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

by David John Griffin

  Over the gusting wind, a man roared from across the street, ‘Mr Clearmint, that you?’ Clement turned quickly to see him leaving a café and as the fellow hurried over the road, he shouted again, ‘That you?’

  He was small though overweight and from his abundant body protruded a worm of a neck. This neck supported a bony, thin-skinned head with stark features upon it. Charcoal eyes seemed embedded deeply within their sockets, his forehead hanging heavily under a peaked cap. There were two pens in the top pocket of his blue uniform. He scowled and poked Clement in the chest.

  ‘Where’d you get to? Been waitin’ half an hour.’ He wiped an arm across his mouth before adjusting his cap.

  ‘Dreadfully sorry but trains and Donadette and the doctor, you see.’

  The man put his hands upon his heavy hips. ‘Should be telephonin’ agency, understand? Get inside.’

  The foyer was warm. A tropical plant stood as high as the lift doors. On one side of the lift was a flight of stairs which rose up the building as its spiral backbone. A second flight on the other side disappeared into the basement. In the left corner was a curve of padded seats. The building style with its outdated interior design had not changed in fifty years.

  They sat. Clement saw the glass-fronted reception area and was about to ask a question when he was cut short.

  ‘Well, Mr Clearmint. Like the look of you and that ain’t often. Bein’ security makes you treat everyone with suspicion. Guilty till proven innocent; least, my motto. Soon get a habit of scrutinizin’. Believe me, might be the difference between another cuppa and a knife between the ribs.’

  ‘How long have you existed in this job? Klipper, is that your agency label? Agency. Sounds like spying, government, those kind.’

  He was puffing out his cheeks. ‘Just because I like you, don’t mean you can take advantages. Only mates who know me for ages call me Klipper.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to offend.’

  ‘Alright then,’ was Mr Klipps’ reply and he rubbed his paunch. ‘Could tell agency about lateness, but tell you what.’ He threw his sight to the left and right. ‘Favour deserves another, get my meanin’?’ Clement nodded. ‘Meant to show you the ropes. How to open up, shut up, set alarms. No cleaners again for three months till new company starts. Two months after, start renivatin’. Got to learn about boiler. Agency says not necessary but I’m old school. Keep record of visitors. Take a few hours; agreed?’ Clement was unable to tear his sight from the carpet tiles. He began to count them. ‘Come right out, Mr Clearmint. Need to leave early, before twelve. Won’t be here tomorrow either. Can’t tell you why.’ Mr Klipps moved nearer and Clement smelled coffee and stale tobacco. ‘So don’t tell ‘em about me leavin’ off early; won’t tell ‘em about you being late. Been eating sweets? Got a red mouth.’ He sat back in the seat as though surprised by his own words.

  The security guard got to his feet with a grunt and trotted over to the reception office on his stumpy legs. His fingers ran along the sill below the window there before opening the office door. He went in. Clement saw him through the pane of glass looking like a bloated fish in its tank then heard his muffled voice saying, ‘Quick, had a late start.’

  Clement joined him. As Mr Klipps carefully brought down a uniform hanging from behind the door, Clement leaned on the counter and inspected the foyer through the office window. It seemed much larger that way. The revolving door was there to his left and he saw pedestrians walking by along the cold street.

  Mr Klipps cleared his throat and prodded Clement in the back. ‘Enough daydreamin’, change in gents. Be snappy.’

  21

  The white tiles on the floor, the whites of the walls and urinals, and the sinks like a row of a skull’s teeth, seemed to reflect coldness. Light from the fluorescent strips spread a chill bath about the room. The doors to the water closets formed a wall to one side.

  Clement took off his overcoat and hung it on a hook next to a long mirror. He avoided catching his reflection; shuddering breath as he untied the laces of his shoes and took the shoes off. The stone floor tiles sent cords of ice through the soles of his feet.

  He changed into the uniform. The padding of the jacket was a comforting grip on his shoulders.

  Only dripping water from a cistern. But after, rustling – he froze.

  The sterile atmosphere within the colourless room was affecting him, making him agitated and nervous. He urinated in a urinal, throwing glances over his shoulder to the row of doors. Then with a hand still tugging at his zip, and staring about suspiciously, he went over to retrieve his overcoat and trousers, both crumpled by a washbasin. He was not going to be caught off guard. He called out in a worried tone, ‘Who is it?’

  An abrupt cough as though someone was trying to clear his throat, coming from behind one of the closet doors. Clement held his breath before marching over and rapping upon the doorframe. ‘Who’s in there?’ he demanded indignantly. ‘Come out and show yourself. You have no right to be in this building.’ His voice had found an unusual firmness. He put his ear closer to the door. The rustling of leaves again. He instantly recognized it as a drawn-out sigh. ‘If you don’t come out, I’ll be forced to take action.’

  ‘I can’t come out,’ was the quick retort. Although said as if in a hurry, each word had been weighed down with sorrow.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  The dripping cistern again for a full minute. Clement gathered up this time and condensed it to a mere snap of the fingers for mutual benefit. Already he knew the identity of the person behind the toilet door. This man constructed his replies as carefully as an architect plans a municipal building, his use of sovereign silence as forceful and inspirational as elements an artist judges to leave out.

  ‘My form will not allow me to be seen. I’ve become as nothing on earth.’

  Clement was taken aback. ‘What’s happened, Dr Leibkov? Who could have done this?’

  ‘You!’ roared the doctor and this one word spiralled like a whirlpool.

  ‘But how? I didn’t wish you any harm. I wanted you to leave certain mindrooms and leave barriers alone.’

  A rattling exhalation came from within the closet with such a forlorn sweep it sent shudders of despondency through Clement. All manner of surreal pictures visited him, possible forms of what Dr Leibkov might have become. He allowed the doctor to punctuate the silence with sighs and coughs until Clement asked, ‘Can you ever be as you were?’

  ‘If you will allow it. I suspect this: should I dare to gaze upon myself, I would be appalled into a stupor. And should you ever see me, you would be transmogrified. You would become no less than what I have become. If I’m able to look at you, however, then once more will I become human.’

  Clement creased his forehead. ‘You’re saying, if you look at me, we’ll be the same but to look at you I’ll become a horrible monstrous creation.’

  ‘This is the paradox we must tackle,’ wheezed the doctor, his voice grown thin and sibilant.

  ‘You sound different. You must be ill.’

  ‘I am constantly changing from one demented form into another, a slow, insidious mockery of the flesh. At any time, I might not have the ability to see but only have to wait a brief while before I have many eyes, rooted into an erupting corpulence which I have become.’ He spoke in a rumbling thunder. ‘We must never be together again. I have persistent apprehension, I’m unable to shift it: you will transform as I have, no longer—’ A horrendous shriek cut the doctor’s sentence short.

  ‘How can I let you suffer? Let me in. You have a chance to become like me.’

  A modulated trilling. ‘Only if you give up your barriers and unlock the rooms behind them. This is the advantage for us.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘It’s for that very reason I’ve been modified beyond recognition. I left you on my own accord, this is true. But for me to have stayed any longer would have held you back. You’re progressing well, Donald. You may still visit whenever you feel the need. I’m
always available. I have given you my home number. Take a firm hold of your own life. You have the power; banish those remaining barriers. We know, don’t we, they are unnecessary. Cast them aside, give them up, donate them to me.’

  Clement was infuriated and he stabbed a reply. ‘Your superior intellect hasn’t helped you this time, doctor. I’m wise to your game. Like a thief in the night you stalk me and should I throw down my guard for a second, you’ll snatch away my armour. Come out; why don’t you face me in true combat!’

  But as he knocked upon the doorframe once more, he noticed a curve of metal with “vacant” inscribed on the lock. ‘Ha,’ Clement yelled, ‘it’s open!’

  Distant and imploring, ‘I beg you, don’t come in.’

  22

  The hinges let out a slow creak as the door was pushed. Clement put one arm up as a shield with the other arm clutching his belongings.

  The closet was empty.

  He stared to the bowl of the lavatory pan. The water was an unnatural blue from the disinfectant block within it. He pulled the chain and watched the spinning water without emotion of any kind.

  As if coming out of a trance he rubbed his face with a leg of the old trousers before hurrying back to the foyer.

  ‘Took your time. Made a cuppa,’ Mr Klipps said.

  Clement sat on a wooden chair which was pushed to the back wall of the reception office. He gratefully sipped the hot beverage from a mug. Mr Klipps picked up a thick blue volume, brushing grains of sugar from it.

  ‘Visitin’ book,’ he announced. ‘Visitors got to sign.’ He noticed Clement looking intently to the counter. Mystified, he looked there also and quickly comprehended. Clement had not been given his uniform cap. Mr Klipps handed it over, saying, ‘What you’re after? Right too. Must respect uniforms.’ Clement put on the hat. ‘Been in army? No, ‘spect not. Did my bit.’ Mr Klipps paused to drink. His epiglottis rose and fell in his scrawny neck. He sat opposite Clement, who was contemplating the light fitting stuck in the middle of the ceiling looking like a single, huge barnacle. ‘Candles once,’ Mr Klipps commented, the memory inspired by Clement’s interest above him. ‘Power cut, see. Accountancy firm upstairs in those days, sat about chattin’.’

  Clement allowed another silence to come between them. He was enjoying the tea. He adjusted the cap. Already his scalp itched with the warmth created beneath it. A clock above the window whirred then fell silent again.

  A peculiar thought came to him. The fat security guard must have had a head transplant. That would account for the discrepancy between the slim skull with the thinnest of skin layers upon it and the short and overweight torso to which it was apparently attached. Had this man decided to abandon his soul within his original thinner frame? What type of soul had he offloaded – a water soul, fire or stone soul, a soul pilloried by laboured memories of the abandoned life? And what of the soul he was in charge of ? Does he wrangle with the differences? It didn’t seem right. He was about to mention an aspect of it when Mr Klipps spoke before him.

  ‘Quiet one you are, Mr Clearmint,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘S’pose why you got the job. Agency likes quiet ones. Meant to get on ‘stead of yappin’.’ He tried to put his elbows up and back onto the counter top but succeeded only in jogging the telephone. ‘Still, too many words left unsaid sometimes then bang — too late.’

  ‘Saving words,’ Clement began. ‘Fine specimens worthy of capture. Here’s some: define refine. You see? Now refine define. Then…’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ interrupted Mr Klipps. He took another gulp of tea and continued, ‘Person can talk too much. Two extremes, happy balance what’s wanted.’ The clock whirred again but this time was followed by ten electronic pips. He drew in a sharp breath. ‘Time’s pushin’. Finished tea, haven’t we. Must start. Follow me.’

  He led Clement out to the side of the reception office where a cupboard stood beside the lavatories. He unlocked it and fumbled around the back of the doorframe for a light switch. A small bulb illuminated a control panel tucked inside. There were rows of green, red and yellow lights, and dials and switches upon its fascia. It appeared to be complicated. Clement glared at the appliance with suspicion.

  ‘Very simple,’ Mr Klipps was saying. ‘Clever tricks here for alarms, heatin’, lightin’. Eight o’clock, followin’ procedures.’

  He began to relate the pertinent aspects of the system, sometimes turning one of the switches or pressing buttons; and occasionally looking to Clement to ensure his instructions were being understood. Clement was nodding and grunting affirmations, even though the explanation given didn’t seem to be making much sense. The harder he tried to concentrate on the man’s words, the more jumbled and comical they were sounding. Didn’t Mr Klipps understand just how preposterous his talking was? Possibly the nonsensical syllables were meant as a joke. He did let out a snigger but disguised it by sniffing.

  Without warning the novelty of the situation vanished and meaning was there again.

  ‘Clear? Questions?’ asked Mr Klipps.

  ‘As clear as a daydream. But why the flashing and glittering?’

  The security guard appeared puzzled. His eyelids slowly closed before springing open. ‘Variation in light – what you mean – in bulbs?’ He put a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully while studying Clement.

  Clement became as confused as the guard leaning against the cupboard door. When spoken, the sentence had seemed appropriate and full of meaning but now he was not sure what he had meant.

  Mr Klipps’ face cleared a little. ‘Nothin’ to worry about. Variation in electric current. Twinkle a bit. Perfectly normal. Anyhow, boiler room next.’

  23

  They took the steps beside the lift with care, the lighting leading down to the basement barely adequate. Once in the cramped gully of the concrete flight, Clement was confronted with three doors. He was informed that the two doors either side were more cupboards as he followed the waddling man through the third.

  The basement was cool, and smelled of oil and dampness. By the mustard light from the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling the concrete floor was seen to be stained with brown patches. The lifeless walls – stretches of unplastered blockwork – seemed to take a step nearer as Clement tried to study them from the periphery of his vision.

  A partition divided the basement into two areas. Within the unlit section were filing cabinets and degenerate computers moping in the shadow, and typewriters dumped on the floor. In the half-light they looked like an undiscovered species of beetle, massive but calcified.

  A network of ducts ran along the walls and grew out from the floor and ceiling of the main section. It was as if at one time the pipes had large polished leaves hanging; might have been the plump stems of a metallic vine.

  Some of the pipes found their way to the huge copper boiler dominating the basement. Mr Klipps had tottered up to the device and was tapping the glass of one of the pressure dials. ‘System’s dead,’ he stated. ‘Central on every two weeks, keeps mould away. Cold up there, use electrical heater under the counter.’

  After being told the redundant boiler still needed to be maintained in case of an emergency, Clement asked if he could go outside. He had come over feeling faint.

  ‘S’pose you’d better.’ Clement turned to leave but Mr Klipps took him by the arm. ‘Don’t make a habit of this, do you?’

  Clement moaned weakly, ‘Boiler room; demanding; heavy.’

  ‘Bit costaphrobic, if you ask me. Off you go then. Good job you don’t have to stoke Bessy.’ He waved over the front of the formidable boiler. It held authority and Mr Klipps paused as though to acknowledge its presence with respect before saying, ‘Wouldn’t make a routine of nippin’ out. Agency check up every month.’ Clement tried to gulp air to lungs seeming to have become shrivelled. ‘Not at your post, sacked. Simple as that. Have to go out once awhile though. Expected, but always lock up.’ Clement was licking his dried lips as a mauve filter was put before him. The intensity of lig
ht halved. As though the guard had crawled inside the boiler, his words were dulled and echoed as if by the thick layers of copper. ‘Least ways, I expect it. Agency don’t, tell you that much for nothin’. War starts, at your desk. You alright? Better go before you drop.’

  The quick air in the street rejuvenated Clement. He marched back into the foyer. He rubbed his palms together and shuddered for it was still a wintry morning. Mr Klipps was coming out of the reception office.

  ‘Told you hours?’ he enquired. ‘Good.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right, me done; time I was off. Should have shown offices, but you can do it yourself, can’t you? Instructions written about what I’ve said. Have a rummage, you’ll find ‘em. Here’s the keys. Key map somewhere in reception. Anyway, Mr Clearmint.’ He enthusiastically pumped Clement’s arm with an energetic handshake and wished him well. Then, just before he was swallowed up by the revolving doors, he called back, ‘Remember, one good turn.’

  Clement saw him spat out onto the street. He scuttled away on his stubby legs at an admirable speed.

  After washing the mugs and tidying up, Clement looked in the drawers and cupboards under the counter. There were a few items of interest but still not enough to capture his attention. He sat and eventually closed his eyes.

  Apart from deadened sounds of traffic and the anonymous ticks of the office clock, there was silence.

  The confines of the office had become his enclave, a private domain which nobody could encroach upon. The movements of the city belonged to another dimension, an alien and hostile environment. His was the only true, safe place despite hunger and thirst gnawing at his constitution.

  He tried to empty his mind, to become physical self only. The task was a difficult one. No sooner had he got rid of the last scrap, another thought would come bustling in.