As Above, So Below

by Richard Lawther

  Somewhere down the line something had worked; Alex would now deliver Dai. The most precarious part of the plan was over. Several even-chance components had multiplied together to produce, in my mind, an improbable success.

  But it remained far too early to celebrate. This was an accumulator – any failure meant absolute failure. Alex still had to get his powder into Dai’s brain, and this left plenty of scope for failure. Firstly: would Dai be located? Maybe, like the proverbial bus, the quantum boozer never showed up when truly needed. It was Friday evening: Dai could have gone home for the weekend, back to the Valleys, to watch real men play real games.

  If Dai had remained in Preston, where in Preston would he be? Where did he live? Where did he drink? Everywhere! The search alone could take all night.

  And assuming that Dai is located, how does Alex actually get the drug to him? He couldn’t drop it in his pint (hopefully Alex fully understood that critical point) he’d have to persuade Dai to snort it, and that would not be easy. Dai, as I remembered from my night of a thousand Guinness’, prided himself on being rabidly anti-drugs – alcohol excepted, of course.

  I shook my ‘head’ and listened to the bustling sounds of the busy ward: it was still visiting hours and Hargreaves, for I could recognize his voice, chatted merrily with his family. I heard talk of recovery and likely discharge, good for him!

  I grew more tense over my imminent discharge.

  Since ‘talking’ to my friends, my rehabilitation had taken on a much greater urgency than ever before. The visit from Alex, Bridgett and Cube had proved to be a painful experience – for all of us. They’d tried their best, but it became all too apparent, especially to my super-sensitive ears, that the going had been tough; and no wonder, when my only utterances were ‘YES’ and ‘NO’. So much for my reputation as a chatterbox. That electronic voice, a miracle of ingenuity, and largely cobbled together in-house by some very clever and thoughtful people, grated on my nerves at times. Never more so than this evening. If only I could at least talk normally...

  Thoughts began to linger over my dismal plight. The stakes were so high tonight. If Alex failed, South would no longer exist, and if that happened, all would be lost: I’d stay paralyzed, stuck in this useless body!

  I even held doubts about the prospects of future dreaming. South had allowed the dreams to solidify and become more coherent, thus relegating the dreamer’s role to that of catalyst. Just as Cube’s audience had vanished the moment he turned his back on them, so hidden parts of the park, like the cartwheeling girl, should never have ‘been’ in the first place. My own subconscious undoubtedly played a role here, but probably only a peripheral one. Without South the dreams would become fragmented, beyond my control, maybe not even worth controlling.

  But there seemed to be no point in dwelling over this: dreaming the dreams of others offered no real future ... And anyway – think of recovery!!

  I yearned for someone to turn the radio back on; this requirement must be put across to the staff somehow: “I need to hear a radio or a TV – silence is bad for me.” How on earth could I ever tell them that? It would be easy if they only asked!

  Come to think of it, I felt too keyed-up to listen to the radio; I needed to return to Dreamsville; South no doubt would be keeping tabs on tonight’s developments and I wanted to be with her, following the action live, as it unfolded. Yes, the time had come for me to pop out of my body and find myself a taxi ride to South House.

  If only it were that simple. I listened to the sounds of the ward. There seemed little chance of acquiring the necessary conditions until late at night, and by then it would all be over. Hmm, maybe I could find another way. How did ‘ordinary’ people achieve out-of-body experiences?

  I tried to meditate, clear my mind of the external sounds and recreate the conditions of the spinning void. No good. I lacked any knowledge of this ancient art and, inevitably, my attempts failed. I couldn’t clear my mind of internal thoughts: they were trapped in my head, locked in by the subliminal sounds that came from without.

  But astral projection must be possible, even with this racket going on; the outside sounds had no direct influence on the ability, it was all in the mind.

  There must be a way!

  Maybe South could help:

  “South!”

  “South! Can you hear me..?”

  Nothing. Awake, my mind lay stranded, out of bounds.

  Hargreaves continued to entertain his family with humorous words and sound effects. The guy was a regular comedian and dickhead.

  An idea came to mind: rather than trying to free my mind of all thoughts – a nigh on impossible task for anyone except an expert Yogi – why not focus on one useful thought.

  I would try to imagine myself near the ceiling – the locality my astral body seemed to favour most – and concentrate on a visualisation of it as it appeared to my warped astral vision. Slowly, I began to block out all other extraneous thoughts; I relaxed and the task seemed to become easier and easier. I even concentrated on the painted ceiling’s solidified brushstroke patterns. This is going to work! I thought.

  The image of the ceiling steadily filled my entire being; my universe denied all else...

  Except Hargreaves, who had just let rip with the most tumultuous of hearty cackles. Son-of-a-bitch!!!

  I hope the joke’s worth it, I thought, my concentration completely broken. As a reflex action, I turned...

  It had already worked. I was on the ceiling. Hargreaves had done me a favour, the old git. Without his intervention I could have stayed up there all night, not daring to ‘look’ for fear of losing my mental grip. I drifted down and orientated myself into a standing position.

  Okay, I’m in a hospital, I reminded myself, the most likely place in town to find a sleeping person at seven-in-the-evening. I dropped through the floor and commenced my hunt for a ‘taxi’.

  16