The Soul Continuum

by Simon West-Bulford

  It is not a welcome moment, and now, coming around from my temporary weakness, I am as dazed as I am embarrassed.

  “Good heavens, Brighty, did you see your life flash before you?”

  The words are muffled, as though they come from the bottom of a pond. The faces are swimming, too, and it takes me several confused moments to register the burning in my throat; I think I may have suffered some reflux. Several hands help me up into the leather armchair closest to the fire, and at once I am subject to a mixture of mirth and concern at the drama I created. I had cracked the back of my head on the edge of the table when I’d fallen. It is no secret that some fellows of the society see me as a diva, especially since the wildfire rumors spread about my latest paper, and this episode has not helped to dissuade them from that opinion.

  The man who spoke is George Forchester, a tubby man with misbehaving ginger hair and an equally rebellious moustache. I almost wish I could pass out again if only to avoid the smirk on his face, which draws a little too close to mine as he bends over to make a show of examining my eyes.

  “No,” he announces in his usual barrel-chested tone, “still no sign of any sense knocked into the man. He’s a lost cause.” He taps me on the cheek, a friendly gesture coupled with a smile and a wink, before standing up and folding his arms. There is a ripple of amusement from patrons seated at the bar, and my companions are leaning forward to look closer at me.

  Refusing to dignify Forchester’s moment of inappropriate humor, I remain silent and hold out my left palm to indicate I no longer need help (though it is no longer offered). I feel the bruised area, carefully touching it with the tips of my fingers. I half expect to find the sickening stickiness of blood there, but the skin is not broken. My head aches terribly, though.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, George, he could have really hurt himself, and all you can do is make fun of the poor man.”

  That is Edith Levaux, the plagiarizer. Her ever-so-slight French accent used to make me smile. Now it irritates me.

  “That’s quite a lump you have there, Clifford,” she says. I can feel her breath on the back of my neck as she examines the bump, and it makes me wince. Perhaps it is something about French nature, but I find she often stands a little too close to me, stares into my eyes a little longer than necessary, and smiles at me far too often. On this occasion she is closer than usual. “We should call a doctor,” she continues. “You might have a concussion.”

  “Nonsense,” I tell her. “It was just a tap.”

  Forchester snorts, still holding back his smirk as he slumps back into his chair. “Not milking it like you usually would, Brighty?” he says.

  “He’s being brave for the benefit of the feminine among us, no?” says Edward Carlisle, lowering his newspaper. “Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression, would he?”

  Carlisle has been at the university the longest, and it shows in his face. His pallid skin is so old it looks like the tree bark of an old silver birch, and even though his eyes are smiling at the humor of his observation, his aged jowls are not up to the task, and they hold his expression as a frown. Edith shoots him a look that could melt steel.

  “Thank you, Eddie.” I offer him my best sarcastic smile. “Thank you ever so. I’ll be fine.”

  He lifts his newspaper again to hide his face and flicks it with a flourish as if to say you’re welcome, and then he crosses his legs, his contribution complete. Outside his lectures, he only ever seems to exercise that crusty voice of his to make some sort of wry, one-line observation about the topic at hand.

  “I’m quite serious,” Edith says as she moves around the chair to face me. “You should make sure it isn’t—”

  “No!” I snap loudly at her. “Just let it be.”

  The room stops. Carlisle allows the corner of his newspaper to wilt so that one eye judges me. Forchester frowns, and Edith withdraws in shock, her cheeks sucked inward as if she has broken a tooth. She is not a handsome woman even without that expression. She may have been better looking once, but now, though she is only in her early thirties, the foreign sun has etched her skin with deep lines and streaked her mahogany hair with the occasional silver thread. The left side of her face has permanently slipped with the continued practice of one-sided cheek chewing. She does that a lot when she thinks.

  The only other person of consequence in the club with us tonight is Justin Underwood. Possibly the most intelligent of our little fellowship, yet possessing virtually no common sense, he spends much of his time wittering away about his favorite subject: pre-Christian eschatology. Today, however, he has been silent since my arrival, choosing to sit alone at a small round table just behind ours, away from the fire. His significant nose is buried in the pages of a thick hardback notebook, which no doubt he will gabble on about at great length later into the evening over an extra ale. Thin and bony with a gray combover, Underwood is old before his time and does not help his appearance by wearing threadbare trousers that, even for his small stature, never seem to visit his ankles.

  My outburst has shaken him from his study. “Was that necessary, Clifford?” Underwood’s nasally tone is even more offensive than his intent, and he claps his book shut to make his point. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough harm already in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “Harm?” I say.

  “Now, now, Justin, let’s leave the crocodiles in the lake, shall we?” Forchester pipes up. “This is between Edith and Clifford. They’ll sort things out in their own time.” He thumbs his unruly moustache nervously. “Isn’t that right, you two?”

  “Can someone get me a drink, please?” I dart a look at Edith, knowing it would be best not to create an even greater scene. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just—”

  “No need to apologize,” Edith says. “I’m sure it must have hurt.”

  Is she talking about the paper? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She blinks at me and motions to the back of her head. “The . . . knock you just took. I’m sure it must have hurt.”

  “Quite, quite. Yes, of course. Sorry.”

  Underwood makes a sound like a grazing horse and returns to his book.

  “I’ll get you that drink,” Edith says. “What would you like? Port?”

  “A port will be fine. Sorry.”

  She waves off my apology and heads quickly for the bar, but Forchester intercepts her. “I’ll get them,” he says and gently swivels her so that she is facing us again. “You’re lucky old Moore lets you come into the gentlemen’s club as it is. I think he might have a seizure if he sees you ordering drinks at the bar.”

  Carlisle’s newspaper wilts a little farther down, making way for an equally wilting comment. “Did you say sorry, Brighty? Is that sorry you snapped, or sorry you copied Edith’s work?” I catch the wicked glint in his eye before the corner of the paper flicks up again.

  “Edward!” Edith snaps. “He’s not in the mood for your jibes. And neither are any of us for that matter.”

  Carlisle shows me a mock grimace before raising a slow hand in acknowledgement.

  “What the devil happened anyway, Brighty?” Forchester asks while he waits at the bar. “I thought you looked a little paler than usual when you came in. Are you unwell?”

  I insist that I am fine and that I have been working too many late hours, and he seems satisfied with my answer, but Edith observes me with her usual thoughtful cheek chewing as she steals Forchester’s armchair opposite mine. “There must be something going about,” she says. “Withering hasn’t been himself for the last two weeks, either.”

  “Around,” Carlisle quips through his newspaper.

  “Pardon?” Edith says.

  “Around. Something going around. That’s the phrase.” He allows his newspaper to drop onto his lap so that he can give Edith his full pedantic attention. “Perhaps the Spanish flu is making a comeback. People dropped just like our man here, you know.” He sucks in his bottom lip and nods at me, brows raised to ful
l height. “He could go any day now.”

  Forchester groans as he places a tray of drinks on our table. He reaches for the cigar box in front of me and, seeing that Edith has taken his seat, chooses to sit opposite Underwood, who glances at him with obvious irritation. “Eddie,” Forchester says, “that really is bad taste, you know. Is it your mission in life to always pick the most inappropriate things to say?”

  “Only when Brighty’s in one of his moods.” Carlisle picks out a cigar when Forchester offers him the box, sniffs at it approvingly, then offers the box to me. “Pick-me-up?”

  “No,” I say. “Did you say Withering is unwell, Edith?”

  “He didn’t complain of anything,” she says, “but when you fell it reminded me of last week in his evening lecture. I noticed him stagger a little and hold his stomach. He had to finish his lecture early, and he has never done that before.”

  “When did you first notice he was ill?” The question comes from Underwood. He closes his book and eyes Edith with a particularly concerned frown.

  “That was it,” she says. “Just that one time. I didn’t think anything of it especially, at least not until Clifford swooned.”

  I take a small sip of port. “Why do you ask, Justin?”

  His gaze shifts to me without a change of expression, and there is an awkward silence as he continues to stare. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all, I’m sure.” He stands abruptly, picks up his book, and presses it tightly to his chest, still staring at me. “I should be getting some sleep. I’ll bid you good night, gentlemen.”

  “Sleep?” Forchester balks. “It’s not even ten, man.”

  “You unwell too?” Carlisle asks.

  Underwood’s eyes widen. He glances at the book against his chest, then walks away without another word, barging out of the way of a surprised patron who is doing his best to balance three pints of beer in his hands. He doesn’t apologize, and the rest of us are left to exchange perplexed glances.

  “What in heaven’s name was that all about?” Forchester says.

  “He’s been acting strange for the last couple of weeks,” Carlisle says after lighting his cigar. He takes a generous puff and then nods at Forchester. “You know him better than the rest of us—has anything upset him recently?”

  “Damned if I know,” Forchester says. He too lights his cigar and leans back heavily into his chair to puff out a long jet of smoke. “He’s had that blasted beaky nose of his in that book for at least the last fortnight, though. Obsessed with it. Keeps wittering on and on about how it will revolutionize our views about the Mesopotamians. He even abandoned his paper on that Mayan doomsday cult to write a new one, and you know how excited he was about the Mayans.”

  Edith pokes her bottom lip out in surprise. “Really? I thought he was still working on that.”

  “Oh, he hasn’t abandoned it, I’m sure,” Forchester says, “but he says this one is quite urgent. Withering specifically requested that he work on it.”

  “Well, there’s your answer, then,” Carlisle says. “He got bumped onto a new project.”

  “Withering asked him?” I say, leaning forward.

  “Oh, yes,” Forchester says. “Happened around the same time that mystery woman came to the university. Miss . . . er . . . Miss . . .” Forchester squints and looks up at the ceiling.

  “Collins?” Carlisle suggests.

  Forchester snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. Damn strange old bird, that one. Breezed into the university like she owned the place, but she could hardly string a sentence together that made sense. Withering spent the whole afternoon locked away in his office with her, and after she left, he disappeared for a day. When he came back, he gave Underwood his new assignment. Odd sort of cloak-and-dagger stuff. I assume the book Underwood’s carrying around came from her.”

  “He’s given me a new project too,” I tell them. “Do you think it’s linked?”

  “What project would that be?” Carlisle asks.

  “He wants me to analyze a stone.”

  “A stone?” Edith says. “Is that what we will be working on?”

  “Yes. He gave it to me yesterday, and I have to say, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The thing actually glows.”

  “Fascinating,” Forchester says. “Any idea what it is?”

  “None at all. I suppose we will find out tomorrow, but the whole affair has me rather unnerved. It seems . . .” I have no way to describe it, and I simply shake my head and look at the remains of my beverage, musing.

  As the others wander into idle speculation, I tune out, thinking about the stone. Withering is convinced it is not radioactive, but the strange pulsing luminescence has me baffled, and I wonder what I will find when we make our first observations in the morning. Moreover, I wonder what Edith will do. I want to know why she chose to submit a paper that was clearly my work and why she decided not to tell me about it. Surely she would know that I would find out about it. As I observe her now, debating with the others about Withering’s decisions concerning our assignments and Underwood’s peculiar reactions about our mysterious ailment, I see no sign of guilt over what she did. Not so much as an acknowledgement that she is at fault, although her extra efforts to be polite and her concern for my well-being may be her way of trying to compensate, but . . .

  Who is that strange little man tucked into the window seat?

  Seeing him is a shock, and I cannot fathom why. All I see is his silhouette. Not a dwarf in shape, but certainly no taller than one, he sits perfectly still with no drink on the table before him, no companions, no tobacco, and I have the uncanny sensation that he is looking straight at me, though I cannot see his eyes. There is something about him, something I recognize. Not his appearance or clothing (neither of which I can properly see from here) but an aura. Yes, there is something distinctly off about his presence here—something utterly wrong. The stone! He is like the stone!

  “Clifford!” Forchester snaps a finger and thumb in front of my face.

  “They say it’s a type of schizophrenia, dropping in and out of trances like that,” says Carlisle with a smug smile. “Tell me, Brighty, does it hurt when that happens? Did you hear a single word of what Edith just said?”

  Edith is staring into her wineglass, obviously embarrassed about something.

  “What? Oh! I apologize,” I say. “I thought I saw . . .” My focus is drawn back to the shadow man in the window seat, and the others turn to follow my line of sight, except for Edith, who is still looking into her glass.

  “For heaven’s sake!” I hiss at them. “Don’t all look at him.”

  They turn back around.

  Forchester shakes his head. “Comes to something when Moore lets his clientele get blind drunk enough to fall asleep in their seats, doesn’t it? Do you know him, Brighty?”

  “No.” I frown, still looking at the man. “No, I don’t.”

  FOUR

  My laboratory is not the most aesthetically pleasing environment to work in, but at least it is functional, and I have grown rather fond of it. Rickety shelves, cluttered with rarely used apparatus, pack the walls. Electric power cables dangle just above head height and give the impression that a great prehistoric spider has spun its trap in the vaulted ceiling. On the many sturdy tables are strewn a muddle of glass flasks, switch boxes, copper wire, batteries, and notebooks. A tall arched window divided into tiny crisscrossed panes allows the stormy dawn light through, properly illuminating only the back half of the room. On a table near the entrance I have a single naked bulb fixed upright on a wooden plate, and as I walk in—still rubbing my eyes from a night mostly devoid of sleep—I find that it is already switched on.

  Edith Levaux is already here. Wearing a faded black shawl embroidered with pale green flowers and her hair tied up in a loose bun, she sits at the desk facing the window, shoulders hunched as she bashes hard on the keys of our Underwood typewriter (loaned to me by none other than our very own Justin Underwood, who claims he is related to
the famous John Thomas Underwood who created the line). Several sheets of paper have been screwed up into balls and discarded in the wastepaper bin at the side.

  “Good morning, Edith,” I say, knocking at the door before closing it behind me.

  She jumps and looks over her shoulder, a blush quickly masked by a guarded smile. “Clifford! Good morning.”

  “You weren’t expecting me?”

  The chair legs scrape on the floor as she gets up to face me. “Of course I was expecting you.” She looks at her dainty wristlet watch. “But not until nine. It’s only just after seven.”

  “Well, I didn’t sleep well,” I say with a curt smile, “so I decided to get started early.” I glance at the typewriter. “What were you writing?” My question is meant to sound like idle curiosity, but I cannot stop the tone of accusation punching through.

  She glances at the typewriter, too, as if it might help her to answer. “I was making a start on the journal. I thought a good approach would be to—”

  I cough to stop her talking. “Yes, about that.” I lift my chin a fraction. “I’ll be keeping my own journal for this particular endeavor.”

  Edith clasps her hands tightly in front of her, close to her body. Unable to maintain eye contact, she flushes again and looks at the floor as if recovering from an insult. Small wonder. After my own meeting with Withering yesterday, I left his office convinced that he had changed his mind about who the real plagiarizer was. I imagine he had a few choice words to say to Edith before assigning her as my understudy again. For a moment I feel smug about that, but as I observe her standing bashful before me, I wonder what possessed me to request that she work with me again. At the time I wanted to punish her with the awkwardness of the arrangement, but ruled as I was by momentary anger, I failed to consider that I would feel just as awkward. I even feel a little sorry for her now that I have her here.

  “I just want to help,” she says, still looking at the floor, and I cannot work out if her tone is defensive or mildly frustrated or both.