach, leaving me to my own devices while they spent mornings attending to the business of the camp and the rest of the day lazing, playing and practising their speech. One of them would wander over with drinks or food, or pass the time of day when I crossed their path in the quest for timber, but that was pretty much it. They all knew it was about me, knew it in a dark, inaccessible place with tentacles that reached up to choke its ascent to consciousness, but they sensed it all the same and it made them wary. I’d join them for the evening meal, but then go back to my tent, having strolled along the beach, wiped out and longing for the welcoming arms of an open canopy. After crawling inside, I’d lay back, hands behind my head, tuning in to the song of the sea, my lullaby.

  *

  I woke to leaden dread pounding on my chest as hissing filled the tent. Even though they were in the camp, I could hear Gizmo.

  “This is no use, is it? It’s just a load of whizzing dots and a horrible sound. I thought there were supposed to be pictures on it, stories, you said.”

  “Maybe we haven’t done it properly.” Cairo said. “Do you have to tune it in? I think you have to get the signal in the right place.”

  Fending off paralysis, I clawed over the dune, willing my overworked arms and legs into action. Rolling and sliding, bumping onto the flat sand, cursing as its gritty cloak enfolded me. Once upright, I sprinted across the beach guided only by the moon reflecting on sea and wet sand. Dripping hair slapped against a head full of mind-flashes – red on my hands, punching, punching, the same flush in my face and chest, that same dripping hair, flash, punch, flash, a body crashes to the floor. Throbbing muscles and burning chest, pumping heart and feet slapping on sand a concentrated rhythm from which I drew the strength to go faster, ever faster and all the time in the whisper of a breeze that hovered beneath hiss and chatter, there was another voice. “Hear my song.” It said, over and over. “Hear my song.”

  On reaching the trees, I was forced to slow down, heaving with the effort I’d expended. Lacerated feet bit me as I lunged forward, unable to determine what was beneath them. A fleeting thought; now I knew what shoes were for. By the time I reached the door of Cairo’s lodge the exposed parts of my body were a Jackson Pollock of sand, soil and blood. I threw the door open to jolting and screaming.

  “Turn it off. Turn it off, now.”

  Cairo and Gizmo seized up, not having the faintest idea how to undo what they’d just done. Grabbing the TV set up, I threw it against the wall, splinters digging into my already wounded skin as pieces of the set exploded over the room.

  Sweat and rage exuded from every pore as I drew my face close to Cairo’s. “This isn’t supposed to be here. Why can’t you leave things alone? You don’t know what you’re doing. This is not the time and I don’t want to hear it.” The fear-filled silence seeped into my skin, infusing a memory of reason. Drawing back, I turned on my heels and walked out of the lodge. After a couple of minutes stalking I squatted by the fence that surrounded the camp, nursing an instinct that I needed to be in a different frame of mind. My head was filled with a roaring rush, filled with pressure, filled with red that trickled away like water in a cracked glass, exchanged for a welling shame about my actions. I saw the marks that covered me before feeling the full force of them and made for the beach, sand burning my ragged feet as I headed for the water, limp head hanging. Once the stinging salt had scoured me of blood and anger, I retreated to the shoreline, lying down in the shallow, lapping water, forcing myself to breathe slowly and deeply. Then I sensed it. I was afraid to open my eyes, but fear of knowing was conquered by fear of not knowing. Moonlight highlighted the human silhouette rising from the water in front of me, millimetres from my feet. It was tall and slender, unflinching, looking out to sea. Inch by inch, now holding the breath that had previously been so insistent, I pulled my feet up towards my knees and turned around. Springing forward like a sprinter out of the blocks, I slammed into a hard thing with the top of my head.

  *

  I woke longing to roll and wallow in the soft, diffused light of the tent forever, to hold myself in nothingness, but there was too much pain. Once fully conscious, I was confronted by the spectre of Bentley leaning over me, prompting an immediate rally, but he was having none of it and placed me back down.

  “Just stay there, you’ve been through the wars. I’ve patched you up as best as I can. Now then, questions – Your full name?”

  I croaked from a hoarse throat. “Gabriel Dante Meredith.”

  “Dante, eh? Did you have a Rossetti fan in the family?”

  “Yes, I did.” A shot of adrenaline slapped me in the face. “Oh, I remember. Bentley, I remember.”

  There was a change in his demeanour, like he’d found his confidence lying on the bedroom floor and dressed himself in it. “Yes, there’s a fair bit of memory flitting about this morning. Well, I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking you for the date, or what day of the week it is. Let’s see... do you remember the names of your companions?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Cairo, Gizmo, Vik, you – Bentley.”

  “Full marks. I think you’re okay. We’ll have to keep an eye on you, though. You need to rest. Here – have some water, you’ll be dehydrated.”

  As I drank from the flask, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Grabbing the front of Bentley’s t-shirt, water sloshing, I pulled him towards me. “Out there, Bentley.”

  He grinned as he disentangled himself. “It’s okay, we’ve all seen them.”

  “Them – you mean there’s more than one?”

  “Yes, about fifty of them, actually.”

  “Are you all right? Who are they? What are they? Is everyone okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine, Gabriel; they’re just statues, sculptures – whatever the appropriate term is. I mean, they gave us a fright, particularly as you were lying at the bottom of one looking like a ritual sacrifice, but it was obvious you’d slammed into it, head first. Do you remember anything?”

  “Show me, Bentley. I need to see.” I clawed my way into a sitting position using Bentley as a steady, remembering a smell I didn’t like, unnatural, to do with Bentley.

  “All right, but then it’s straight back here, okay? Be careful.”

  Once we were both outside, Bentley put his arms around my waist and helped me to stand. The others were hanging around with nervous, hopeful smiles.

  Dozens of metallic human figures were dotted around the shallows looking out to sea.

  “Oh, that’s really quite stunning. They are...?”

  “Yes, don’t worry, they are statues.”

  “I think I’ve seen this before.” I said. “Yes, I have – Crosby beach. It’s an installation by Anthony Gormley, although I don’t think this is quite the same. What’s it called?”

  Cairo crept forward. “I remember it, now. It’s called Another Place.”

  “Of course, it is. But this is on Crosby Beach and we’re on Ainsdale.”

  Gizmo approached with less delicacy than Cairo. “How do you know this is Ainsdale?”

  “I don’t. It just looks like it. Are we all back to normal, then?”

  “How can we ever assume that, Gabriel?” Said Cairo. “We can’t possibly know what we don’t know. Or remember, for that matter. Or how utterly dumb and stupid we’re being.”

  “Well, I think it’s a good job I remembered I’m a doctor. So back to the tent it is, Gabriel.” Bentley said.

  Returned to the sacred, soft light, I initially felt the drive to gather wood and build, yes, that’s what the wood was for, I had to build, but I could only lie and rest. The tent was comf
ortable enough; a four-man A-frame I’d furnished with a three-quarter mattress and multi-coloured covers and cushions that created a Bedouin feel. I’d found a camping stove, matches and a large tin for emergency rations that I’d tucked away in the top corner. Now, in the return of memory, it seemed remarkable I’d known to do all those things without really knowing them at all. The compulsion to hang on to the tension, to be mindful and purposeful and active had power, but it was useless and I eventually let go. I drifted in and out of wakefulness, through random events; days out with my mum and dad, lectures from university, the day I stood in cap and gown. I remembered sitting at a drawing board and it filled me with grief, although I didn’t know why. Were these things real? If so, how did we get here? Did it happen to everyone? Joe popped his head through the open flaps at the bottom of the tent at the exact moment I made the connection; he was the dad in my memories.

  “I’m your dad.”

  “That you are. Good to have you back, Dad.” I said. “After all the forgetting – that’s what I mean.”

  “How you doing, Monkey?”

  He’d never stopped calling me that, at least until he didn’t call me anything. “Come in, Dad. Come and sit with your lad.”

  I wanted to hold him close, bury myself within him, but I knew that would never do.

  “Well, this is a rum state of affairs, isn’t it?”

  “That it is, Dad.”

  “Gabriel, I need to ask you…”

  “It’s all right, Dad, I know she’s dead.”

  “Just checking. You remember how?”

  “Of course, she fell down the stairs.”

  “Aye, lad, aye, that’s it.”

  After she’d gone I was his only care. I wanted to thank him, but he was a hard man and would have shrugged it off.

  “I’m thinking you need a joiner, Monkey.”

  “I do need a joiner.” My dad was an artisan par excellence. If he’d been born in different times, heaven knows what he could have done.

  “Your dad will always help you if he can.”

  “We’ll start again as soon as I’m up to it.”

  “Well then, you get a rest now and you’ll be up to it all the sooner. I’ll not be far away.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “I think we knew, didn’t we? Even though we didn’t, we did.”

  “Yes, I think we did.” As he made his way out of the tent I wanted to cling to the feeling of him, the miracle of his resurrection. But I was too tired.

  *

  I woke revelling in an essentially feminine presence that mingled with sunset light turned soft gold through the fabric of the tent. As Cairo rested a hand on my forehead, I had an urge to kiss her.

  “I used to long for a holiday from the inside of my head.” She said. “Don’t suppose I’m on my own there. Well, I finally got one – a holiday and a neuroscientist’s wet dream. I think I’m getting a sense of it, neurologically speaking. It’s like a sort of reverse dementia.”

  “Have you noticed how we’re incredibly competent at some things and incredibly useless at others?”

  “I know. It’s like some parts of the brain are waking up before others. The speech centres are working pretty well, so are facts and technicalities but I sort of know that the memory’s still patchy – it’s quite a weird sensation.”

  “Tell me about it. I can remember being seven, but I can barely remember last night.

  “What do you remember?”

  I turned on my side, trying to prop myself up, but admitted defeat when a searing pain shot through my leg. Cairo gathered more cushions and placed them behind my head.

  “Thank you. Did we know each other, Cairo? In the before, I mean. You all seem familiar to me, but I don’t remember knowing you.”

  “None of us seem to remember the time before we got here, although we don’t know how long that time is – could be a week, could be five years. I think we knew each other.”

  Vik opened the flaps of the tent and pushed a plate of food inside. “There you go, Mr Gabriel. Get that down you and you’ll feel much better. I’ve remembered how to make curry. I dread to think what we have been eating recently. I did used to wonder what those things in little jars were; they smelt so strong, but in a good way. I seem to remember Mrs Gizmo opening one and making us all sneeze. I think that must have been the pepper. Thank goodness it wasn’t chilli powder. Are you all right, Mrs Cairo? You look a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Vik, it’s just a little warm in here.” She helped me into a sitting position and handed me the food. “Bentley says if you keep resting up, you’ll probably feel much better tomorrow. Vik will come back for your plate in a little while.”

  The curry was wonderful and sparked visions of plush, spicy smelling places and tables ripe with dishes, but the full stomach made me drowsy again. Curling up in the nest, I could hear Vik’s voice.

  “What does he remember about last night, Mrs Cairo?”

  “He doesn’t seem to remember anything, Vik, or if he does, he’s not letting on.”

  Clearly not a conversation they’d have within earshot; they hadn’t factored wind direction into the equation.

  “Mrs Cairo, I would like to stress the importance of leaving Gabriel be.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Nothing works in the same way here. I remember these things and then I forget them, like everything is sitting on a swing. They are here now, but I fear tomorrow they will be gone. We are children playing with fire. We need patience.”

  “I have a feeling that patience isn’t my strong suit, Vik.”

  “Please wait a little longer, Mrs Cairo.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The pain faded with the light which sent me out to the dunes, moonlight reflecting the statues’ mute scan of the horizon. Maybe there was a reason we’d all been wiped and rebooted. When you did that with your computer, it generally sorted out the glitches. But then, why would I have started to remember? The recollections had initially been agreeable and imbued with warmth, but now the mosquito memories of war and cruelty, poverty and despair were starting to bite. For all its glitter and allure, that world could be a complex and tormenting place. Perhaps the others were entertaining the very same thoughts. They’d be together now, with memories to seize upon and share, there’d be speculation about plane crashes and shipwrecks, discounted by the lack of evidence. They’d probably discuss the statues, where they’d come from and how they could just appear and the knowing and the not knowing that Vik had so perfectly described would be swinging this way and that and would send them to silence and me to the completion of my task.

  Seventeen

  The others were addressing the knotty problem of what to make for lunch. Rifling through the mock-birch wall cupboards, Bentley was employing his talent for making it look like he was doing something when he was really doing nothing. “Oh, let’s have that soup you make, the one with the lentils, I really like that.” He said. “Hey, just suppose none of this is real. Suppose it’s all happening in our heads, even in one of our heads. Maybe only one of us is real.”

  I announced my presence by slapping the Union Jack mug down on the breakfast bar. I didn’t like the way Bentley looked at Cairo. “This place is real and thinking of it any other way will only lead to madness.”

  I was getting used to lengthy pauses every time I asserted myself. Part of me felt guilty about it, but another part of me liked it, although I’d feel guilty about that, too. Conversations would often stop abruptly when I entered the room and people walked on eggshells when I was around. I liked that, too, but it irritated me.

  Cairo ran the tap to wash her hands before the peeling and chopping began, although having been through the age of filth as she called it and survived, I wondered how much it really mattered.
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  “Gabriel’s right.” She said. “If we don’t treat this situation as real and engage with it as such, we will go mad. It is what it is. We should stop talking and start doing. Scientific method – remember that? We start with what we can measure; the length of days, weather, tide, changes in the vegetation. And while we’re at it, I think we should all write down our dreams.” Wiping her hands on the tartan tea towel, she looked straight at me. “I mean all of us.”

  The vestigial gorilla in me suppressed a growl. “What do you mean by dreams?”

  “Images and stories and sensations you remember from when you were asleep. Maybe we should write down things from being awake, too, just flashes of things and thoughts. If we put them together, we might have a breakthrough. There are plenty of pens and notebooks in the shop. I’ll get them for us after lunch.”

  “It’s dinner.” Dad said, winking at me. “If you’re working class, that is. Dinner.”

  “I don’t think I’m working class.” Said Bentley.

  “No shit.” Said dad.

  The tasks created a new sense of purpose, which was fine by me because it stopped them from dwelling on things and allowed me to get on with my building project, which allowed me access to everyone in their various locations as they pottered around, making notes. Cairo, opting for tide, would write down the morning’s measurements from the yardstick she’d created from an old gatepost. Vik, it seemed, had taken to counting clouds, which seemed an entirely Vik thing to do. Bentley was generally found wandering along the dunes that met the woodland where the campsite was contained; I guessed he’d plumped for vegetation. My dad had opted out, content to concentrate his energy on the completion of my task, but was currently having a snooze back at HQ.