Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it. Think of what you can do! You’re plugged into it all like a laptop on the internet, only you can do a great deal more and it’s infinite.”

  “Really,” said Katy, with a rather flat tone she hadn’t intended.

  “Whatever name you give The Most High and all His myriad emanations – masculine, feminine, plural – whatever your religion, whatever your Word – the Truth remains.”

  “What truth?”

  “God is a cosmic, ever-present, all-powerful, all-knowing, ever-evolving, loving intelligence. He formed all things and is in all things and connects all things – known and unknown – including you. And the unknown is far, far greater than the known. Think of it – no beginning, no end, infinity, everywhere, always was, always is, always shall be – can do anything, and you can access it! Makes the human mind boggle, doesn’t it?”

  Katy opened her eyes and stared out at the moon in silence. A small, golden spanner had been deftly lodged in the workings of her mind, causing it to seize for a second.

  “Big, isn’t it?”

  Katy took a deep breath, blinked, and closed her eyes, hardly daring to think, let alone speak.

  “That’s the thing,” continued the Voice, “I’m not telling you anything new. But people don’t take these Truths on board. They hear them, dismiss them, and think about something much easier like, ‘when are we going shopping’ and ‘what are we having for supper’.”

  “Those things are important!”

  “They seem important.”

  There was a long pause before the Voice started tentatively again. “All this wisdom is lost on humankind. The Words fall like autumn leaves then turn to dust, only ever skimming the edge of the intellect. They aren’t experienced or embodied. There’s no true knowing. Humans log the mysteries, file them in their minds under ‘things – useful to know’ then carry on with what’s pressing. You’re not listening, are you?”

  “I’m trying to, but it’s not easy listening to a disembodied Voice at the end of a long day, when all you want to do is slip between the sheets and drift into nod land.”

  “I understand. Should I go?”

  “Finish. I get the feeling there’s more,” said Katy, sighing.

  “Humans don’t experience themselves as embryo gods. It all seems too bonkers, too abstract, too unreal – unrealized. It’s simply not scientific, not logical. You think it’s all a metaphor – the scriptures, I mean – a little story for Sunday School. It seems to me you mostly think church is a quaint old-fashioned thing for getting married and naming your babies. And perhaps it is!” The Voice chuckled. “You don’t realize the power that you hold. You carry on living your modern lives, struggling for control, and trying to grab what you can in the process.” There was another pause. “I don’t know where we went wrong,” the Voice said, a sad dismay replacing the jovial tone. “Humanity’s fallen asleep! Completely unaware of what they’re capable of! Forgotten who they are, what they’re here to do!”

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Katy and with that the Voice was gone.

  Climbing quietly into bed after her meditation, Katy glanced at Richard, a shallow scowl was etched across his slack features. Even in sleep he wasn’t at peace, she thought, lying on her back and staring at the thin sliver of moonlight that made its way through the gap in the curtains. She was pondering the experience with the Voice before she drifted into a fitful sleep. Vivid images roused her at around 3.30 am. Still haunted by the lingering dream, she got up and shuffled to the bathroom. She needed to write it down – it would be useful for Terry. Retrieving a notebook and pen from the desk drawer upstairs, she put them on her bedside cabinet and scribbled down a few notes. Richard rolled over, half-opening one eye with a frown on his face. “I had the weirdest dream,” she explained. “Just writing it down before I forget!”

  * * *

  Three days later, in the easy surroundings of Terry’s consulting room, Katy took out her notebook. “I’ve been having some vivid dreams,” she said. “Unusual ones.”

  “Interesting.” Terry nodded.

  “Shall I share them with you? I noted them down.”

  “Please do.”

  “I dreamt the world was a big training ground for people to come and learn things, except we weren’t learning – we were just copying.”

  Terry raised his eyebrows as he stared straight at Katy. “Children were copying from their mums and dads and the people around them – mimicking them – and we know that’s true from therapy, don’t we?”

  Terry smiled and bobbed his head in confirmation.

  “Then they went to school and copied what the teachers said and what the books said...”

  “Go on.”

  “In the dream it didn’t stop. People carried on copying all their lives! They copied the professors at university, the bosses at work, their colleagues, their predecessors.”

  “With no variation?”

  “Personal tweaks, but nothing fundamental.”

  “What sort of tweaks?”

  “Sometimes they stumbled on something useful or better, and there were a few bright people thinking up fresh ideas, but mostly it was just the same old same old,” said Katy, a frown on her face as she pieced it all together. “So, the personal tweaks were just peripheral things. Superficial. Like changing the color or moving the furniture in a room. It makes it look different but really it’s the same furniture and the same room.”

  “And what do you think it all means?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me!” said Katy, letting out a short burst of nervous laughter. “I don’t think we’re supposed to just copy and move the furniture around – metaphorically speaking – I think we’re meant to work things out for ourselves, progress, conjure up new ideas.”

  “Like Leonardo da Vinci or Picasso?”

  “Yes! They thought outside the box, didn’t they?”

  “They were geniuses.”

  “I suppose,” said Katy, troubled somehow by the response. “But don’t we all have the potential inside us?”

  “Carry on telling me about the dream,” said Terry, making notes on his pad of crisp, lined paper.

  “It was like a big sausage machine.”

  “What was?”

  “The world. Humanity. We were all just learning from the last person, so we knew how to perform – like circus animals being trained to jump through hoops to rapturous applause,” she continued, grappling with the ideas that were forming in her head. “We were training ourselves to do what was expected – it was like a people factory.”

  “And who was doing the expecting?”

  “Society. The authorities. Our elders. ‘Them’.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. It went a bit weird, you know, how dreams do?” said Katy, the glow in her cheeks reddening. “Everyone was copying and doing what they were supposed to do, so they could earn money and afford to live a sort of mechanized life like everybody else!”

  “Carry on.” Terry was scribbling.

  “It went into a thing about boxes,” she said, pausing to look at her notes and gather her thoughts. “I realized, in the dream, that all of our lives are lived through boxes. All compartmentalized.”

  Terry nodded. “Just like the psyche. We compartmentalize. The furniture is the same unless we dig into the shadow – into the deep subconscious – then integrate.”

  Sitting up straight and with new vigor, Katy continued. “In the dream people did what they had to, so they could earn money to buy a big box in a safe area, then decorate it the way they wanted – well not really how they wanted, but how the interior design magazines dictated. Everyone in the dream had some sort of box – their home – and it was like watching ants marching to and fro. All regimented and organized. All overseen by the Queen.”

  Terry raised his eyebrows, dragging the nib of his fountain pen across the page.

  “They all left their boxes to get into shiny, smaller one
s – cars or buses – to go to another, much bigger box.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes. You get the drift,” said Katy, dropping the explanations. “If they were lucky, they got to meet another person from another box and share a new box and have a couple of lovely kids. At the weekends they all went to big, bright boxes, full of little boxes filled with trinkets. They could buy things they didn’t really need, then maybe go to another big, dark box to watch a flickering screen of somebody else’s life that was better than theirs.”

  “Sounds like a dystopia!” said Terry.

  “I know. But we do watch feel-good movies about people living the lives we’d like to live, don’t we? It’s part of the escapism from the drudgery of life.”

  “That’s quite a dim view, Katy.”

  “I know. It’s reflecting the state of my mind isn’t it? All drudge and no thrill. I saw people living out this ‘box’ life: Restaurant boxes for special occasions, pub boxes for drinking. Kid’s telly boxes to keep them quiet, Xboxes, or whatever they’re called, to keep them entertained. Everyone was trapped by their little mobile phone boxes. They were all disconnected, living a grey, mechanized life, on treadmills they weren’t even aware of!”

  “Sounds like The Matrix.” Terry smiled. “Do you feel boxed in?”

  “Yes,” she said, her heart thumping with the admission. She’d been trying to avoid that one.

  “The subconscious always finds a way to let you know,” said Terry, frowning.

  “It was a box structure for guaranteed achievement!” said Katy, wondering where that revelation had come from. “If they stayed inside the box formula, they had a tried and tested road to success which could be measured by the size and luxury of the boxes. Except it doesn’t always work in real life does it?”

  Terry nodded as he leaned back in the chair and replaced the lid of his pen with a click.

  “I could see in the dream it was more about control than achievement!” She was on a roll now, ideas flooding in and joining the dots. “We measure success by how well we’re doing in the maze of boxes and what sort of boxes we have! There’s no freedom of movement, no freedom of expression! It’s impossible to do things differently!”

  “Are you talking about the dream or your own life?”

  “The dream...but it’s a reflection of my real life, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” His gaze met hers. “What about the people who’ve opted out?”

  “Tramps, gurus, self-sufficient-off-the-grid types? They’re outside the system, aren’t they? But they’re shunned by society. If you’re inside the system you can’t fully express yourself. Actually, you don’t even know yourself properly!”

  “It was a dream, Katy – you don’t have to live it – you have the power to change it!”

  “It felt so real, so suffocating.”

  “Tell me more about what you felt.”

  “Squashed by the system. Insignificant. I couldn’t be me. I couldn’t be authentic or do what I really wanted to do. I felt hemmed in.”

  “Be with the feeling. Just allow it. Carry on.”

  “We’re all on a treadmill. Pacing forward but going nowhere.”

  “YOU are on a treadmill?”

  “Yes. And it’s going too fast. I’m trying to catch up but the schedule’s too tight. There’s not enough time or space for me. I feel pinched off.”

  “From what?”

  “Real life, living, me. I don’t feel alive!”

  “And?”

  “I’m trapped in my fur-lined, gilded box. The door’s unlocked but I stay inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s safe.”

  Terry nodded and gestured with his pen for her to continue.

  “I don’t know what’s beyond the boxes.”

  “Many people fear the unknown, Katy, that’s why so few opt for therapy! But the subconscious will find a way to nudge you into it. That’s how we grow!”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s okay to be scared and brave at the same time,” said Terry, his voice measured and confident. “They say the magic happens outside of your comfort zone – outside of the box!”

  “I’m fed up with the box, Terry, it’s stifling me! I feel like a wild animal trapped in a small cage. A cheetah, say! First, she was angry and spat and clawed, then she got anxious in case she couldn’t escape, and eventually she calmed down and surrendered. I guess that’s where the listlessness began. There’s more, but I think we’ve run out of time.”

  “Yes. Time waits for no man – or woman.”

  “I’m always running out of time.”

  “I’d like you to carry on with your dream diary this week and take a look at what’s draining your time. Start to become aware of where it’s going.”

  As Katy left the consulting room, she heard the old-fashioned telephone ringing from Terry’s desk, his quiet but confident voice answering.

  “Yes, this is Doctor Slater... No...I’m sorry but I can’t take on any more clients at the moment. But I can recommend someone else?”

  Another pause, then, “If money’s no object, I can highly recommend The Priory Clinic in West London for addictions. I’ll give you the number. I recommend you talk to Dr. Erasmus Watkins or his secretary, if you can.”

  Chapter 4

  Richard opened the middle drawer of his desk and dipped his hand into the rumpled packet of sherbet lemons. There was something about the acidity and the sudden fizz as the sherbet broke through that gave him a moment of pleasure.

  His phone rang and he tucked the candy into his cheek. “Richard Stone,” he said. “Oh yes. Thank you for getting back to me. I wanted to know how much you charge?”

  “Depends on how long and what hours, mate.”

  “I was thinking just a bit of tracking, Monday to Friday, about 9 o’clock in the morning till nine at night.”

  There was a sucking in of air on the other end of the phone. “That’s gonna set you back a few spondulis.”

  “How many ‘spondulis’ exactly?”

  “Depends on how many weeks and where.”

  “Just a couple of weeks. All London based.”

  “And what’s the err...extent of the assignment?”

  “I just want to know what she’s up to. Where she goes, who she meets, what she buys.”

  “Think it’s another geyser then?”

  “No. I just want to know her movements.”

  “Okay, Boss. We’ll settle the details and I’ll get on the job Monday. That’s two grand each for the two weeks. Four big ones in total.”

  “No cock-ups, okay? Discreet’s the word.”

  “Discreet’s my middle name.”

  Richard’s sumptuous leather chair let out a puff of air as he leaned back, swiveling it around so he could look through the huge picture window towards the river. Weak sunlight was catching the occasional ripple of brooding grey, while the shining skyscrapers at the water’s edge pierced the threatening clouds above. A seagull swooped down towards an overflowing waste bin, picking at a half-eaten sandwich with its long, orange beak. The sherbet exploded in Richard’s mouth, bringing him back from his machinations. He just wanted enough power and money to be happy and secure. She’d have a fight on her hands if he found anything out. He didn’t think it was another man, but you never knew with her these days. She was his wife in any case and needed to tow the bloody line. All this spiritual bollocks! He’d talk to the kids later – a bit of charm and manipulation wouldn’t go amiss – power in numbers – get them on his side. Maybe they should all go away for the weekend – somewhere plush – a boutique cottage in the country. They could play Monopoly or watch a film, go for a walk on Sunday and swing by a pub for lunch. Yes. That’s what he’d do. Women always fell for power and control. He rang through to his secretary. “Helen. Find me a luxury cottage for four, within an hour’s drive of Turnham Green, will you? Something out in the sticks. Make sure it’s got a good country pub nearby. Can you book it for
next weekend? Thanks, you’re a star.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, took another sherbet lemon from the drawer, and picked up a dossier before leaving his office for the boardroom.

  * * *

  In another part of London, a small, bald man in civvies took his position at the negotiating table in Whitehall – a Ministry of Defence, confidential, strategic meeting. He’d be back at High Wycombe later, where there was a room waiting in the mess, and a roast dinner in the oak dining room. He’d wash it down with a decent claret. He salivated, his eyes glassy and distant. A tall official next to him fidgeted in his seat, pushing aside a starched white cuff to take a look at his Breitling before sighing. The bald man fiddled with a piece of paper in his left pocket, his heart racing. He twitched slightly, then froze for a moment, like a rabbit in the lights. The meeting ticked through the neatly titled increments of someone else’s agenda. Nobody asked his opinion and he kept quiet apart from the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no’. His superior would be pleased with him. He’d kept his head down and it had all gone smoothly enough. At least they hadn’t cut the budget – that had been their biggest concern.

  Out in the cool air he marched, briefcase in hand, towards the Red Lion for a little post-meeting refreshment. Sipping at a reasonable glass of Côtes du Rhône, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper. Three names, two numbers and an email address. The Slater bloke couldn’t take him on. His eyes hovered over the names. He had to do something, it was getting out of control. Of course, his life looked great from the outside – the big country house, the trophy wife, the rank – but it was all slipping through his hands as he spiraled into a hell of his own making. He hung his head, shaking it slightly, his back bowed down by the weight of his thoughts.

  The barman smiled at him as he downed the red liquid. “Cheer up mate! It might never happen!”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” he said, slamming the empty glass on the bar before walking out into the street. He dawdled across Westminster Bridge, glancing down at the cold murky water of the Thames. Thank goodness he was staying at High Wycombe this evening. He couldn’t face the commute home, and worse, the facade of domestic bliss that would be waiting. A sick feeling welled up in his stomach. He grimaced as he walked down the steps to the tube station and onto the train. After grabbing the last empty seat in the carriage, he put his briefcase on his lap and stared down at the dirty floor where thousands of feet would jostle for space in an hour or so. The acrid smell of sweaty humanity crammed into a small, airless space seemed to linger on the upholstery. He wondered how many tramps had sat on the well-worn fabric. A bad taste sprang into his mouth and he wrinkled his nose.