‘Well, let me state,’ Mr Proper was saying while walking over to a cupboard, ‘I wholeheartedly agree with you. What a waste.’
Clement leaped to his feet and shouted, ‘No, can’t be right! What made you say that?’ He went up to the executive who was changing the sober jacket of his suit for a brighter, striped one.
‘What made you say that?’ asked Miss Prim.
‘Not the striped jacket, please,’ pleaded Clement.
‘Not the striped jacket,’ agreed Mr Proper. ‘Tell me young lady, where has the locket gone?’
Studying the girl’s neck, Clement saw a green enamelled pendant hanging from a gold chain and sitting neatly in the cleft where her collar bones met.
‘Where has the locket gone?’ Clement also demanded.
She turned away. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t know why you make such a fuss.’
‘Because I bought it for you, that’s why. You’re meant to wear it always as a symbol of my love. You said you would. You were going to put our photos in it or a lock of my hair. The chain’s there – where’s the gold locket gone?’ Clement was standing close to her back and saw her shoulders rising and falling, and her hands to her mouth as though trying to stifle crying. But as he said, ‘Look, I don’t want to make you cry, I just want to know what happened to your present,’ she turned about and it was obvious then she had been disguising laughter, her pretty face marred by a scornful expression.
‘In my box on the dressing table, where do you think? Did you reckon I auctioned it, going to the highest bidder? A big drama over nothing.’ She inspected her fingernails.
Clement went closer to her and spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. ‘Your keepsake. Tradition says you keep it with you always. It’s a symbol.’
‘A symbol of what? Of a birthday, that’s what.’
‘Of my love. I’ve already said. Where did you buy the grotesque lump in its place? Or has someone given it to you? You would rather wear jewellery from someone else? Am I right? What does a lump of rubbish symbolize?’
‘You’re talking utter rot,’ she threw back. ‘I don’t know why it’s so mysterious. I bought it in the mall, a couple of weeks ago. Just a cheap thing and I happen to like it.’
‘I want you to wear the locket,’ Clement demanded. ‘Not much to ask, is it?’
Repeated abruptly from behind, ‘Not much to ask, is it?’
Mr Proper furiously scribbled notes into a diary. He looked up and Clement considered that given a different light he might bear a passing resemblance to Dr Leibkov.
Clement went to speak to Bernadette again but she was no longer there. She had taken the sun with her; the dullness had returned. The sea of water on the horizon was now a sea of shabby buildings.
The adjoining office door was closing and he recognized the arm pulling it shut as belonging to Mr Proper. Then he heard Mr Proper’s voice, identical to Dr Leibkov’s, cry out, ‘Bernadette! Come back, be as you were, please don’t change.’
Clement ran over to the door and wrenched it open before running into the next office.
27
Mr Proper looked up while shuffling through pages of a thick file on his lap. ‘Welcome, Donald. I am Dr Leibkov, your psychiatrist. Please, sit down.’ Clement did as he was asked and was about to speak, when the doctor continued, ‘We shall be seeing each other many times over the coming months. Our aim is fry your brain, possibly with onions and a mint sauce.’
‘I see. What would this achieve?’
‘Many things, occasionally alarming or tedious things, sometimes things with no picture. I’m quite adamant you will die.’
‘You know I’ve brooded over death often. Doesn’t frighten me though. On the contrary I find the prospect a fascinating one. I’ll bide my time, however.’
‘And why, when your vision of heaven is one of utmost perfection?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to keep my barriers because earthly possessions can’t sully the heavenly kingdoms.’
The doctor appeared as if seen from a distance and Clement quickly realised why: the doctor sat on the other side of an underground station platform within a wardrobe, tapping the beige file of papers with a pipe.
Clement stood as he felt warmth pushed out of the tunnel by an approaching train, a thrill beneath his ribs and strong invisible hands gripping his waist and holding him forward, a part of him goading, validating the compulsion to throw himself onto the track. The metal serpent roared out from its lair, lit carriages clanking past without stopping before being swallowed by the next tunnel ahead.
‘Sit down, you’re going too fast,’ bellowed the doctor above the clamour and as Clement sat, Doctor Leibkov was before him again. ‘Tell me more about these barriers.’
‘They’re as solid as you are there with your cynical expression, as relevant as the bowl of fruit on your desk. I can’t lay a barrier onto your lap for you to stroke it like a cat yet is that proof of anything? Give me a lump of light wrapped in newspaper.
I’ve the understanding I may not be fully qualified to know for certain, though feel I’m closer to the truths than most.
For instance, are you able to recognize the melancholy of a steam train or see fundamental spirit-animal in real humans when eating? Not the ugly quivering jowls or the mouse-like nibbling. More the everyday consumption, where each bite is taken without conscious thought; the coy way in which eyelids slowly close before opening to chew the sustenance. Not many people would care to notice such minor details.’
‘You are straying from the subject. You were a quiet, introspective youth.’
‘Who told you this information?’
‘That would be telling. Your manner acted as a foil to the garrulous ebullience of your friends. You were a mirror; you were blotting paper. You inherited worries. Shortly before your nineteenth birthday, this culminated in your refusal to leave your mother’s house for three weeks. You persuaded your mother into perpetrating a lie on your behalf to the college.’
‘How do you remember a lost memory?’
‘This is your second appointment. Mother is most helpful in exposing the cracks. She thinks she is supportive. You know she’s cruel. Drink your tea.’
Clement was startled when finding a cup and saucer in his hands. He tried to lift the teacup but found the simple task of transporting it impossible. No sooner had he curled his finger into the handle, there were mutterings and tuts from a host of unseen office workers. When he lifted the cup a matter of two inches from the saucer his hand and arm shook violently, making a quarter of the cup’s contents spill onto the floor. A quaking ran up one arm and down the other. Neck muscles turned to a cold alabaster, solidifying against the spine. Stares were pricking his flesh and a light sweat broke out. Somebody gave a peal of laughter amidst the general murmur; he knew he had become the centre of attention again.
Spilling the tea, he felt, was as blasphemous and disgraceful as spitting in a church.
Then: ‘Relax! Resolve to take hold of your destiny. Travel abroad, soak up life instead of misery, haggle over the price of fruit in sun-baked markets. Sip iced coffee at a hot street table, climb mountains, find adventures, write screenplays.’
‘A decision is needed, yes. No howls of protest. Thick brushstrokes of a dream are sufficient, smaller details will paint themselves.’
‘You remember your first job, don’t you, in the shoe-mending shop?’
‘I remember my first job in the shoe-mending shop. The buffer wheels, heavy leather smells mixed with lubricating fluids and polishes.’
‘Busy, wasn’t it? Constant traffic of customers. No sooner did you clear the counter of boots and shoes, then it’d be filled again with more. You’d put stretchers in them or pare the old heels ready for fresh ones.’
‘During my lunch hour I’d go to a café and sit by the wall of mirror tiles to eat, watch reflections of customers. I began to recognize the regulars.
‘Shoppers are in a holiday mood this morning. They move casually or l
ounge on benches scattered along the walkways and parades. A hum of chatter coming from the restaurant facing the piazza, overgrown umbrellas sprouting from the middle of tables shielding the patrons from the sun. And the sun is painting the awnings and terrace tiles, even the pensioners, in watercolour. Even the ugly clock tower squatting by the municipal fountain looks appealing, flooded by this pure light. It will give a tenor gong soon, to mark the hour. I notice pedestrians joining the queue which trails from the interior of the café.
‘See that young woman over by the counter? I hadn’t noticed her long hair until she stepped in. After leaving the sunshine in the street, still it possesses a natural auburn gloss. I’ve an urge to leave my stool and run over to stroke it.
‘She might turn around to show her face. Do you think, despite the curving delineation of her body with that allure, she’ll be wearing clumpy glasses on a misshapen nose, and have a surly mouth smeared with deep purple lipstick? I know differently.
‘A car backfires from the high street like a gunshot. The hail of pigeons leaping up outside, their furious flurry of wings.
‘She’s turning. My pulse is a touch faster. What an appealing young woman, just as I remember.
‘She turns back and is speaking quietly. The café assistant hasn’t heard what she wants. Say again, he snaps impatiently. Because of my attentiveness I’ve understood her order. I’ll shout it from my stool by the mirror tiles. Egg mayonnaise and cress. She’ll half-turn this time — there we are. The assistant is just nodding, and preparing the sandwich. Quickly done, placing it into a bag, handing it over. She pays. She’s leaving.
‘I know it’s wrong, but I must follow.
‘She’s walking towards a bench in the tree-lined square where the bristle-chinned hag feeds crumbs to pigeons. I walk over to sit next to my beauty; she regards me with surprise.
‘Sorry I embarrassed you. That dopey bloke in the café must be getting a bit deaf.
‘She’s giving her coy smile and self-consciously taking a bite from her sandwich. I’m besotted with her.
‘Nice day, do you think? And quite cold yesterday; wouldn’t have reckoned on it, would you? Anyway, I suppose I’ll get back to eating my plastic food. You here tomorrow? Yes, I will be. Great, I might be as well. Can I sit with you; eat our sandwiches together? Yes, that would be nice. Fine.
‘I’ll stand and walk away backwards, unwilling to take my sight from her. Tomorrow then. By the way, what’s your name? Bernadette. Right, Bernadette, see you then. What’s your job? Nosey, aren’t I? Secretary. She suppresses a laugh. I’ve backed into a lamp post. Just my iceblink luck. Tomorrow, see you tomorrow! We wave.’
‘I see.’
‘I divulge another private memory and that’s all you can say? I’ve explained meeting an amazing woman: not a plain, everyday beauty but a fusion of divinity; celestial, emanating compassionate warmth and loving ripples.’
Dr Leibkov wrote on a page in his folder, before saying, ‘Your happy memories are of no concern to me. I need those which are protected, shielded from yourself. We need your barriers dissolving as easily as sugar in hot liquid, blacked-out mindrooms hidden in fathoms, exposed under a glaring spotlight.’
Each of the doctor’s words had rolled and tumbled into the next as skillfully as an acrobatic act.
Clement was so involved with internal mechanisms, eventually the office became insubstantial and as a lethargy washed through him, he ceased to sense anything but the mere ghost of being which resided within the clever construction of flesh and bone. Finally, his body was cast off completely as easily as discarding an overcoat. A rejoicing in temporary freedom, unencumbered by physical impediment.
He began a descent as though a diver swimming down to a mysterious and uncharted destination. While floating just below the surface he possessed sharp, darting ideas. Sinking lower he came across serious but colourful memories moving in a ballet, or more formal arrangements, swimming in large, ordered shoals within the indigo waters of his mind. Quirky concepts spun past or expanded and contracted in a peculiar way. As odd as they were, he was attracted to them. Lower still were the ponderous, skulking, difficult-to-see thoughts. Clement was glad of the ebony and thick cardinal blue, for some of the grotesque forms could have turned his sanity should he have seen them more clearly. Who knows what deformed and distorted monsters lurk in those lowest depths? Should even one of them be shown to light of the surface, they would surely grow to unimaginable size, able to feed off all else which swims there. Clement rose up and away with an urgency and gladly donned his body once more.
Moving slowly, holding a confusion as to his whereabouts, he went to the office door and wrenched it open, almost falling, staggering into and along the corridor.
The lift confronted him. He punched a button and the doors opened immediately. He lurched in; pressed for the ground floor; stood in a corner and waited there, breathing heavily while descending. Voices bellowing, the inner and outer worlds made of a shouting mania.
Back in the reception office, he finally became quiet within and relaxed. He had carefully rebuilt his barriers, locking particular mindrooms once more, ensuring they would never be opened again.
He was content having banished upsetting nonsense and false memories. How easy it would be to resist any mental attack, effortless to repulse ugly notions from him. ‘If only the doctor understood,’ he murmured, ‘it would prove how normal I am.”
He had asked the doctor once what he believed to be the definition of normality and had been amused to hear that the answer depended on one’s viewpoint. Certainly, Doctor Smythe had answered, what is regarded as normal in one society is deemed abnormal in another. And time can change perspectives. Certain normalities of our century would not be applicable two centuries before.
Clement had interrupted. ‘How you complicate, and yet you tell me not to do the same.’
He spoke those same words to himself again while watching his spectre reflection in the glass pane of the reception office. He was contained within no other mental state other than normality. How could there possibly be anything wrong when he felt so ordinary, in complete control of his faculties?
There, before him, without a pause, the reflection continued to reproduce the tiniest of movement. While slowly closing an eyelid he saw the reflection performing the same. He lifted an index finger and opposite him the reflected finger was held up.
It was when he had closed both eyes and opened them quickly he noticed the reflection had followed a fraction of a second later. He tore his sight away, unable to sustain the communion any longer.
A minute more and he could have been trapped in the mirror of illusion as surely as his double had become.
28
Really do believe I’m able to stay here for always. Everything I need to sustain me. Lights when it becomes dark outside, heat from the electric fire. This savage heartbeat, given tempo and regulated by my orchestrated timepieces. I no longer feel hungry.
Perhaps there’s a secret part of me which, now I no longer eat, will come into play. It will regulate metabolism for energies and bodily processes to be rationed, to maximize their potential. And maybe this vestigial capacity lies dormant in all real ones.
No need to see outside. I can create all I want with matchless clarity. If I pluck these organs out from their sockets it wouldn’t matter. Here, I have it clearly: the clothes shop with its awning and awkward mannequins, next to the butchers. I’ll wave to the butcher while he stands by trays of red and mottled meats. His head shall be that of a turkey, the wattle hanging obscenely from below its beak, bright comb flattened under a straw hat.
A green lorry has moved into view and blocked my perception of him. Only his gobbling instructions can be heard. But what an advantage I have over normal vision. The butcher now unseen by me – the perceiver – no longer exists. You understand, doctor?
That lorry, painted such a gaudy emerald. The colour’s evolving to chlorophyll paste and if I regard it much longer
, I’ll become nauseous. My attention will stay on the two strongmen, seagull-moustached, dressed in tiger skins, standing on the back of it. Able to lift the barrels of tar and bags of cement, and lead caskets of pristine elastic bands. There are boxes and crates stacked neatly at the back of the lorry. They should contain, if I’m not much mistaken, bottles of musk oil and hair clips. The crowds are dawdling over those curling pavement slabs, each holding hands with the next.
I should be able to construct a whole sphere of existence, tuning each element to perfection.
Another question begs an answer. Doctor, you might know. You will be coming out of the library. Look over here, the least we can do is wave to each other.
Admit my power. I’ve made you and I can control you, much in the same way as you would want with me.
Three students, A, B and C, with crooked caps and uninfected vision, by your feet, will shuffle along to allow you to pass. They are studying graphite constructs with protractors and set-squares.
But listen, you’re walking too fast.
Will you wait for me to catch up? What strength of character you own which enables you to defy your creator.
There we have it. I’ve touched upon the crucial question I spoke of. Are you listening to me, doctor?
‘I am,’ you can say. ‘Any problems you have can be problems shared.’
‘I know, and I’m grateful. I’ve had much weight on my mind lately.’
‘Where am I, Donald?’
‘I’ve made us a cobbled street in a village. We are next to the police station over to the west, with the chimes of a big bell striking. Maybe not – let it be a park with neat flowerbeds and impeccable lawns of rolling exquisiteness. Distant birdcalls are from macaws and plumed parrots, with the shrieks of peacocks. I’ll have a peacock strut past for us, opening and closing its eye-speckled tail like a huge fan.
Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness Page 14
