Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness

by David John Griffin

  Turning back for a moment to see the clean moon shining in her hair and highlighting couples and groups.

  A parent is attempting to keep her child under control, luring him away from the willow trees lit by lanterns. ‘Jonathan, get away.’

  There, doctor, the silhouette of Bernadette, indicating for him to go back to his concerned mother.

  Three friends are standing equidistantly around the perimeter of the fountain base, its lamps shining from beneath the shallow water. There’s a colour for each of them, making one red as though he’s by a camp fire, the second a ghoulish green and the third turned yellow. It’s Green who speaks. ‘A pint in it for you.’ The concrete dolphin – its tail merging with the plinth – suddenly has spurted a cascade from its mouth. It’s made the surface of the water in the base alive with tinkling droplets. Yellow is finding this extremely funny. ‘Beat me to it!’ he says to Green. I still don’t know what he means.

  Ivy, studded with lightbulbs, covers the wall and parts of the large gold letters spelling the name “The Neptune Hotel”. Tucked into a corner, not far from double doors leading to the main bar, a couple sit on a bench in the shadows, clutching each other.

  Delete them. Good, the bench is empty. The last time I’ll have to do that. Those three about the fountain will act as guardians, to make sure no one else ever sits there. Easily done.

  The same shrill mother from the beer garden. ‘Johnny, if you don’t come here this instant…’ The little fellow has run back to his new friend. A shadow-play set on the end of the jetty. The black background has been dabbed with white dots to represent stars. Yellow has been sprayed to make a moon with moonlight hints on the edges of silk clouds. The shape of railings has been cut out of cardboard and laid below it. Then two figures, life-like and sharply defined, are placed: one delineating the cut-out of Bernadette, bending from the waist, the other, the boy.

  I’ll squeeze between these two sofas, nodding from one drink to the other in my hands.

  ‘There we go.’ I’ll put them on the copper topped table and sit.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What do you mean? Vodka and orange. That’s what you wanted in this mindroom. I’ve also created a circle of metal trees around us.’

  ‘Donald, I asked for Martini and lemonade.’

  ‘Oh, I’d swear you…’ I should stand again to change it but Bernadette has hold of my sleeve.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, this’ll do.’

  We’re sitting next to the figurehead. I’ll rub a palm over its roughened surface. ‘He must have seen a lot, do you reckon?’

  She’s not paying attention. Her sight is towards the wall of engravings and prints. Men are there with casual stances, holding pint jugs and tankards, chatting in groups of three and four. They are the shopkeepers from the mall and the pier attendants, I think.

  ‘Who you staring at?’

  ‘No one. Carry on.’

  ‘I was saying, this figurehead … Bernadette, what are you playing at?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that — forget it.’

  ‘How am I expected to, when you purposefully aren’t attempting to change your memory? When you’ve opened the wrong mindroom again?’

  ‘Me?’ She’s leaning forward to speak in a whisper. ‘Alright, don’t look, but the man in the striped jacket.’ But I can’t resist the temptation. I’ll turn around casually as I always do, eyes sweeping the room. ‘I told you, don’t look. Ooh, you can be embarrassing sometimes.’ She’s slapped the back of my hand resting on the table.

  I’ve spotted him. I try my hardest to change what I see, every time. But no, he’s always there in that bright summer jacket with its red, white and black stripes. It stands out from amidst the blues and browns. He brings his glass to his lips. Taking it away again, leaving froth on his black moustache which he then wipes with his bottom lip. He looks to me. Or rather past me. And he makes a subtle but definite gesture with the fingers on his left hand as though it might be a secret sign. Perhaps my imagination overtakes at this point. All the same, I whip around to face Bernadette; catch whatever reaction I might find.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ She comments before smiling and nodding over my shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing? Who is he?’

  Though I know, the name burned away. This mindroom will soon be repaired. Surely, it must.

  ‘Last week, on the pier.’

  ‘When last week? You never told me. Who is this bloke? Tell me quickly, then I won’t tell the doctor. It can’t be Aaron. He’s rotting in the harbour.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Donald, stop getting worked up. When you were with Marianne on the ghost train.’

  ‘Is this the truth?”

  Bernadette’s lips tighten, I always see that. She’s blurting, ‘Alright, if you must know, it was when you forgot to pick me up the week before last.’ I’m becoming annoyed. She continues in a lighter tone, ‘He’s a palm reader. Reads tarot cards as well, from a little white chalet at the end of the pier. Only a temporary job, though.’

  ‘Oh I see, got chatting, did we, to a figment of your imagination?’

  ‘Really, Donald, you’re getting me nettled. Wasn’t expensive if you’re worried.’

  ‘That’s not it.’ How can I explain without sounding foolish the idea of anyone else touching even your hand ties a knot in me? ‘Alright, what did he have to say before he drowned?’

  ‘I’m going to have a happy life. There are going to be changes.’

  ‘What sort of changes?’

  ‘Three children; the usual stuff. Live to a ripe old age. And when—’

  ‘All hogwash you know.’

  ‘I haven’t said any different, have I? But the bit about the children.’ She’s squeezing my hand.

  ‘Hot in here. I’m going to have a nose around the beer garden, see if the other mindroom has improved.’

  I notice she’s disappointed because I’ve changed the subject. ‘If you want,’ she answers, shrugging. She’s picking up her drink, and as I walk away, her eyes are seeking his again.

  Let his top half slip from the bottom half, slop to the floor, pint of beer emptying over the feet of the others. He doesn’t deserve a uniting elastic band.

  The guardians by the fountain still stand immobile, protective, vigilant. Just as they should be. I’ll stroll across the grass between the willow trees and picnic benches, over to Bernadette who’s leaning on the railing. Put my pint of ale down on the concrete base of the rails. I’ll slip my hands onto her waist and hold her to me. But there’s no response. She might as well be a mannequin. Still she stares out to a blacker, shifting sea as if searching for someone. I’ve realized she’s crying. I’ll gently take her by the shoulders. Her long hair, still with the moon tinting it, has fallen over her white face. Lantern light highlights her tears.

  ‘Hey, Binny, shh, what is it?’

  ‘You know what.’ Always whimpers. Always turns her back.

  ‘Listen, you know we can’t afford it. I’d love a family as much as you but not at the moment. We struggle with the mortgage every month as it is. Just wouldn’t be practical, would it? Let’s wait another year at least. There’s no rush. A year’s no time, you’ll see.’

  She doesn’t reply. The gold locket glitters from the night lights. Is it green? Still gold.

  Finally, she speaks. ‘Alright, no babies then.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m glad you see sense.’

  ‘Then I want to go out to work.’

  ‘You must be joking. My wife working? No way. You shouldn’t have to. The husband works and the wife stays at home.’

  ‘And looks after the children.’

  ‘Very clever. Not what I meant.’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s not what you meant.’ Spinning around to glare at me. ’You’ve got it every way, haven’t you?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘We can’t afford to have a baby but you won’t let me bring in a bit of money so we can. A part
-time job.’

  ‘Like doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know. You make it seem uncommon. Millions of women work. Anyone would think you’re Victorian. Secretarial temping work like when I met you; barmaid…’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’

  She’s obviously annoyed. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. We may be married, but it doesn’t mean I have to obey what you say.’

  ‘So you didn’t mean what you said in church — Binny, come back…’

  She’s marching away in the direction of the fountain guardians. Keep away from the bench, go anywhere but there. Better still, return. I didn’t mean what I had babbled. Let’s have a bubble-blowing infant to share. Come here, I can change. Not too late, is it? Doctor, does it have to be how I fear it might? I can alter the past which will be the future, believe me. Here, as I watch green-black water slurping and slapping below; look, over there … there, floating just under the surface: bloated form, hair moving like a fine sea plant, flesh turned to green sponge, a white pastry; those empty sockets, the crabs from inside of the skull via the gaping mouth. See how I can show truth, here at my feet. All that’s left of Aaron, the crap palm reader. I can be believed. I want us to have a baby. Are you listening?

  15

  ‘Bernadette?’

  ‘What? I was about to fall asleep then. You’ve spoilt it. It’s going to take me ages.’ Mumbling into her pillow.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re always sorry. Keep quiet and goodnight.’

  I’ll touch her on the shoulder blade. She’s shrugged me away with a flinch of her body. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘Let’s make love,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Let me make love to you. Ten weeks, since the last time.’ I’m whining but can’t help myself. She stays silent. ’Bernadette, Binny – I love you.’

  There was the time when these words held within them a myriad of songs, when it encompassed the universe, was as warm as a log fire. But now its icicle form betrays it for its true meaning of do you love me?

  ‘Let me rest.’ She’s listless as sleep begins to tug, begins to take her away.

  ‘A cuddle then.’ I’m snuggling up to her back, stroking the embroidery of her nightgown. But she’s wriggled and twisted quickly before sitting up. Her hair is dishevelled as she sways with tiredness.

  ‘For goodness sake, Donald. I don’t want a cuddle. I just want to sleep. Leave me alone.’

  She slaps her head back down and it’s buried into the pillow. The bed rises and falls for a second. Feeling hurt I’ll turn my back on her and assume a similar position. Pull the eiderdown up to my neck. My whole being is yearning for her. I’m burning and wounded, and in no mood to sleep. There’s slow breathing behind me.

  Drumming of wheels as this trick train rumbles on. The scenery running past the windows, an extended piece of canvas dabbed expertly with pigment mixed with linseed oil. The noises made by the mock train, a clever recording. There might be a gang who’ve been employed to push and pull the carriages to simulate motion. But for what purpose? What is the motive? If I had the inclination, I’d leap out and tear down the canvas to see where we really are. I’ll look back to the carriages and there – where the wheels should be – will be wooden blocks, and the passengers decorated dummies, their cogs scattered on the ground.

  But how clever it is. Quite admirable really. The whole scene whistling by, the painting succeeding in making it appear so real, so convincingly 3D. A masterpiece of deception. The depth of field created in the town over there, sprawled like a slumbering beast, is exceptional; the occasional bursts of cold sunlight bouncing from office windows like a photographer’s flashbulb firing is well done. And the stark buildings and pylons and telegraph poles.

  Skimming past watch towers, water towers, house towers, vats and pipes and smoking cauldrons. There are oil drums, chimneys erect; a grassed field – a running man retrieving a stick while his panting dog looks on – under a bridge; rattling through a cutting, clattering past a station, plunging into another tunnel — these lights grow dim; they’ve gone out.

  This thick blackness. A stifled coughing to a half moon.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  No reply except the ceasing of a rhythmic shuffling of bedclothes. I can feel my neck burn. Still she would rather enjoy herself than have me touch her. I will hold my breath but there’s only silence. I’m going to pretend sleep. I’ll make a convincing whistling through my teeth. It’s not long before the regular shuffling begins again and I can feel the bed rocking gently. I’m stimulated and humiliated, interested yet enraged. Her breathing is becoming deeper but faster until it’s a panting. The bed is creaking with the regular movement of her hands. Surely she must know I’m awake? She’s letting out fleeting moans.

  Breathing more rapidly with her, blood pumping in my throat. Faster she’s going and the bed has set up a canter. The final energetic ruffling of the eiderdown and squeaking bed; a muffled whimper, then silence and stillness.

  Had she known I’d been listening? I’ve been made to be excited and I want to touch myself. But sleep thunders up, presses down upon my eyelids, transports me away, past barren stretches, coal yards, motorways; watch towers, water towers, house towers.

  The city maze. Look at it spread out, a rubbish dimension. Rambling mess of angular buildings and awkward traffic, interrupted by the dead river winding through it. Filthy sky fit for a filthy day.

  I’ll watch the landscape. See this symphony, as wretched and dreary as it is, with its rolling roads and legato parks, and cadences of decaying constructions. Always the same, scenes passing to be replaced with replicas, without a break.

  Tattered corpse of a plastic bag flapping feebly, impaled by the twigs of a bush. It can flap as much as it likes, cry out if it wants. Won’t make any difference to me.

  Left behind, alone, the way it should be. Suffer alone otherwise it’s a counterfeit suffering, a pretence. But then the lot is pretence anyhow.

  Why should I care for anyone else’s failings? They must solve their pathetic problems by themselves, doctor. Each person builds their own bridge like an artist does with a brush; the joining between their island and the outside world. Become aware of the inner self communicating to the outer one. I distinctly remember telling you this. But answer me: why is the outside world insisting on being the only true place?

  Why shouldn’t there be some other materiality, a difficult-to-get-at, hard-won reality made inside our own heads? Certainly a subject we need to discuss more. And don’t think I’m going to hide my annoyance when you’ll inevitably argue.

  A common labourer linking arms with a mechanical nun? There, both near the cathedral, strolling across cobbles under the dancing trees.

  Gone, lost to the false city with its huddled buildings, and river pretending realness.

  What manner of complex animals are us real ones? What have I become? Why should I have instilled – into the very nucleus – the equation x equals x, along with the nagging and burning desire to want to know what x is? Will I ever learn? Will the answer be my final thought?

  That’ll surely be synonymous with my first, whatever that was, belonging together as two sides of the equation. Neat bookends to the life, first and last, beginning and end, the question and the answer. Then the time miracle happens. I’ll start again where I began. And the next question asked. Still more questions, questions. Waiter, bring me some brain brakes. Like a centrifuge, it’s sending out innermost locked rooms to the edge. Doesn’t anyone care?

  16

  ‘Don’t you care? Do you always think of yourself ? Bernadette, you’re not speaking. You’re becoming as bad as Dr Leibkov.’

  ‘Because you haven’t stopped yapping to let me get one word in.’

  ‘What do you expect? Opening the wrong mindroom again, not in when I get home, no dinner ready. It’s only fair. And you still haven’t told me where you’ve been this afternoon.’

  See that cunning smile mar her attractive face, glazed eyes leave m
ine and glance to the ceiling, cheeks flushing slightly.

  ‘I’m stuck in the house all day – decided to go for a walk in the mall. Caught the bus.’

  Already I’m becoming suspicious at this point, doctor, though I’ll attempt to forge a barrier this time – a heavy steel shutter. I won’t be exposed to any false truth.

  ‘A long walk then. It’s eight o’ clock. I’ve been home for over an hour, waiting. I was that concerned, I was going to call the police.’

  ‘The police? Whatever for?’

  ‘I told you. I didn’t know what happened. I’ve been pacing up and down. You won’t wear your silver foil.’

  Mock sympathy: ‘Ah, poor thing. Just because the ropes tying me to the house came undone. Just because you let your slave escape.’

  ‘I see what you’re doing. One of your little tricks, this is.’ At these words, she always seems to wonder what I’m insinuating, waiting for more fuel to feed the flames of the argument. Every time, every time, every time. Still I have to speak on. ‘You’re in the wrong. Then to cover your guilt, you turn the blame onto me.’ Smug with my answer. ‘Anyway, answer me this: there I am, looking out of the window…’

  ‘And you wouldn’t start a dinner for once.’

  ‘Let me finish. Looking out, and all of a sudden you appear. Coming round the corner at the end of the road.’

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to talk about? I’ve got the vegetables to put on.’ I’ll follow her into the kitchen.

  ‘And I watch your progress towards the house.’

  ‘Just shut up, Donald.’ She has snatched down a saucepan from one of the wall hooks.

  ‘Every step of the way — but there was no bus that passed along the main road. A bit odd, don’t you reckon?’

  She has stopped her movements, seeming to study the potatoes on the work surface. She’s there for a century, turned to a pillar of salt until, quickly, her words shuffling into each other, she says, ‘I went to Stuarts, got off the stop before. The bus would have passed before you started moping through the window. Any more questions for your enquiry, inspector, or can I make dinner?’