Disturbing and fragmentary dreams prodded my subconscious with reminders of a desperate plight. Finally, something inside me said: ‘Enough!!’
I awoke with a start.
Now late into the night, the usual hubbub in the ward had been replaced by a ghastly silence. I attempted to move, but soon gave up: no change to my condition, no indication of further recovery.
A sense of profound bitterness flooded over me as I recalled the revelations of the last few hours. How could this have happened? I wasn’t the first student to drink too much, a hangover should have been my punishment, not a lifetime trapped in this living hell. Would I truly be stuck like this for ever: inert, dependant on others to provide respite from ...nothingness..?
Alone in my personal void, my mind began to float. In an attempt to anchor it down I tried to get a fix on some outside sounds: I strained to hear the distinctive air-conditioning hiss, but the old hospital system remained silent, possibly broken-down.
Without any senses to rely on, my perceptions altered and my private space began to distort. I started to lurch and spin in the blackness as though travelling on a hushed roller-coaster. By a huge effort of will I consciously brought myself to a halt, but as soon as I relaxed, and let down my guard, the wretched spinning began anew.
Again, I slowed it down, but again, failed to maintain the required concentration for more than just a few seconds. There was no choice but to let go and hope the motions might somehow dissipate on their own. The spin resumed, and without intervention on my part, transformed into something far worse.
The surrounding black space acquired a truly immense scale, as though I were a solitary atom roaming free in an empty universe, but then I would suddenly expand to fill that universe; I could feel myself squeezed against its hard edges. And then back again. This nauseating sensation, along with the ever-present spinning and lurching, grew ever more extreme.
Oh God! I was going to lose it!
It stopped. Blessed stillness; if I’d had a brow, I’d have wiped it. As I recovered my wits, I noticed a faint glow of light off to my right and instinctively ‘turned to look’. To my utter shock the glow moved into the centre of my field of view. View? Was this real vision? The light emanated from a hallway via a partially opened door. I began to drift forwards.
I hadn’t paused to reflect on what was going on, but as I ‘moved’ about my new locale the truth began to dawn. Confirmation of my fears followed as I turned around and saw myself lying on the nearest of three beds. ‘I’ lay face up; tubes, drips and electrodes linked my pallid body to a nearby rack of monitoring equipment.
This was an out-of-body experience. I was dying.
I waited, half expecting the supernatural tunnel to appear and whisk me off to the afterlife. But nothing happened; I just continued to float, outside my body, near the ceiling. Eventually, I allowed myself to drift down, but I felt reluctant to attempt a return to my body and the insanity-inducing spinning void. I veered off and explored the rest of the ward.
The room was cluttered up with racks of complex electronic equipment, with more high tech’ gear stacked up near the door. The ward itself contained only three beds; the far one, on my body’s right, and nearest to the door, looked empty, but the one in the middle contained a body. I moved in to get a closer view.
The patient seemed to be a middle-aged man; he lay on his back but his face was obscured by shadow. I noticed a faintly glowing ‘aura’ extending about five inches from his body. As I continued my approach, I marvelled at its subtle white, yellow and orange hues. I reached forward with my astral hand and touched the aura. I had less than a second to notice it ripple.
I was sitting in the front passenger seat of a cramped and dated car, possibly a Trabant. The driver, ignoring me, remained utterly focused on the road ahead.
What is this!? Where am I!? I anxiously wondered.
I kept quiet and looked beyond the window to the grim scene outside: dark and raining, a heavy nimbostratus hung low over shadowy industrial forms.
This couldn’t be real, I was lying paralyzed in a hospital bed for Christ’s sake! I continued to study the malignant scene: countless black chimneys belched billowing black smoke into the low-slung black sky.
What was going on here? What could be a possible explanation?
I was dreaming, that was it, I must have somehow returned to my body, and then fallen asleep. We passed by an area solely composed of black twisted pipes. This certainly looked like a dream, but it didn’t feel like a dream, it felt as though I were awake.
I turned to the driver. ‘Where are we?’
Nothing.
‘I said, where are we?’ I repeated.
The man slowly removed a map from the glove compartment and handed it to me without the slightest glance in my direction. Spooky guy. The unrecognized ‘A to Z’ consisted of pages of urban streets, a chaotic and random jumble.
I spoke up again. ‘Hey, Spook, is this a dream?’
The driver looked directly at me for the first time but in that instant, everything changed.
We were suddenly standing in a large crowded conference room; Spook, beside me, began to examine a bundle of files.
Maybe I truly was awake, but suffering from amnesia; maybe several weeks had passed since my ‘astral trip’ in the ward, so, therefore, I’d recovered! But why was I standing next to this strange man? And why had there just been some kind of continuity break?
The crowd chatted contentedly, seemingly quite at home in this odd and imposing setting. Huge drapes and priceless renaissance oils covered the walls, while on the ground strange organic sculptures sprang haphazardly from a rich pile carpet.
I was dead: I’d just had an out-of-body experience, and now ... I was dead. ... Yes.
No. I still didn’t buy it. Was this Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Something told me that this was just a dream. But what was that? Not my state of mind which I still recognized to be one of alert wakefulness.
I regarded my surroundings once more: apart from the sculptures it all possessed a fine baroque style – surely not the sort of thing I would dream about...
I glanced back at Spook and studied his agitated face: he was becoming acutely worked up, lines of worry etched onto his features...
I finally saw the answer:
This was Spook’s dream! ‘Spook’ being the patient, my neighbour in the ward!
Incredible, I was in someone else’s dream. Awake in someone else’s dream!
Nearby, an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties exchanged small talk with an older man. I decided to leave Spook to his file-rifling, and sidled over to the chatting couple.
Time to test the theory.
‘Good evening, my name is Geoff, I’m a guest dreamer here this evening, I flew in from the next bed.’ What would they make of that!?
‘Hello, Mr Christie, I do hope you are enjoying yourself,’ replied the handsome woman.
Her comment surprised me, I was expecting to be completely ignored, as though I didn’t exist. I stared at the woman and she gazed back hypnotically, fixing me with her dazzling cerulean eyes as I tried to assume a confident and relaxed manner.
‘Yes! err.., umm, ... it’s very nice here, init.., ha ha.., umm...’ The woman bowed slightly as if acknowledging a great and erudite compliment. ‘I’m with him,’ I finally managed, pointing over my shoulder to Spook. The woman took her eyes off mine and glanced at Spook.
‘Yes, he is here to give a presentation. When he is ready we will summon him to the podium.’ The woman’s extreme accent, clearly upper-class English, carried within it an almost Germanic cadence; she took a sip of martini and continued to regard me intently.
This may have been Spook’s dream, but to me it seemed so real, more than real: dreamlike, and yet very un-dreamlike. I wondered what would happen if I slapped this classy woman’s bum. I decided not to try, I didn’t wish to cause an embarrassing scene – dream or no dream.
I dragged myself a
way from ‘Madam’, and sauntered back over towards Spook. He was clearly stressed-out, still suffering at the impish hands of his own neuroses as he feverishly examined his impenetrable notes while regularly glancing up towards the front stage.
‘How are you doing for time?’ I cruelly asked.
‘I’ve got to be up there any second now, and I can’t find all my sheets!’ He had a Lancashire accent.
His typed notes seemed to consist of the same old gibberish as his street map. The top sheet, entitled: “Recovering the March. Invalidated and not?” shed no light on the nature of Spook’s presentation.
‘They’re all waiting for you,’ I baited. I’d spent a lifetime dreaming about impending exams or appointments, this type of dream was all too familiar to me. Let’s help things along a bit. I noticed a watching figure at the front stage and offered him a hand-signal to indicate Spook’s readiness.
‘No! no! I’m not ready!’
‘Ladies and gentleman, tonight’s speaker has come–’
Instantaneous change.
We rushed up a set of shallow granite steps that led to the front entrance of a grand grey-stone building; ahead of me, Spook flustered as we ran.
‘Come on, we’re going to be late!’ he said, with apocalyptic dread.
‘Cool it, Spook, It’s only a–’
Spook stopped and turned to me. ‘The name’s Hargreaves, not Spook! Now hurry up!’
We entered the foyer, and the grandeur of the place struck me immediately.
We stood at the entrance to a truly massive hall. Imposing marble pillars stretched up to the distant vaulted ceiling from which a glittering and truly monumental chandelier hung low, dominating the centre of this vast space. To our right and left, broad staircases gently spiralled upwards branching off intermittently to reach the many tiers of upper galleries.
Hargreaves started rifling through his files, were we going to play on this theme all night!? I turned away from Hargreaves and noticed, for the first time, how crowded the place had become: the assorted ‘guests’ chatted amongst themselves and occasionally glanced over in our direction.
A gentle tap on my shoulder.
Madam had returned, dressed, this time, in full-length and heavily bejewelled evening garb. In her left hand: a smouldering fat Havana.
‘Mr Christie, you are behaving like a dog on a leash. Do not watch passively, participate, this is your dream as well, you know?’
Who was this tart? And how did she know my name?
I considered the notion that, as she said, elements of the dream were mine, and not Hargreaves’. If this were true, then I might have dreamt up Madam. As I pondered this I reflected on the nature of my surroundings: was this all the work of Hargreaves? If so, then he possessed a vivid imagination, there was so much detail here. I had him down as some sort of travelling businessman, probably in a high-stress job; he obviously had to give presentations and he obviously worried about them, beyond that, he was just a down-to-earth northern bloke. He wouldn’t dream about places like this, so maybe I had created this hall for him. I admired my inventiveness, but then began to have doubts: none of this looked to belong in my mind either.
I glanced back at Madam. She removed her gaze and lifted the cigar to her cherry-red lips: a long extended draw made the burning tip glow orange and crackle; she inhaled deeply. For a second I expected her to exhale into my face, but instead she angled the powerful smoke jet off to my right, most of it bouncing off Hargreaves, several feet away. He looked up – annoyed.
Madam was waiting for me to spring into action, to begin participating in my own dream... I tapped my foot and studied the carpet: scarlet, dense pile, clearly very expensive... I was about to ask the aristocratic woman her name but when I glanced up, she had gone.
I checked with Hargreaves: rising panic. I realized the need to get him relaxed, if he became too worked up we’d be thrown out of this dream and then on to the next: presumably another grand banqueting hall or conference room. I had an idea.
‘Hey, Mr Hargreaves,’ I began, ‘we agreed that I would handle the, err, “Great Hall” presentation, this is mostly my work.’ I pointed to the jumbled papers in Hargreaves’ trembling hands.
He visibly relaxed and handed over the file. ‘Yes, of course – here.’ I collected it, but did not bother to read any of the nonsense contained within.
Almost at once, a loud voice boomed from the front. ‘My Lords, Ladies aaaand Gentlemen, our eminent guest speaker, Viscount Christie of Cheviot, is ready to commence his rendition – Viscount Christie!’ There followed an outbreak of loud but unemotional applause. I would have laughed at this introduction if I hadn’t suddenly become so nervous. What was I going to do next?
I made my way to the front, modestly acknowledging the continuing applause; a fat man possessed of a vast and comical moustache bowed and beckoned to the stage. I walked up the short flight of steps and turned to face my vast audience, reminding myself all the time that this was just a dream, and not, strictly speaking, my own dream. What to do?
They were expecting a rendition. Was I going to play an instrument? Sing? Read poetry?
‘Ladies and gentlemen – and lords...’ So quiet you could hear a pin drop on pile carpet. At the back, a hundred yards away, someone fumbled and dropped a pin. Everyone, all at once, turned around.
‘Sorry,’ came a far-away voice.
The crowd promptly turned back to me, expectation glowing in their eyes. ‘Tonight, I would like to impress you all with that old dream-standard: Flying Around The Room.’ I concentrated and leaped off the stage; I heard a collective gasp as I sailed about ten feet above the startled gathering. All heads were turned up, everyone rewarding me with a look of astonished awe.
I looked down and immediately began to lose height. I tried to climb, but it was no good; I crashed into a waiter, sending him and his drinks flying. Several guests got soaked, as though the waiter had spilt a full bathtub over them. Hargreaves helped me up.
‘You’ve done it now,’ he said, and he wasn’t wrong; the crowd were livid.
‘All change,’ I said, closing my eyes and waving my arms. But when I opened my eyes, I saw that nothing had changed; the crowd of gowns and tuxedos began to approach from all sides. I noticed the man with the large moustache: he was literally incandescent with rage, a ten-thousand-watt ruby bulb blazed from within the centre of his head. The mob looked eager for violence.
I happened to glance up at one of the balconies: Madam leant forward, slowly shaking her head, leisurely flicking cigar ash onto the massed heads below.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked Hargreaves.
‘I think we’re done for,’ he replied helpfully.
‘All change!!’ I screamed. This time, it all changed.
I found myself wedged into some sort of thicket, virtually bent double, with my feet and arms pointing up towards a small circle of blue. As I struggled, Hargreaves came into view, his head filling the circle of blue.
‘Help me out of here, Hargreaves, I’m stuck.’
Hargreaves reached down and attempted to free me from my herbaceous prison. I finally broke free and took in the new scene.
The small picturesque village and surrounding countryside seemed surreal, painted in the ambience of water-colour. Beyond the village, atop a small hillock, stood a large, round, grey-stone, castle-like building. It was somewhat reminiscent of the previous dream, but incongruous to this setting.
‘Where are we now?’ I asked, half to myself.
‘Nutwood,’ replied Hargreaves, ‘home of Rupert Bear.’
Hargreaves strolled towards the village centre, and I followed wearily. The main street of ‘Nutwood’ arced gently to the left, a privet hedge obscuring its more distant reaches. Was Hargreaves about to panic over his ‘Rupert Bear’ presentation? Thankfully, he looked upbeat, and seemed almost hypnotized by the deserted village.
I heard the approaching sound of heavy footsteps coming, appropriately, from ar
ound the bend: a white elephant, dressed in a dark blue jacket and tartan trousers, came into view. It walked on its hind legs and carried a white satchel on its back.
‘It’s Edward Trunk,’ remarked Hargreaves.
When the elephant saw us, it stopped, and came thumping over.
‘This is a shocking sight to see,
young Geoffrey Christie’s plainly free!’
I looked at the ridiculous creature: its arms were cylinders – nothing more.
‘Hey, Eddy, my main elephant, how’s it hangin’?’ I chortled. Edward regarded me with the blank expression of something not real. He then ran off towards the round castle.
Hmm, well that was interesting. Once again Hargreaves and I were alone in the water-colour village. I didn’t like it here. The time had come for Hargreaves to wake up, I decided. Closing my eyes, I shouted: ‘Hargreaves wakes up!’
I opened my eyes only to be confronted with yet another dreamscape. This time we sat amongst the craggy hills of the English Lake District, on the broad upper reaches of Glaramara, in Borrowdale – as far as I could tell.
A couple of disturbing thoughts went through my mind at this point. Firstly, was Hargreaves dreaming in ‘real time’? It felt as though at least a couple of hours had elapsed. Supposing, back in the real world, this had all taken place in just a few seconds. I could be flying around conference halls and meeting elephants for ‘years’!
And secondly: what if this doesn’t end when Hargreaves wakes up? Would I remain trapped in his mind?
I scanned the surrounding landscape: it was the Lake District alright, but the details were wrong, the mountains had the right ‘feel’, but they were incorrectly positioned, or they had the wrong shape. I turned to face north and stared at the most distinctive feature of this dream: in place of Skidaw, and rising massively into the sky, was the Matterhorn. The alpine giant dwarfed the surrounding hills.
Uh oh, I could guess what this meant. Abruptly averting my gaze I turned to Hargreaves and moved around to his south side.
‘I think we should be heading southwest – over there,’ said Hargreaves, idly examining a map, and pointing over my shoulder to a high collection of hills. Good, keep his concentration away from the north, I thought.
The group of hills to which Hargreaves indicated bore little resemblance to the real fells. Perhaps in an attempt at emulating the northern beast, these ones were bigger, more Tolkien-like, more knobbly. The impressive crag of Lingmell appeared to have an extra feature on the summit. Too distant to see clearly, I attempted to summon up a telescope and one promptly appeared before me. I was getting better at this, I thought, as I looked through the eyeglass towards a vision of black. The instrument had a coin slot and it demanded to be fed; despite repeated efforts, I was unable to summon up the required coin.
‘Hargreaves, give me that 20p you found earlier, will you?’
Hargreaves dug into his pocket and fished out a coin.
‘I want that back, mind!’ he said.
I fed the coin into the slot and studied the slopes of Lingmell. The crag exuded a raw brute strength; near-vertical buttresses stacked up, one upon another, giving its northern face a chaotic and impenetrable look. I aimed the telescope at the summit.
The castle from ‘Rupert Bear Country’ was also present here. A couple of thin towers adjoined its grey featureless walls and monochrome flags fluttered above their crenelated tops...
I caught a brief flash of light while studying one of those towers: it seemed to emanate from a human figure but the image remained too distant, even with the aid of this telescope. I willed some extra magnification and took a second look:
There was a figure on the roof. Leaning on one of the battlements, and holding to its eyes an outsized pair of binoculars, it stared back at me...
I looked down at the mouth.
Just a hint of a smile, a mocking smile. Then the mouth beamed a grin. The figure broke into a laugh and refracted blue light flashed over the binoculars’ huge lenses.
‘Jesus Christ, would you look at that!’ shouted Hargreaves.
I turned around. Hargreaves was staring up at the mighty Matterhorn and I stared with him, my eyes ascending to the upper reaches where wind-blasted snow clung to a wall of jet-black rock. The mountain was gigantic, it seemed to rise up into space.
We were on the Matterhorn, near the top, the wind howling about us with hurricane force. Hargreaves and I were roped together and clinging in terror to the vertical rock face. It turned to over-hang below us – clearly no way down from this!
I tried to change the dream, but could not.
I shouted down to Hargreaves: ‘We can’t get down! We must try to gain the summit!’ The wind ripped my words away and it seemed that Hargreaves was unable to hear.
‘I can’t move!’ he screamed.
‘There is a foothold! ...there! ...above your right knee!’
Hargreaves reached up in a desperate attempt to locate the new hold ...but where to place his other foot!? He grimaced and wavered for a second, and then fell off – taking me with him.
We both fell screaming into the shadowy depths.
Hargreaves woke up.
I was flung from his mind and sent crashing back to my body, once again to be surrounded by an unchanging black void.
‘Ugh! Bugger it!’ I heard Hargreaves, the awake Hargreaves, say.
Exhausted, I gratefully descended into the bosom of sleep – I needed to have some real dreams.
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As Above, So Below Page 6
