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

by David John Griffin

  ‘What did you buy at Stuarts?’

  ‘Clothes pegs. And before you ask they didn’t have any.’

  This will satisfy me. I’ve not much more to say to her for the rest of the evening. The dinner is absorbing; I can eat, and shuffle thoughts like a pack of cards at the same time.

  Of course, everything she says is perfectly true. My wife wouldn’t falsify. I didn’t really see the car pull away from around the corner, and the driver turning to smile and wave. But the more I chew on the underdone vegetables, the more I can’t stop thinking. I’ll cut the visual snapshots into manageable pieces and chew on those.

  But there he is again, turning and smiling and waving. And again, turning and smiling. And again, turning… I’ll zoom onto his features in my mind’s eye, like a cameraman, and when I see the smile – the bloody-toothed cat-smile – is showing below a black moustache, the anguish begins again like a vague headache. Sourceless, it’s pervading, blunting my senses and dragging me down. Crash and burn. Though an explanation as to why Bernadette should be alighting from a stranger’s car, and who that stranger might be, is easy to digest. This barrier has a fine set of holes to dilute the filmic frames.

  As I see the person turning to wave for the fiftieth time – glimpse his striped jacket – it’s already been sufficiently watered down to leave me with the decision that it didn’t really happen. All I have here is a morbid fascination with a fiction. Six feet of washed-out celluloid with the ends joined together, and it will loop and repeat, and be seen forever if wished. Though I don’t wish. It’s a small part only which wants this. The majority of me is getting queasy to the marrow.

  But then I should have eaten my breakfast. And dinner yesterday. My guts are agitated. I need food. Give me sustenance.

  17

  Clacking of cutlery on plates and the murmuring of patrons, the occasional voice rising above the sounds as a porpoise might leap from the sea. Those fishing nets hanging from the ceiling have collected dust. And, as if smaller versions of themselves, spider’s webs. Passers-by stop to inspect the menu tacked to the restaurant window. Some might come in and join the queue to the takeaway counter, where the proprietor serving will jut out his chin over the frying skate and cod to prompt the customer for his order. I’ve yet to hear this man speak. He communicates with flicks of fingers, movements of head and shoulder, a collection of mannerisms acquired over the years. For all I know, a deaf mute, reading lips before plunging the scoop into the trays or rattling the metal basket in the oil, or taking out a lump of fish from the glass cabinet.

  Cheap prints adorn the walls. They have violent splashes of printing inks, no doubt covering cracks in the plaster and the worse patches of grease. I’ll speak my order.

  ‘Two egg and chips; two slices; tea?’ the waitress rattles off.

  Already she’s back at my side, placing items on the scuffed melamine.

  Let’s cut away the white from the yolks to leave those disc pouches of runny yellow matter, willing to be impaled by a fried stick of potato. On the next table, a fat lady is putting a loaded fork to the mouth of her grimacing youngster. She’s making the sound of a train. Wonderfully accurate impression.

  A table of four women behind them is possibly another wind-up toy for each in turn leans forward to talk before sitting straight again to cut her food or eat. But they are doing this in a surprisingly consistent way, in rotation. Flies move in slow tangled zigzags above their scarved heads.

  I find that if I concentrate on one group I’m able to isolate their conversation from the rest, and if I watch the flies or look to the scruffy floor, it becomes a consistent undertone again. Strangely though, the chug of a train behind this.

  A shadow has fallen across my plate. You showing yourself at last, doctor?

  ‘Tea,’ speaks the bored waitress. She parks the cup and saucer before me, the brown liquid see-sawing to the lip. She’s gone but her shadow persists.

  ‘Would you mind if I share your table?’

  I see this figure in silhouette, having his back to the bright window and a spotlight hiding within the netting drapes.

  ‘Please do.’

  He’s sitting opposite me and I can view him more clearly. His head is as polished as a brown egg. As though someone has pulled hard down on his earlobes, his ears have settled too low with relation to his aquiline nose. Those eyes possess an indefinable strength and they seem to subtly change with the slightest of movement.

  He has engaged my attention now, exposing his teeth. They are as white as a starched napkin and small and even, tending towards points more than the usual curves at their tips. So captivating is he that I’m left holding my fork with a limp chip impaled on the prongs.

  He has paralysed me. I must break away from this binding spell. There, putting my arm down too quickly, I’ve knocked against the sauce bottle and it’s rocking wildly and spinning slowly, somehow defying gravity as it moves towards the edge of the table. In an instant I’ve grabbed the bottle before it teeters over. Lumps of hard sticky brown have stained my hand.

  This person is speaking with a fluidity unlike any other I have heard. The vocal quality is as appealing as an expensive, experienced perfume consisting of warm tones and subtle bass notes.

  ‘One must be quick, otherwise you will be noticed. I am often noticed – I think it’s because of my slight suntan.’

  I’m normally reticent to speak with people I don’t know yet this unique person has me formulating a reply. ‘A good tan it is too.’ He has a healthy shade washed into face and hands. But how curious indeed: he has no fingernails nor indentations where they should be. ‘Have you been abroad?’ I must add.

  Ridges appear where eyebrows might once have been. The stranger begins a monologue in his low, rich voice.

  ‘He sits alone in a room. There are many doors to this room. Each one will take him down corridors to similar rooms with yet more doors. There are no windows. The walls, floors and ceilings are of blue granite. In each of these rooms is a chair and a plain wooden table. Sometimes – though not often – he will discover other articles within a room, be it another piece of simple furniture or blocks of cut stone, or a jar of frogs. On one occasion, he found a clock hanging from a hook on the speckled wall. The second hand moves around to the twelve before turning back again, anti-clockwise, to the twelve; and thus it has continued. A lightbulb hangs from the ceiling in each room, held by a piece of green twisted flex. The lightbulbs never extinguish. There are no light switches. He has tried to unscrew the bulbs but they will not move; he has been unable to break them with the heel of his shoe, nor pull them from the ceiling by standing on a chair and hanging from the flex.

  ‘There are no intervals, no sounds other than those he makes. Once, emerging from one of his rare sleeps, there was a noise, far away, like a distant trumpet, followed by a woman’s laughter. He ran along many of the countless corridors and entered innumerable rooms although he never did find her that time. Sound has become the dropping of needles, metallic rain becoming ticking upon ticking becoming silent spaces filled with void. Such neat squares of loneliness.

  ‘There she is, hidden in the folds of nothing…

  ‘He knows nothing else but the doors and rooms and corridors. And the tables, chairs and lightbulbs, and the finds within rooms. He never grows older for he does not know what ageing is. He has spent many lifetimes studying the irregular texture of the walls, sometimes counting the grains he can see by pressing his nose to the surface.

  ‘There was the time when he found a vase of flowers. Every bloom beautifully formed, each bottle-green stem tapering in a gentle curve, serriform leaves growing at regular intervals along each length. He wished to investigate these flowers, overcome any query in his study of them, comprehend them totally: to have observed and studied every part of every single flower; to have perceived the relationship of each petal with the next; to have compared and absorbed the subtle shading of each bloom with another; to be conversant in every sensory a
spect, to the extent of being able to smell, taste and touch them in his mind – a mental depiction as total in all dimensions as the real items.

  ‘However he was unable to finish this task. A sudden impulse made him step into a shadowless, evenly-lit corridor for a matter of seconds only. Upon his return, the flowers and vase had vanished. Despair is far from him, despite this; he doesn’t grumble. It’s only a matter of time before another discovery will stimulate his interest.

  ‘Now he has found a room containing more than any other he has ever been into. He pours wine into a glass from a salmon pink stone pitcher. The liquid is stained by the yellow lamp light. He sips the wine. This is the first liquid he has ever tasted and it holds within it the miracle of life. There is a Christmas cracker lying beside a bread roll, and a butter knife, on a pine table. He picks up the cracker and takes an end in each hand before pulling outward. A difficult task and his face becomes red with the strain, and his mouth twists with the effort. It would require a minor adjustment: he perforates a line about the middle circumference with the knife. The cracker is more easily pulled into two parts, with a snap and the stench of sulphur. A crêpe paper hat – folded and tied with an elastic band – a scrap of paper, and a plastic whistle in the shape of a bird fall to the table, landing in a bowl of tomato soup before him. With a spoon he retrieves the three items from the soup. He lays the soggy scrap of paper and the folded hat and whistle upon the table beside the bowl. The elastic band is removed from the hat. Its vibrational quality is alpha two. He unfolds the hat and places it on his head. Taking the bird whistle by its hard beak he puts the fanned tail to his lips, and blows. It produces a sweet warbling and sputters tomato soup from the top of it. He inspects it and sees that the plastic moulding includes a worm in the beak of the bird, and that this worm is curled into the shape of the figure eight. If he were to break apart the whistle he would find inside another whistle, though much smaller, in the shape of a bird. If he would wish to break this one I should leave for him to decide, and what might be inside, let him discover. He might taste the soup and every so often his spoon would bring up another whistle from the red liquid, and he might notice the level of soup which never decreases, no matter how much he consumes. And if he were to look at the scrap of paper drying on the light wood of the table, he would find a simple amusement as one does from such pieces of paper from Christmas crackers. On one side it reads Please Turn Over and should he comply with this request, he will see the same words printed in neat blue letters on the reverse. You are a tortoise without its shell. Have a chip.’

  He is pushing his plate towards me.

  ‘No, really, thanks. A tortoise?’

  ‘Vulnerable, sensitive, disturbed.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’ve got me wrong there.’

  As he turns away, my attention is released; I’m able to be aware of my surroundings until he is looking at me again, fixing me and capturing me once more.

  ‘I think not,’ he ventures. ‘You are perhaps inhibited to divulge any problems. But consider, an unknown is the best sort to listen. Our lives have not crossed until now and after an unloading of your burden, I will take it away, and we shall never meet again.’

  I’m strangely certain that what he says is correct. Quickly, for the smallest instant, I know who this man is but no sooner do I recognize him then I have forgotten.

  Doctor, this isn’t another of your disguises, is it? If so, you’re swimming closer to the surface.

  ‘I understand. I’ll see myself reflected from you.

  ‘It’s my wife. She’s a lovely person, believe me. And I do love her much, before you ask. I adore her. Our year of marriage has been good; very good. Lately though, we seem different together. We were like chemicals which combined in perfect chemistry, now we seem to react with each other. What has changed to allow this? I have headaches; it’s as though she’s acquired a shell. Inside is still the soft and gentle woman but this hard covering holds us apart. Can’t seem to penetrate her.’ I suddenly want to make light of my serious subject: ‘In every sense.’ I’m grinning to him but his neutral visage has extracted the puerile double entendre. ‘Sex isn’t everything, don’t get me wrong. I could try to live without that, if only she‘d be as she was, reachable and loving.

  ‘I’m sure she loves me still. Though unable to show it lately. ‘For the amount of time she spends in town, she never brings much shopping home. Perhaps she’s meeting somebody but isn’t that a ridiculous notion? Maybe there is something I’ve done yet I assume she’s the one doing wrong.

  ‘Money has become a bit worrying of late. We had to sell the car; I arranged for lifts into work. I’d become quite fond of the classic crate. Someone answered our advert and said he would come to view it the next day. Why can’t it be a John, or a Peter, or a Simon here? I wish you’d help. I know the name I’m going to say, but can never seem to replace it.

  ‘It was short notice to have the morning off so Bernadette said she would see him. You will know how twisted I’m becoming. When I arrived home that evening, my car was still outside and the potential buyer was in the living room. She had awaited his arrival for most of the day, she told me, and he confirmed this by saying he’d been there for only half an hour. It was the guy who reads cards and palms on the pier. It was Aaron. How to explain, both appeared agitated. He seemed more than uncomfortable but still loathe to leave. I hinted he should go, with or without the car. He bought it anyway.

  I’ll be honest I did feel a slight envy. He seemed alive, unencumbered with responsibilities I suppose, compared to me. His face wore a good-looking confidence.

  ‘Bernadette seemed to hold an undertone of anger that evening. Several times she informed me of how annoyed she’d been at having to wait for the man to arrive. I tried to ask her questions like, what sort of coincidence was it that he, of all people, would buy our car? But she wouldn’t answer.

  ‘I make unsavoury ideas. I’ve tried to explain them. She’s difficult to communicate with; I irritate her. I must expunge the uneasiness on my own; I have to erase these ridiculous feelings; reprimand myself for horrible considerations which are tainting my view of her. And why should they, when none of them are in accordance with fact? They’re merely a product of my insecurities. Jealousy is a cancer and it must be arrested before it spreads.’

  This unusual man has emanations from him. His ears have become transparent. I must wait for a reply but it seems as if his mouth has sealed. Indeed, if I lean closer, I can see the lips melded.

  A finch has flown into the fish restaurant. It has landed on my table. Stabbing at a fried slug of potato, securing it in its beak and taking off again. Flying around the room before disappearing through the open doorway, the soggy chip twitching as though a jaundiced worm.

  The startling man has gone. I didn’t see him go.

  The bird has returned with several other varieties. An owl has found a perch on the counter by the fryer. The proprietor is pushing his chin out as though expecting it to order. Nobody seems to be taking any notice: magpies flying from shoulder to shoulder, picking at bright earrings and necklaces with a clawed foot, or nudging the heavier shining cutlery with their beaks. A cockerel is crowing and hopping as though drunk, running for cover as a warthog comes trampling in, snuffling and squealing. Its small tusks catch on the table legs, taking wedges of wood from them. More animals – bleating sheep, dogs chasing them between the aisles, a host of monkeys swinging from the nets. A boisterous row.

  This noisy animal army: these aren’t animals. It must be a school outing. A cacophony of children, pushing and squabbling. Change your world quietly!

  Doctor, can you see them?

  I’m here. This is my station. Battle my way through the onslaught. I’m already three quarters of an hour late for work.

  18

  The train station was a vast area of brick, steel and glass. Pigeons flew high up in the vaulting and perched in rows on great metal spans, or roamed about the platforms pecking a
t invisible specks.

  A dull pervading reverberation, broken only by a station announcement or trains moving out into the crisp daylight.

  As Clement walked onto the concrete platform from the train, one of the schoolchildren, who had boarded earlier, gaped out from a carriage window. Those stone-hard eyes were neither interesting nor interested; a dispassionate stare only as though Clement was an exhibit at a museum. A man on the train turned away for a short time and his lips moved before another face joined him as a spectator. A woman at the far end opened the top of a window and was attempting to push her head through, while from a carriage door an arm held an accusing finger.

  Embarrassment enveloped Clement though he felt a sense of satisfaction. The belief that he had become different in a mysterious way was being confirmed. If only Dr Leibkov was here in person, he told himself, he would see how correct I am.

  But the satisfaction dissolved as some of his observers began to laugh openly. Clement’s breath quickened. With humiliation joining his shame, he wanted to stop them, to turn their heads, and those heads seeming to rise and fall as if attached to weightless astronauts.

  He turned abruptly away from his audience, brushed himself down and walked briskly to the ticket barrier. Once through, he went onto the station concourse.

  His job would invariably involve much sitting and waiting. He visited the newsstand to buy a writing pad and a pencil before finding the exit and going into the city morning.

  Like an insecticide sprayed bluebottle bouncing from ceiling to floor, so Clement had within him emotion which acted the same. He felt elation at starting work again but anxious at the possibility of finding his suitcases on the doorstep the coming evening.

  Throngs of pedestrians brushed by, stern-faced and marching. The autumn morning had brightened even more but still it shone a cold light. A row of taxis sat in a line in sharp shadows, the drivers reading newspapers or sitting as if asleep. Pavement slabs beside them were still covered with frost, each like a spore under a microscope. Cars, buses and lorries buzzed past, vying for position along the road. The wide street was banked on each side with shops. There were offices above, high edifices towering into whiteness.