Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  Hoarse with effort, he finally stopped speaking. Silence fell in the shadowed room. He heard the faint sounds of traffic muffled by double-glazing and curtains, and the clock on his desk ticked away the seconds monotonously. The atmosphere that had been warm and sheltering took on a claustrophobic feeling as he waited for what would happen.

  She sat up. Her right arm came forward, pointing dramatically, and she spoke in a ringing voice he’d never heard before.

  ‘A curse on ye all for a pack of scurvy knaves and whoresons. Ye were mim enough when ye’d crawl here begging your boons. Oh, aye. They ye’d tug y’r locks and bend nose to knee and I was good Mistress Anne. Now ye’ve taken into y’r thick heads a fear I’ve laid a curse on cattle or crops, or some such. Have ye forgot the brews that saved y’r children in t’plague two years gone? Who braved our mad lord in t’castle and brought him back to his senses afore ye were all whipped to death by his order, eh? Ye’ve short enough memory, by the Trinity I swear it!’

  Tom’s jaw dropped. Who was this woman? If it was Valerie playing a part, then she must be the greatest actress alive. Somehow she’d made herself smaller, thinner, her cheeks hollow with the look worn only by the perennially hungry people of the world.

  She swore a huge and lurid oath and turned on someone visible only to her.

  ‘You, Tam Tipper. Where would your May be this day but for herbs I gather by waxing moon and brew by the wane? Aye, black magic ye name it. But y’r wife is alive for’t, not an angel looking down from heaven on ye and the five babes.’

  She seemed to listen, then a scornful smile curved the full mouth. ‘So say ye? Then go to’t if ye dare. But beware the next storm that catches ye away from home.’ Her eyes swept the room disdainfully. ‘Avaunt, ye cowardly curs. A pox on the lot o’ye. Let come what may.’ She made the motion of throwing a cloak about her shoulders and subsided into the chair.

  Before Tom’s starting eyes her features softened and plumped out. The thin body took on softer contours and diamonds glinted on hands that had lost their roughened look and curved gracefully once more in Valerie’s lap.

  In a voice that had lost some of its smoothness he called to her and she responded. Quickly he brought her to the shallowest level and awakened her. He ran a finger around a suddenly tight and dampened collar.

  ‘How do you feel, Valerie?’

  She yawned and stretched and looked a little surprised. ‘Fine. Just fine. Did I go under?’

  *

  Tom abandoned the idea of drinks and went straight home, taking the tape of the last session with him. He spent the evening with his feet on the fender, the curtains of his shabby sitting room drawn against the night, his tape deck on one side and a stack of reference books on the other.

  Habakkuk sat on the hearth and stared hypnotically. When the repeated subconscious suggestions about food failed to get results he finally sprang upon Tom’s knee and sank two sets of claws into his flesh. Tom yelled and threw him off.

  ‘Damned feline! What’s got into you?’

  The cat opened his golden eyes until they almost spilled out onto the rug. Tom grinned ruefully, rubbing his knees.

  ‘Okay. I guess it’s my own fault. Sorry fellow. What’ll it be, sardines or liver?’ He went into the less-than-spotless kitchen nook and searched through a cupboard full of cans, all, as it happened, labeled ‘liver’. Habakkuk watched with the concentration of a lion scenting blood.

  When the cat had licked the bowl clean he returned to the hearth to groom himself, leaving Tom to his tin of baked beans, and a further tussle with the problem of Valerie Winterhouse.

  So far he’d come up with nothing useful. She hadn’t struck him as severely neurotic. She’d admitted to feeling anxious and in low spirits, but that didn’t justify an immediate diagnosis of either anxiety or reactive depression; and the notorious inadequacies of the systems for classifying psychopathology made him ever wary of putting anyone into any category at all.

  Cases of multiple personality, commonly associated by psychiatrists with a diagnosis of schizophrenia, didn’t seem to fit the case. Valerie had not appeared to split off from reality, not in the sense that the truly psychotic personality does.

  He rummaged through his extensive library, drank too much coffee and finally fell into bed in the early hours no wiser than when he had started his research.

  The following day, after his two free clinics in the East End and a whip around to the Children’s Hospital, he squeezed in a quick phone call to Phil Thornton and arranged dinner that night. He looked forward to renewing their once-close ties, since Phil was both friend and colleague.

  *

  Phil rang the doorbell of the apartment promptly at seven and in seconds he and Tom were hugging and thumping each other’s backs like long lost brothers.

  ‘Phil! Great to see you, Yank. You look like a million dollars. How’s Carla?’

  ‘She’d fine. Sends you her love and wishes she didn’t have to go north to visit some of her mother’s Scottish relatives. I’m on the loose for a week, boy. Let’s do the town together.’ Phil’s cheeky grin split his face, crinkling the sea-blue eyes. His appearance was as stylish as Tom’s was scruffy, in a soft mole-brown doeskin jacket over a cream sweater and pants and moccasins straight off Rodeo Drive.

  He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and pushed him playfully. ‘There’s a definite improvement. No reek of tobacco.’

  ‘I’ve given it up.’ Pride rang in Tom’s voice. ‘It’s done wonders for my nose. For instance, I can smell the smoked salmon in the parcel you just laid on that table.’

  Phil grinned, then let out a yell. ‘Hey, scat! Drop it, you thieving animal.’ He threw himself forward as Habakkuk leapt and landed high on top of the nearest bookshelf, a pink strip of expensive hors d’oevre dangling from his jaws.

  ‘Habakkuk, you wretch!’ Tom shook his fist at him, but laughed at his friend’s face.

  Phil danced. ‘Do you know how much that stuff costs? Just let me get my hands on the brindle bastard…’

  ‘Give it up, Phil. You’ll never do it. Besides, there’s plenty left.’

  Shuddering ostentatiously, Phil handed the remains to Tom. ‘I don’t seem to fancy it any more, thanks. Why the hell “Habakkuk”? Of all the stupid names for a cat!’

  ‘Phil, Phil. Don’t you know your Old Testament? He was a well-known prophet of doom.’ Tom picked at the salmon as he disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Help yourself to a whisky and sit down.’

  The room was large and shabbily comfortable, with its walls of overflowing bookshelves, the desk set in a bay window (very beautifully leaded), the lovely old rosewood cabinet with beveled glass doors displaying crystal drink ware, the faded Persian rug underfoot. It was a room for contemplation with shoes off, both metaphorically and in fact.

  When Tom returned he found his friend had poured himself a large tot of whisky, put Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet on the CD and sunk into the depths of a comfortably saggy lounge, almost without trace.

  ‘Feel better now?’ Tom said, with false sympathy. He got his own drink, took the other chair and settled himself, still nibbling on the salmon.

  Phil roused himself. ‘Mmmph. I still don’t get it… the cat’s name.’

  ‘Well, it’s like this. You know what an optimist I am at heart. I want to make the most of this world while it’s still in one piece, and I think humankind can make it as long as there are enough of us around spreading goodwill, etc. Habakkuk does not agree. He was born with his mouth turned down. He gets up each morning believing it will rain and the mouse population will have died out overnight. I could never let him near my depressed patients.’ He licked salty fingers and got up to pour himself a drink, tripping over the rug and just saving himself.

  Phil laughed. ‘You haven’t changed. You’re still the most pessimistic optimist I’ve come across… and the clumsiest. How’s Cherry?’

  ‘Happily redecorating the castle in mock Tudor with overtones of the Crusades. God
help Harry’s bank balance.’ He tossed the whisky down in two gulps. ‘Mind you, I don’t think he’ll notice. Too busy wondering how to spend the money as it rolls in.’ He wasn’t envious. He’d never wanted the lifestyle that his ex-wife had taken to with delight.

  ‘Hmmm. Cherry really fell on her feet with him, considering her first misalliance with a cat-loving, lapsed Jewish do-gooder who can’t even match his socks when he crawls out of bed in the morning.’ Phil reached out and topped his glass with a liberal hand. ‘Do they really live in a castle?’

  Tom refilled his own and sat down again. ‘Harry’s all right. Just a mite too conscious of his progress up the social ladder. To answer your question, they’ve built a monumental mansion out past Richmond and named it Grosvenor Castle; and since I find it beyond description – ’ He broke off with a laugh. ‘Have you heard of The Peacock Party? You know –

  “A party’s proposed – at grand Perceval Mansion

  (Late Renaissance, Art Deco, Baroque Imitation,

  Rococo, Gold Grapes, Picture Palace collation!)”

  Well, that’s Cherry’s new place.’

  ‘Sounds pretty up market.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all that and a bit more. Does lasagna and tossed salad suit you?’

  Phil nodded happily. ‘I’m mellow enough even to face your cooking.’

  They bantered their way through the meal, eating at a small table before the fire and mellowing further under the influence of a particularly good pinot noir brought by Phil. They spent the next hour bridging the gap separating their two years’ graduate work together in Berkeley, and the present day. Tom had come home to set up a practice which left him little time for more than an occasional e-mail or phone call, but he still felt close to Phil.

  Finally, after plates and remnants had been dumped in the sink, Tom drew a curtain on the mess and the two men settled down for serious discussion.

  Having already indicated a wish to talk over a case, Tom found Phil eager and waiting.

  ‘My client has given me carte blanche in the matter,’ Tom began. ‘She’s scared enough, and far enough down the line to let me try anything that might help her. Which doesn’t mean she’s told me everything, of course. Some of the material that’s come up must have done so during her years of analysis, but she’s not admitting anything. Apparently I’m to do it all without any prompting from her – a sort of test of my abilities, I suppose, even while she’s sinking.’

  Phil shrugged. ‘It’s not unusual. We all hesitate to trust completely.’

  ‘Maybe. At any rate, I want you to listen to this tape and give me your opinion.’

  Phil closed his eyes and listened as Tom’s voice took his patient through the preliminary stages until she was answering his questions about her childhood. He started to bring her out, and her voice changed. Phil was electrified. He popped up in the chair, rigid with intensity. When Tom stopped the tape at the end, his friend appeared to be thinking furiously. Tom left him to it.

  Within a few minutes Phil snapped out of his concentrated space. ‘Can I hear it again, please? Just the last part, the change.’

  Tom complied.

  ‘Of course, you know what you’ve got here?’ Phil’s eyes flared and his lean body had tensed, a thoroughbred ready to leave the starting gate.

  ‘If I knew I wouldn’t be asking you.’

  ‘Come on. Surely you’ve heard of Bridie Murphy, the Bloxham tapes…’

  ‘Hey, now, listen. You’re not going to dig up that old stuff. Sure, we’ve progressed to an understanding of the so-called “multiple personality” disorder, now known as dissociative identity disorder, but I don’t believe it fits this case.’

  ‘You’re behind the times, my friend. The New Age studies are based on something quite different: the intrinsic belief in reincarnation of the soul. Tom, your patient has just gone through a classic past-life regression, and you were the one privileged to hear it!’

  Tom couldn’t speak. When he could, he spluttered, ‘Absolute nonsense! Where’s your trained mind gone? Wandering off amongst the daisies? I never heard such rubbish!’

  Phil just smiled. ‘Cool it, Tom. You did ask for my opinion. Tell me something about this client. What’s her background?’

  Tom busied himself rewinding the tape, avoiding looking at his friend. ‘She’s forty-two, North American, as you can hear, born in the blue grass country, Kentucky, but lived most of her adult life on the west coast and following the European circuit. At present living in London in her own apartment. Inherited wealth from father, a racehorse breeder - married three times, divorced three times. No children.’

  ‘Come on, Tom. You’re stalling.’

  Tom’s lopsided grin was back in place. ‘You’re right, damn you. This one’s getting to me and I don’t know why. She’s all the things I most despise – idle, rich, spoilt, selfish – and she’s also obsessional and terrified.’

  ‘How terrified?’

  ‘She’s on the run, from everything that used to matter to her - friends, the social whirl. She skulks in that Mayfair apartment, scarcely daring to step out by day, and walking the streets at night because she can’t bear to sleep. She’s slowly killing herself.’

  Phil frowned, picked up his glass and went to stand near the fire, contriving to edge Habakkuk out of his warm spot. He went with an outraged hiss.

  ‘You’d better tell me all, friend.’

  Tom had sunk right down against the cushions, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin buried in his collar as he concentrated.

  ‘She’s developed this obsession with a painting, one she saw in a Bond Street Gallery window just before it went into an exhibition. It seems that when she tried to buy it she’d been drinking heavily at the time, and understandably, the gallery personnel were reluctant to do business with her. She admits this quite freely. By the way, alcohol is a problem but I’ve found no evidence of hard drugs.’

  Phil leant on the mantelshelf, eyes closed, but attentive.

  ‘Unbeknownst to either of us, we both attended the opening night of the exhibition. It was the first by an unknown artist, and the work’s magnificent. I got there early and became a trifle obsessed myself.’

  ‘You bought something?’

  ‘I bought the painting coveted by my client.’

  ‘Shit! What happened?’

  ‘I guess I was lucky I’d already left when she discovered she’d missed out. Her cab had been involved in an accident, making her late. She created a scene, the gallery people tried to persuade her to buy something else, and she hit someone with her handbag. You don’t do that sort of thing at Theodore Sampson’s place. When she found they weren’t going to give her my name and address she threatened them with everything from legal proceedings to arson, and was quietly removed. Apparently, next morning she returned and bribed someone for the information, and she turned up on my doorstep an hour later.’

  ‘Did you sell her the painting?’

  ‘Nope. She’d bullied her way past Sally into my rooms and I wasn’t too pleased with her manner. Besides, I want that painting myself.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘You should have seen Sally’s face when I turned down an offer of twenty thousand pounds.’

  Tom about-faced, staring at his friend. ‘For a work by an unknown! You were mad not to take it.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the painting. Don’t interrupt. The best bit’s to come. She went away and waited until I’d gone out and Sally had popped into the restroom, then calmly walked into my office, stood on a chair and pinched the thing off the wall. I came back for my brief bag and caught her hightailing it down the corridor with my painting under her arm. I brought her down with my best rugby tackle and saved it at the cost of a bruised knee.’

  ‘What about a bruised woman! Tom, I don’t see you tackling a female, whatever the provocation.’ He held up his hand hurriedly. ‘I know. I know. I haven’t seen the painting. But I intend to. It’s got magical properties.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So what’s t
he end of this story? How come you took on this obsessed female as a patient? I’d have thought there wasn’t the slightest chance in the world of you building a trusting relationship after all that.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘You don’t turn away someone who’s at the end of the line, but trying desperately to hold herself together.’ He grinned unexpectedly. ‘Especially if you’ve just knocked her flying all over the corridor.’

  ‘What you mean is you recognized another lame dog and promptly picked it up. You’ll never change. I guess it’s why I like you in spite of your mule-headedness.’

  ‘Nor will you change, pal. I know you’re only biding your time ’til you spring your wacky theories back on me. We might as well get it over with, so fire away.’

  Phil looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you want to? It’s a poor lookout if you can’t keep an open mind.’

  ‘Try me.’ Tom had carefully screened all comment from his voice. He still sat with arms crossed, which hardly augured well for his attitude of mind; but his dark eyes were fixed on Phil, compellingly.

  ‘Here goes then. As you know, for the past eighteen months I’ve been working in a laboratory outside of L.A.. The project was pretty hush hush, being within the military jurisdiction. I can’t say much except that it had a connection with a lot of New Age stuff. They’re taking it pretty seriously these days, Tom. Even the Russians are seeking methods of using ESP projection and other elements of parapsychology in a military application.’

  Tom nodded. That was the sort of fill-in news item that appeared whenever the papers ran short of grisly discoveries or pandemic disaster of some kind.

  Phil went on, ‘I researched groups and individuals who practice esoteric techniques of mind expansion and changing states of consciousness – without the use of drugs, I may add. It got me in, Tom. There was so much that couldn’t be explained by any of the known natural laws. I found… Jesus, Tom! If you only knew! I finally ended up using one of the oldest test methods, the empiric method.’ He paused impressively.