A bank of earth ahead, with shafts of light pushed into this subdued underworld.
Run to it and scramble up. Doctor, are you watching? I’ll need to clutch at those stems to aid my ascent. This trouble I’m having – it’s not very steep but the hamper is hampering me.
What a splendid surprise. I wish you could see this. All is washed with an exquisite brightness. Abundant bottle-green ferns, growing each side of a wide track covered in a lush moss. Fewer trees but each seem a flawless specimen, huge rugged boles which two adults couldn’t encircle. Long dipped boughs are an invitation to be climbed if I were younger. The ferns are neighbours with fields of ox-eye daisies and vibrant red poppies.
As lovely as this is I’m feeling uneasy at losing her. She’s here in the mindroom somewhere. Maybe I just need to reconstruct her in a proper fashion; perhaps I need to call her name again.
Push my way through the ferns. Another surprise. A circle of grass surrounding a mammoth oak is in superb condition as if tended by a gardener. A magpie has flown to a bough.
‘Bernadette!’ Has she got lost?
Throw the hamper onto the grass. I’m certain she’s nearby. Make my way back to the shady territory.
As I’m battling through bushes, scraping past black and green thickets, a sense of foreboding is taking hold. This twilight is muffling the outer world. My one spot of woodland is an island, a crafty hall of mirrors reflecting only a few clumps of trees and the same tangles of plants bedded into their layer of decaying vegetation. And if I were to scrape away at my feet I would discover concrete. In fact, when I look down, it is concrete. When I find Bernadette I’ll see other Bernadettes running. First there’ll be a laugh of delight, hanging high with the birds’ nests, solidifying and proclaiming delighted attention, as though suspended on an invisible wire. Then this’ll fragment like a comet breaking up; I wouldn’t know whether a duplication or the real Bernadette produced it, the wonderful, gentle creature whom I love so much. And she loves me.
Now it’s a Bernadette wandering through a dismal place, no doubt with tears welling, desperate to erase false memories of bony fingers shuffling Tarot cards, stealers who can make their skins the texture of bark, chameleon-like. She might be calling from the depths but the scheming trees would be stifling her or sending her in the wrong direction.
Being fooled by these mirrors and I’m going round in circles. I’ve been hacking aside cables and metal lattices for over ten minutes. Concrete trees and steel bushes decide where I should go; pushing me one way, barring my advance another. Scratched and whipped, rendered tired and impatient, hungry and worried. Must regard my watches. One second needs to kickstart the other.
Try to push away nasty notions. There are some odd characters about. What if Bernadette has been discovered by someone, this pretty young woman wearing a pretty dress? Perhaps ancient fathers have found her. No, erase that.
As it happens, there’s an odd character inspecting me in a quite annoying manner. He appears to be standing on a train station platform. Why would you inspect me in such an aggressive way, Dr Leibkov? I see, it can’t be you, the stupid apparition’s walked away.
There’s the bank I’ll climb again. Call out her name once more. I have to. The only reply is that stuttering bird’s cry and a flurry of wings.
5
Found the carpet of moss again. Veering off, flattening another channel through the ferns. Walking further until I see the poppies and daisies over to the right and glimmers of sea through the clusters of trees lining the cliff edge.
The pool of pastoral grass; thick roots of the oak tree like embracing knuckles. The hamper open and a picnic laid out: bowl of strawberries and plate of sandwiches, tomatoes, pâté and sticks of celery, on a chequered cloth. And my Bernadette there on the grass, sitting with bare legs curled to the side, holding a glass of wine.
‘Binny, where the heck have you been? Was so worried.’
Getting to me, it really has. I was beginning to believe you’d ceased to exist. This mindroom was in danger, was becoming compromised.
‘Brush those bits out of your hair. Look peahead, you’ve ripped your jacket; you’ll put blood on it.’
‘Blood?’
‘You’re bleeding, there, the wrist.’ Just above our slingshot band of love and perfect understanding. ‘What a state you’re in. I doubled back, was following. I was going to jump out, give you a surprise,’ she’s brushing my wig, ‘but you ran off again. I’ve eaten most of the sandwiches, it’s your own fault.’
Dabbing smears from my face with a handkerchief.
‘No, leave it.’ She doesn’t understand homage makeup.
‘I was only joking.’
‘About what?’
‘Eating the sandwiches. I’ve only eaten my half.’
I must throw myself at her as a wave of pure joy cleanses me. I plant kisses on her forehead and cheeks. ‘Oh Binny, I lost you.’ I must cling to my wife, my friend, my meaning of existence. Have to hold tight, make sure I never let go again.
‘Silly.’ She’s pushing me away to take a sip of wine.
Two cabbage whites flitter and twirl. We will create garlands of buttercups to cup the light.
‘I love you; love, love, love you.’ Distinct laughter, not certain why.
Yes, I see, how can three simple words hold total meaning? They’re only syllables strung together. They can’t contain the passions and yearnings, the wanting, more than bodily – the blending of minds, a meeting of spirits. Every ounce of me needs to enfold her for always. A shuddering elation is swelling in my throat.
Gently pull her to me, like this, my hands meeting around her. I have her, she has me forever. The joy of knowing her is incomparable. A light breeze is rippling the poppies, making them dance.
‘Do you love me?’ I had to ask. Damnation, why did I say it? She’s pulled away and appears hurt as she bites her lip. ‘Sorry.’ I’m no better than a beggar cringing in a shop doorway rattling a tin can. I’m not sorry to you though, doctor, in case you were somehow responsible for promoting that question.
Still not clicking despite you seeming an intelligent man, is it? Let me explain another way then. If I get this precise – really accurate – here in the mindrooms, it’ll inevitably happen in the real future dream. Perhaps not exactly but the same ambiences and love colours will occur again. I’m working through such an elegant solution.
Excuse me please while I correct the mistake for the next dream time.
There we are. She appears to have brightened.
We’ll eat in silence awhile, let our skin tingle in the warmth within the tranquillity of our abundant surroundings.
‘Didn’t mean to ask, you know. It was an aberration in the mindroom.’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Trying to say, can never live without you.’
Have I said too much again with no mystery or wonder left? What’s your opinion, doctor? You can’t speak, can you? I haven’t heard you speak for months. But then you don’t have to. Bernadette is engaging enough. No matter what she says there’s deepness and affection, subtle attraction.
‘Eat your sandwiches and be quiet. Stop being serious.’
I should leap to my feet, carve a symbol of union into a guardian tree, let Bernadette watch the happening as if I were a performance artist. Though no need. Already she’s watching with fondness given in sultry pulses. My Binny, with your lustrous hair, your delicious kissable neck.
We settle, enclosed by wild angelica, tiers of poppies and daisies, canopy of foliage above. Lay kissing, caressing, embracing. Feeling warmth on the back of my neck, insistent burning weight which has stilled blossoms, held trunks tight. Murmur of leaves; distant sea folding and bending, moving as frothed white curtains to the beach. Affirming life-song, high flying dove, far-away breathy, clacking beat of a train.
She must speak softly, quietly: ‘This is our place and our secret.’
‘Our place and secret, yes – just the three of us.’
‘Three?’
‘You, me and King Smythe.’ That’s all.
Rhythm like tribal drums, beating louder, a solid pulse. Shrieking brakes; grinding and banging as though a train has left its track and is plunging from a plume of unreality through the forest, roaring into the trees, barging them aside as skittles and sending frightened birds flocking. The roll of drums is louder still, becoming frenzied as the Goliath machine charges headlong out of control through the woods, sending high trunks creaking and crashing to the ground, letting new light into hushed habitat for the first time in centuries.
This beat is becoming deafening. The engine pulling its carriages, mashing those poppies to pulp. Thundering past, tearing more trees apart. Bernadette, tumble down the bank to safety. The drums are slowing until the train has come to rest at a platform. I seem to be standing on a platform.
Clicking like castanets as train door buttons are pressed, doors sliding open, shuffling commuters boarding, sorting themselves to single files; a guard with his flag raised and a whistle clamped between his teeth; the doors finally shutting. A shrill peep then an electronic bell sounded. The train moved off.
Clement sat by a window on the train. He watched without much interest as the station began sliding away.
He became anxious all at once with his breathing irregular. He was certain he had forgotten something. Of course, he realised quickly, it wasn’t something, it was someone. And the solution was elementary. Create Dr Leibkov in a mindroom aligned with the outside.
But there was no need. The doctor stepped out of a wardrobe and was strolling across the walkway above the train, seen as if without a single worry, not one care in the world.
Not a care in the world. You’re well. Bernadette’s well. I’m well. Doctor, I might speak to you later though I’m sure there won’t be any need.
6
The train moved slowly from the station and under the walkway spanning the rails. It went through a short tunnel before coming out between the high walls of a cutting. The carriages set up a rocking motion. A wall moved by, streaked with ragged runs of dampness. The bricks were locked by boxes of mortar, cracked and crumbling. With the train’s lazy speed the wall appeared to be endless. Not only a ponderous repetition moving backwards but row upon row upwards. Clement tried to see the top by flattening his cheek to the window. Perhaps the wall soared upwards forever, and maybe it went on and on across the countryside, slicing through towns and villages, dividing houses and public buildings and parks. Conceivably it was an immense brick barrier with the earth as its epicentre, moving out forever to make separate vastnesses dividing the cosmos. Two sides of an infinite coin, yin and yang, Bernadette and Donald. Mrs Froby would like that concept, Clement thought.
It was as if the oppressive walls possessed magnetic fields capable of pulling back the carriages – already they were decelerating. At this rate he was going to be late for the first day at work.
The train stopped. No morning light between train and wall, only muddy shadows. And this dimness spread thickly through the carriage as the illuminated strips in the ceiling blinked twice and went out.
If only he was capable of opening the window fully and easing out one of the bricks. Maybe no earth compacted behind but a cheering sky.
The train creaked then jolted into movement and began to pick up speed. Brighter again as the walls quickly came to an end and a cold sunlight plunged into the carriages. The brown roofs of a housing estate stretched away and up the side of a valley.
He inspected his fellow passengers. Over to the right, a woman sat, reading a book. In front of Clement, a besuited man intent upon reading his newspaper which shielded him from the sharp morning sun.
Clement leaned forward and announced with excitement in his voice, ‘I know you in the material world.’
The middle-aged man in the striped suit brought the newspaper down and with his brow creased, inspected Clement while adjusting his spectacles.
‘Do I know you, young lady?’
‘Donadette today.’
‘Donadette?’ He appeared confused and flinched from his chunk of raw sunshine before taking the spectacles off to clean the lenses with a part of his shirt. Once the glasses were replaced he gave a snort and growled, ‘What – the – hell is your game, hmm?’ His eyes were enlivened, unsure as to where he should rest his sight.
The auburn wig which Clement wore was cut to a bob. His sallow face, twitching and beige with foundation, had mascara, lipstick and rouge roughly applied. Over his embroidered blouse he wore an overcoat and where this finished was the bottom of a bottle green skirt. From this protruded lumpy knees held together, his skinny legs covered with tights. What appeared as a random pattern were the flattened hairs under them. A pair of women’s block heeled sandals were on his feet.
‘Remember me, Jeremy? I’ve got reliable corridors and mindrooms now.’ Clement showed a pale palm with a thick green elastic band around his wrist dividing the two watches there.
Keeping his mouth hard as if attempting ventriloquism, Mr Finch replied, ‘How do you know my name?’ His cheeks had become a flustered red and he looked quickly about the carriage with obvious embarrassment.
‘Still at Penshart I’m guessing. Haven’t appeared in a while. Where are you living for real this time?’
‘I know who you are now. Donald Clement. The one with the — problems. So they’ve let you out, have they?’
Clement ignored the sarcastic question in favour of extending his hand, the nails there painted with a green varnish. ‘That’s me. Pleased to see you still exist. And I have solutions.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ was all Finch could reply, avoiding the handshake.
‘I lodge in living quarters, an overall womb in Cressmore Street. Do you know, I’ve forgotten your surname.’ Finch, still disturbed by Clement’s appearance, was unable to speak. Clement continued, ‘Hang on, don’t tell me … Finch, yes? Finch on the fiddle.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No offence meant, Jeremy,’ Clement returned, ‘if you didn’t realize your label. You know what the workers at Penshart Press were like. Used to call me Don the deranged. Just because they found my theories hard to comprehend. Because I perceive differently. Couldn’t understand me wanting to be a scriptwriter. Or discern any transformation. Like today, they wouldn’t get it: subduing the inferior haters, destroyers, the perverted minds. I’ve invited part of the woman for a while, you know, permanent love and understanding, welcoming forgivers and peacemakers. I can actually be anything I want really, since protecting myself. Still doing accounts? Juggling numbers, becoming fat or slim, depending how much you feed them. Sure you get my artistic meaning.’
After a pause, Finch answered with a suspicious tone, ‘Actually, I’m executive accountant at Stansbird and Swale. You’ve heard of them no doubt. Anyway, nice to have met you again but I need to read my paper before the next station.’
Both were having to raise their voices above the clattering of wheels as the carriages changed tracks.
Clement had leant back and was seemingly communicating with his lap. ‘Not them with their theatrical fabrication. Willbeam or something. Wilson, was it? I did tell you to forget that travesty, doctor.’
Finch hid behind his newspaper, hands shaking.
‘Oh,’ said Clement, raising his wigged head. ‘Walstaff, that was it. Unreal interruption, supposedly expensive. There, we’ve come round to those elusive numbers again, haven’t we?’ Finch buried his back to the seat and let a shrug be answer enough. ‘Haven’t we?’ stated Clement again. A simple enough question.
‘Yes,’ Finch muttered finally and hurriedly, glancing at his watch then out of the window, willing the train to go faster. ‘Well then,’ he added, throwing his newspaper beside him, ‘Still no better, I see. Where do you work now? Proofreading for the asylum pamphlets perhaps?’
‘I remember the printing business. Those greedy machines, floods of colour, enough to paint the to
wn in new shades. Imagine no grey concrete. How pleasant to see it in another vibrancy. Orange, maybe. Don’t know what you think.’ He nodded, and grinned at his own humour.
‘I don’t know what you think,’ Finch said quietly.
‘Another for you: eidetic or diuretic?’
‘Look, you are feeling alright – you’re looked after.’
Clement nodded with a benign appearance taking over.
Finch began to fold his newspaper in preparation to leave at the next stop. The train was already slowing. He regarded Clement and was disconcerted to see him still nodding and grinning.
Clement’s former colleague cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for an interesting conversation,’ he lied. ‘Alright then…’
The carriage rocked from side to side as the train slowed the more.
Finch was feeling uncomfortable at the odd expression on Donald Clement’s lipstick-painted lips. In an attempt to break the spell of his companion’s obsessive behaviour he blurted, ‘Sorry about your divorce. I’m sure it worked out to a satisfactory conclusion.’
Clement finally became still. ‘Barriers,’ he said with a sour look upon him, his coloured eyelids flickering.
Jeremy Finch got to his feet, moving to and fro with the motion of the train. He was gripping a luggage rack. ‘Pardon?’ he said.
‘Dr Leibkov. He’s demands I tear them down. Of course, I tell him what sort they’ve become.’ Clement spoke quietly as if imparting secret information: ‘Stronger than any metal, they’ve an opacity quite unlike any solid object. These barriers are such that, by comparison, a boulder or a stove, or the stump of a tree – you name it – is positively transparent.’ A line of people hurtling past the window appeared as if they were on some wildly moving platform propelling them past a stationary train. Finch pretended interest of this phenomenon and peered intently out. Clement continued, ‘Sometimes I’ll let through a small offering, though not often. For instance, it’s two-fold and the appointed observer, you see. Since spirals from primordial slime there’ve been mirrored relationships. Things have dualism or will have, agreed? Perfectly matched pairs, one with its opposite. Synthesis of real with the unreal now. Tell me, is that so bad? What weight of argument have you to accent your reasoning on this matter?’
Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness Page 4
