by Chris Parker
Ethan Hall found himself expanding and growing in its timelessness.
Then his eyes opened.
The world looked even brighter than he remembered it. His senses were sharper than they had ever been. He was, he realised, at the start of a new life. And he was beginning it with a level of sensory acuity even he found amazing.
I have been reborn.
Ethan particularly enjoyed it when, only a few hours after he had started talking, the policeman responsible for his arrest, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Jones, visited him.
Jones’s motive was as obvious to Ethan as the predatory instinct he naively believed he kept hidden. Ethan lay very still and watched and listened as the policeman explained why he had been arrested and then read him his rights. Occasionally Ethan closed his eyes. He could actually smell the hunter’s instinct gushing from the physically unassuming man sitting next to his bed. And that was a weakness.
It will prove to be fatal, Ethan promised himself as his mind went back in a calm, disassociated way to the instant when he had been shot. Two police bullets in the chest.
Tap. Tap.
Fired literally seconds before he had started scalping Marcus Kline. Two bullets tracing their distinct colours through the air. Bullets he could actually see spiralling towards him, bullets he would have avoided if the explosion of colour emanating from the officer who pulled the trigger had not distracted him. He was a man who, despite his ability with a firearm, was clearly a very different animal to the one sitting by his bedside.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ Peter Jones said shifting fractionally in his chair.
Ethan could see that he secretly wanted to stay and ask more questions. He contained his smile as easily as he contained his visions. Timing, he knew, was everything. Especially when planning a revelation.
‘I’d rather you stayed.’ Ethan said it straight-faced. It was perhaps the most obvious fuck-me line of all time, only believable if you delivered it as if you didn’t know that. Or didn’t care.
Peter Jones did his best to hide his surprise. It would have worked with a blind man. Ethan felt his power coursing through his veins. He said, ‘I’d like to talk, but only to you. Not to a surgeon or a nurse or any of those people. Do you understand? We’ve shared something special together. I nearly died. It has changed me. Do you understand?’
The detective nodded. ‘I’m happy to let you talk, Ethan. I need to remind you though that you are under caution and I will make notes and anything you say can be used in evidence. Do you understand that?’
It was Ethan’s turn to nod. ‘Of course.’ And then, ‘Tell me, why are there two police officers outside my room and not just one?’
Peter Jones didn’t blink. His face barely twitched. His heartbeat didn’t alter. All in all he did an excellent job of receiving the question. Ethan saw how quickly he worked out what must have happened.
‘You’re right, a nurse told me,’ he said. ‘I’m only asking you about it because I thought in situations like this it was customary to post only one officer.’
Jones answered immediately. He didn’t attempt to lie. ‘Customary, yes. Compulsory, no. As with everything else we do, we deploy our manpower according to need. For all sorts of reasons, I thought it necessary to have a couple of officers outside your room at all times.’
‘Should I take that to mean you regard me as a special risk?’
‘I certainly think you are special.’ Jones maintained eye contact as he spoke.
Ethan enjoyed the compliment and the honesty. It made sense, though. No one could lie to him successfully. He could see too much. He could hear too clearly.
‘You are right, Ethan murmured, ‘I am special.’
‘Do you still feel that? Even now?’ The detective did his best to keep a sense of victory out of his voice.
‘You mean, do I still feel special even though you were able to arrest me? Of course I do. Firstly, you need to remember that sometimes being arrested is a sign of greatness. They arrested Gandhi. And Luther King. And Mandela. All innocent of everything apart from the fact they were life changing and different. And I am equally innocent. Until, or unless, you can prove otherwise.
‘Secondly, you didn’t beat me. We both know that. The arrest was a result of your good fortune. It was a matter of luck, not skill. You do acknowledge that, don’t you?’
Peter Jones was silent for a moment. It was clear to Ethan that the notion of luck resonated uncomfortably within him. He regrouped and said, ‘The very final part of it, yes, that was the result of an unexpected opportunity. As for the rest, we were closing in on you.’
‘You were not closing in on me, detective. You were closing in on an unknown killer. A killer who remains unknown and free. A killer you are obliged to ignore until I am found innocent.’
‘You won’t be found innocent because you are not. So, whatever you might think, or hope, or believe, you will never get a chance to kill again.’
‘You seem to be deliberately ignoring the fact that I haven’t killed anyone, ever. It’s because I am different – better – than the rest of you, better even than Marcus Kline, that you have decided I am a killer. That I’m evil. A monster, even. It’s because you need to put your failings behind you that you are so keen to gain a conviction, regardless of the truth.’
‘It’s interesting to hear you practicing your story so soon. You’ve haven’t been conscious for long and already you are preparing your defence.’
‘I’m not preparing anything. I don’t need to. And I certainly don’t need to now. More importantly, you should know that your assumption is ill founded. To say I have only been conscious briefly implies I was unconscious before that. Nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘Are you suggesting you were faking the bullet wounds and the coma?
‘The wounds are real. We both know that. I suspect, though, that the man who shot me continues to see them more clearly and painfully than I do. I suspect they wake him at night.’
‘He’s doing fine.’ The words were out before Peter could stop them.
The synesthete saw the colour of the lie and licked his lips, slowly and deliberately. ‘It’s quite an interesting paradox, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘When the man who was shot recovers more quickly than the man who pulled the trigger?’
The detective didn’t answer.
‘Still, ‘Ethan went on, ‘such is life. And, just to be really clear, the coma was a most wonderful experience. Given that, would you please be so kind as to pass on a message to Marcus for me? Would you do that?’
Ethan didn’t wait for a reply. It was time for the revelation. ‘Please tell him the coma was a room in the schoolhouse I had never visited before. It was a place where I learnt so much. Please tell him I am brighter than ever.’
Peter Jones stood up. This time he made no attempt to keep the emotion, the anger, from his face. ‘I’m a policeman not a postman,’ he said. ‘And no one, including Marcus, cares what you believe happened to you whilst you were laying here unconscious, being kept alive by the skill of the medical staff. This conversation is over.’
He turned his back to the bed and the smiling prisoner it contained and left the room without glancing back.
5
Marcus Kline couldn’t turn his back on anything right now. Truth be told, his back felt like it was being crushed by the burden he was carrying.
The weight of his responsibility, his commitment, to Anne-Marie was increased by his defeat to the words, will and influence of Ethan Hall and by the fact that he really didn’t like himself anymore.
I am burdened but not defeated.
That was the best he could tell himself, that and the constant repetition of his belief that a person grew stronger by carrying an ever-greater weight.
Only as the weight increased so did the doubt in his ability to save Anne-Marie from her cancer. It kept him awake during the darkness of the night. It made sleep almost impossible.
So he had decide
d to use that time productively. He had planned a new book and started writing. About belief, of all things. About the very topic at the heart of his current crisis. And you couldn’t write about belief without also addressing doubt.
Marcus knew the source of his doubt. It was Ethan Hall. The man who had proven he was not the greatest influencer on the planet. Now, when he needed to be at his confident, most arrogant best he was plagued with doubt for the first time in his life. The fact that he had several decades of success behind him, that he had advocates and clients and admirers and fans at every level of society and in most countries on the planet counted for nothing. Ethan Hall was king. There was no escaping it.
Marcus looked at his watch: 2.20am. He had held Anne-Marie for more than thirty minutes, long after she had fallen asleep again, and then returned to his computer. Only the words he hoped to write had disappeared behind the doubt and the dislike.
Both made worse by the fact that Ethan Hall had come out of his coma. Marcus knew, although Peter Jones had been careful not to say, that the Detective Chief Inspector doubted his ability to contain the synesthete.
The thought of a free Ethan Hall terrified Marcus. He had lost to the man once and he hadn’t improved his skill since then. The truth – the truth that kept repeating inside him – was that he was lucky to have survived. He was here now because of a fluke. And if Ethan came after him again, what were the chances of being lucky for a second time?
Answer: Very limited at best.
Why couldn’t he make himself believe that he could win?
Answer: Because he was damaged goods.
That was the bottom line. However good he had been, he had lost some of that edge, that essential self-belief, during his encounter with Ethan.
Belief and Doubt. Two sides of the most valuable coin. So close. So connected. So far apart.
Marcus Kline looked out of the window. The fields around him were invisible in the pure darkness of the country night. Whenever he had looked out from their old home, he had always seen lights in other houses, the occasional lights from a car; there had always been clear signs of life. Here, at night, there was nothing. Nothing outward. And that left only one place to go.
Inward.
That used to be his most private and powerful home. It used to be. Before doubt. Before the other side of the coin. Before Ethan Hall.
Marcus couldn’t go there now; he certainly couldn’t stay there. Homes are ruined when a killer visits them. That was what Peter Jones had told him. Every type of home, no exceptions, even the home you carry inside yourself.
Marcus sat, unmoving, staring into the darkness that surrounded the rented house. It was impenetrable.
6
Ethan Hall was also awake in the middle of the same night. For him the ceiling in his room didn’t exist. There were no limits. And now there was only one policeman standing guard on his hospital door.
Only one.
Just one normal human being who happened to be a policeman. A man who no doubt craved repetition in his life just like the rest of the herd – that dull, grey, unthinking mass known by everyone else as society.
Ethan had learnt long ago that the herd created and then depended upon repetition. It was the safety net used by those who never actually travelled high in the first place. More importantly, it was the ultimate example of how a safety net becomes a comfort blanket before morphing slowly and gently into a see-through plastic bag clinging onto your head, pulling tighter and tighter with every breath, seeping into every crevice of your face, leaving no room for anything other than death.
Only the herd didn’t realise it was dead. Dead as a collective and as individuals. Their senses, their most basic, natural and essential connection with the rest of the world, were all-but non-existent. The herd was, in the most disgusting meaning of the word, senseless. Dead to everything but their own, personal, limited, black-and-white perspectives.
Ethan Hall’s perspective was anything but black and white. To him every aspect of the world was filled with colour and energy. He could see the colour of every emotion and every word. Fear and doubt, hope and belief were as visible to Ethan as paintings hanging on a wall. It had been that way since childhood.
When the doctors first identified his synaesthesia, they told his father it was a rare neurological condition that made an individual’s senses hugely responsive to stimulation. They said it could be managed with help. Even as a young boy Ethan had known to ignore them. He had known – had seen – that they just wanted to emphasise their so-called expertise and authority. He had known his synaesthesia was a gift, a starting point. He had been proven right. As he actively worked to develop his abilities the world became a multi-sensory art gallery of opportunity. And power.
The need for repetition didn’t apply to him. He was not a replica. Nor could he be copied. He was free.
Free to leave the hospital whenever he wanted. They couldn’t hold him no matter what they tried. They didn’t know that. But he did. His stay was almost over. He had people to see. Things to do. Changes to make.
Ethan Hall softened himself into the bed and looked up at the ceiling through eyes that were only half-open. He could see the night sky. He could see what no one else could. His future was about to begin.
7
Anne-Marie woke to find her husband lying beside her, watching her. His right arm reached out and she instinctively moved to him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arm curled around her, his hand stroking her upper arm.
He had already opened the bedroom curtains. She could see the early morning sun and the fresh, bright June sky offering their invaluable encouragement to the fields and trees that surrounded the house. She breathed in deeply trying to draw it all in, to breathe in the sky through the aroma of Marcus.
He smiled as if he knew what she was doing.
‘It’s a fine morning,’ he said. ‘Clear and fresh.’
‘It’s always been my favourite time of year.’
‘I know.’
‘And Autumn is yours.’
‘It used to be. I’m not so sure these days.’
‘What’s changed?’
‘Having this view.’ Marcus eased himself into anupright position. Anne-Marie followed suit. They were quietfora moment, just looking.
‘Nature teaches us everything we need to know about change,’ Marcus mused. ‘If we look and listen and feel, She’s offering it all to us. And we’re a part of nature, perhaps the most important part.
‘Behind our unnecessary internal chatter we all know how to move things on. Deep inside we all know how to create and manage change, how to turn thoughts into the best of words and words into the best of actions. We all do that in so many ways. Right?’
Marcus looked directly at his wife for the first time since he had started talking. He didn’t wait for her to reply. He had used the moments before Anne-Marie woke to force himself into his work state, to silence the doubt temporarily. It had been a struggle but his work head was now firmly in place.
Whilst Anne-Marie engaged with his question his gaze shifted as it always did when he was focussed fully on a client. He looked just beyond her shoulders rather than at her face, observing her with a level of acuity and awareness that meant he could see her every response as if it was magnified. She was now fully within his field of vision.
He spoke again, feeling the movements of his tongue inside his mouth, the shaping of his lips, the sounds of the word-vibrations he released.
‘In fact we can go even further and say we are good with the process of change and growth and renewal for two reasons that are so very obvious we often fail to acknowledge them consciously. When we do we can use these reasons as a source of comfort and support and power.
‘Now, you might wonder what are these two reasons? Well, that is a very good thing to wonder.
‘The first reason, as I’ve already said, is simply the nature of everything. And the nature of everything is constant movement, constant chan
ge. Only the conscious mind wants to believe that things are fixed, that there is unmoving stability. The subconscious – the deep well of our most powerful resources including healing – keeps time with the rhythms of nature, the pulse of the planet, the shifts in the seasons, the seeding of new life. The subconscious is the well from which we draw.’
Marcus could see the trance he was building enveloping Anne-Marie. It was soft on her skin as the duvet, inviting her deeper. He let it wrap gently around himself, too; letting his state shift so he could lead the way.
‘Sometimes we are well aware of at least part of that process and sometimes we are not aware of it all. And some people ask, “Is it better to be aware or is it better to be unaware?” And the answer is, “It is better to be experiencing it the way you are now. Because your unconscious right now knows how deeply into the well to go.
‘Gently and softly. Fathomless. With life at every level. No matter how deep you go. Know matter changing for the better with every breath as you...Just simply...That’s right...All the way down...Because we float and sink best when we forget so many things including...The time for us to change for the better is actually timelessness, when we feel the warmth of the support all around us and the weight is taken from us because when there is no time there can be no waiting because everything is forgotten. Had you forgotten that too?
‘Well I’m sure it’s for the best, and now just so that you can really enjoy how far you are travelling already – and the journey is only just beginning remember, because you might be in danger of forgetting even this – let yourself try gently, impossibly and in vain, to remember whatever it was – or wherever it was – you wondered so long ago, so far away...Sinking ever more deeply as you do...Sinking...’
