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

by David John Griffin

  My flesh is burning. I’m ill with worry. Lucy is giggling now. I understand the aspect of her I dislike. She appears shallow; I doubt she could be serious for more than a minute.

  Clout the hammer, expose brickwork hiding guiltily beneath the plaster.

  Please, don’t pull me away. I must open that door. My wife is inside; can’t you understand? Don’t you hear me screaming? I’m unable to put them into words, you would think me disturbed. Strangely, these screams from inside as I hit the chisel, they’re coming from the single seagull circling above, its cries beginning to resemble a siren.

  Watch how it attacks the chalet. Believe me, I have no effect on its actions. Though I must be honest I’m urging it on as it spins in large arcs before flying at speed to the door — but then plunging back into the suffocating air at the last moment. I can’t see anything else but the chalet suspended in sky as this gull attacks it in frenzied waves.

  Possibly I’m partly responsible for the bird. Each hammer belt at the end of the chisel – every time a lump of chalky plaster joins the piles – this gull begins another descent to the chalet. And the chalet, I can’t rid it from view. I’ve encompassed it, fumbling over its boarded surface like an insect twitching antennae. This is becoming a nightmare. My nose is pressed onto the wood; I’m reeling.

  Sent away from the sealed chalet entrance, wrapped in squealing elastic bands.

  Hammer blow after hammer blow.

  Before I’m ready, sent hurtling back towards the chalet, propelled at an unnatural rate. Slow down or I’ll slam into it; stopped abruptly, once more nose pressing hard up to the boards. Squeezing tears from between my burning eyelids. My cheeks are scratched.

  Blow after blow.

  I’ve been roughly pulled again, away from this structure. Must I spend the rest of my life thrown backwards and forwards with this loathsome nausea turning my whole body into squeaking sponge?

  ‘You’ll make me sulk in a minute,’ says Lucy, tightening her grip about my waist.

  See the chalet, as flat as a painting, becoming as grey as plaster. The sky’s surface has been blemished by the chisel prising away parts of it.

  ‘To the funfair,’ the seagull demands as though it were a trained parrot; Lucy’s begun pulling again.

  ‘Lucy, no, we must … we must…’ but already I’m weary and resigned to go with her. I might as well be a puppet with its strings cut. Muscles inflamed and taut. Throat sore; legs have lost feeling from crouching down for too long; I’ve a harassing ache in my groin area.

  Please, Bernadette, you must come out of there. If you must hide, hide in the wardrobe, in the cocoon. You’ve been inside for ten minutes.

  ‘Here, Donald—’

  Where are you hiding? Show yourself. You’re close. Over there, by the amusement hall or in the doorway of the cafeteria? Be seen. Maybe you’ve gone down to the beach, sitting by the sea sifting sand, collecting shells. Or you might be under this pier, swinging your legs as you sit on one of those huge, mollusc-covered struts.

  ‘Over here.’

  Still can’t see where. The rest have walked on ahead. They’re too fast. At least stop for a short while. Remember how weary I am. The weight of the hammer has doubled. I can barely lift it more than a foot. Can’t bring it hard down onto the end of the chisel, just let it fall. Look at this blister on my thumb: have you ever seen one quite so large? If I were to pierce it with a pin, the pus would spurt out.

  ‘Here, here I am.’

  Stop playing games. Let me catch up. Wait where you are. I must rest for a few blinks. You can’t be far away, your silvery voice is close. It floats down these cobbled lanes and thin streets, past the antique shops and cafés and arcades.

  Even now, in the car – what used to be my car – you can be heard clearly. Aaron turning the wheel and the vehicle lurching out onto the country road.

  ‘Here.’

  I know, but where? I’ve turned around and there, sitting at the back, is Aaron with Lucy. Look forward and Aaron’s handling the wheel to move the car off the road onto gravel, and then grass. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You must know, surely. Bernadette showed us where you used to come for a picnic sometimes.’

  ‘I know it damn well is. Bernadette, how could you? This was our secret.’

  Someone chuckling. Not laughter though, it’s become too high. Now the twittering of a bird high up in the branches.

  Why do you have to be like this? Show yourself. I believe you might be hiding on purpose.

  ‘Here – here…’

  These infernal trees. Made of stagnant tinsel. They must be covering you. Still I can’t see where you are.

  Strike the chisel.

  34

  ‘Caught up then. Here.’ Lucy handing me a sandwich.

  Slump to the ground; take it from her. Bitten into it but tastes of sand.

  I could do with a drink, I’m parched.

  ‘Here we are.’ Bernadette offering, holding out a glass of lager.

  I’ve found you. I’ll reach out. How my hand shakes, bruised and battered from the hammer blows missing, grime covering me. Everyone else appears so fresh. Really grateful for this liquid. An appetizing froth on the top; the glass feels cool. Gulp it quickly – pour it into the back of my throat with relish…

  I might as well be drinking dust.

  Lucy, gazing about. ‘Isn’t it perfectly lovely.’

  Aaron will answer. ‘Certainly is. Not many poppies this year.‘

  I’ve caught that fond expression appearing on Bernadette’s face. He’s reaching out. I’m ready to stand up, prepared to defend her.

  He’s taking a piece of grass from her hair. I should stuff a mouthful of grass down his gullet.

  Lucy still giggling. The sea breathes with a rasp.

  Bang goes the hammer.

  Swollen eyelids, aching numbness; I’m hiding within this flesh which is painful and at the same time without feeling. Can’t explain. I’ll have to move lumps of plaster from under my aching back, they’re digging into me. Yet my back has no sensation of touch.

  There’s only a gentle covenant of sounds which I can barely perceive, enough to be aware of another existence other than this insulated interior.

  How easily I’m able to merge and intertwine realities as easily as balls of string. Here, laying down – in the glade with the burden of sunlight still sapping, washing me away – I can imagine I’m in a darkened room with the lower half of two brick walls, plaster littering the floor, and a disfigured doctor leaking sarcasm from behind.

  Have to continue. What’s been started must be finished. Almost was lulled into sleep. Must force eyes open, have to find my real Bernadette.

  Of course, I’m still here in the woods. Brush away the fly from my cuff. Lucy lying there, outstretched, sucking on a piece of straw, one of her hands waving listlessly.

  Bernadette seems to have pulled herself closer to Aaron. I can notice details like this. He’s taken off his striped jacket and laid it between us. What does he believe this action symbolizes? They are sitting there, each with the same posture, a mirror of each other, simply looking. Both with lost facial expressions. But eyes can’t be disguised. They show a little of one’s quintessence. Breathing hard through my nose to attract her attention but still her whole concentration concerns this other man. I have stop myself from lurching forward to pull her to me; to pull her away from him. I detect a slight raising of his left eyebrow. How can I stop them? They’re the two halves of one. If only I was able to sever those solid poles of steel connecting them. No, not solid — joined hollow pipes, allowing their locked sights no distraction as they encompass each other, attempt to melt their minds for an illegal spiritual lovemaking.

  Over the mountain, watching the watcher…

  Must say something to break them apart. ‘Looked at Bernadette’s palm again, did you?’ Swiftly blurted out; tried to accentuate the sarcasm there. Aaron inevitably smiling and nodding. ‘A good future has she got? Could
you see?’ Had to ask to promote a response.

  As if time has slowed, he’s reaching with a hovering, indecisive hand, to the furred green stem of a dandelion clock.

  ‘Bernadette, must have got your money’s worth. In the chalet, I mean. You were there for so long.’

  She’s poking out the tip of her tongue and it’s travelling slowly along her top lip. At the same time, Aaron is holding out the dandelion clock to me with his arm fully extended; bringing the fluffed head to his blank canvas of a face and exhaling through rounded lips, the sound exaggerated, as if made from blowing across the top of a bottle. The lace ball has exploded, white seeds drifting towards where I lay.

  How I could scream to perverted memory of Bernadette, ‘Stop torturing, giving me this world of pain!’ Can’t you see how I yearn for the real you, every ounce of myself ? There you sit, two feet away, and still we might as well be a thousand miles apart.

  See me holding hands up, bloody and blistered. And I’m going to reach out, and at the instance of making contact with your unblemished face, all else will vanish to leave only the two of us, immutable, together for an endlessness of continuation.

  What cruelness is this – my hands travelling through you, making you as vague and unreachable as a hallucination, and there behind, I’ve felt a wall, cold and solid?

  ‘Aaron has such a clever gift.’ Sickly admiration. ‘You also have glorious healing hands, don’t you?’

  Do you think I missed that action? Subtle movement of Aaron’s index finger towards Lucy, that secret message which Bernadette has obviously interpreted – she nodding back, not as subtly.

  I’m going to let out a long breath as though relaxed then close eyes again, an expression of satisfaction about my lips. You’ll think I’m unaware of any deviousness though I’m attentive and listening.

  A male voice: ‘Lucy, are you awake?’

  A few bars of birdsong from the woods; the sea a mile away casting onto shingle; my own breathing, husky and unmodulated.

  A moment of true silence, before Bernadette breaks it. ‘Lucy, wake up.’

  ‘Give her a nudge.’

  ‘Lucy. Lucy.’

  A light moan followed by a sniff. ‘What’s happening? I was miles away then.’ I can hear her sitting up.

  ‘What about going for your walk? You said you wanted wild flowers. You ought to go and collect them, now. We’ll be making a move soon. What’s the time anyway?’

  ‘A quarter to six.’

  ‘If it’s that late, I won’t bother.’

  A tut. ‘Yes you will. You particularly wanted flowers, you said. You were most insistent about it. You might want help as well, remember?’

  Another pause; Lucy’s answering. ‘Oh, of course, yeah, right, but he’s asleep.’

  My leg kicked. Now Bernadette tapping me. ‘Donald, Lucy wants to pick some flowers.’

  I must give the impression of struggling from sleep. I’ll even pretend a yawn. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said Lucy wants to pick flowers — help her. We haven’t got long. We’ve decided to leave the meal in town and go straight to The Neptune. Get yourself moving.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to pick bloody flowers?’

  Lucy has got up, brushing bits from her frock. It’s become grass-stained and creased. ‘Ready.’

  Aaron sitting there looking smug, drinking from a paper cup.

  ‘To help Lucy. It’ll be quicker. Don’t be a spoilsport.’ She can’t stop herself from glancing at Aaron, I’ve noticed.

  ‘I’m sorry but definitely not. Lucy, you might as well sit down again or else pick flowers on your own. I’m not going to pick any. Anyway I don’t respond to orders, even yours. Who do you think I am?’

  Nobody’s answered. Bernadette giving a mean look and as her fingers nip at blades of grass, she’s blowing air through her nose. How obvious this is, the devious plot so my wife can be alone with this heinous man.

  But I can analyse myself and be aware of a peculiar talent for self-deception. Bernadette is only being difficult. I’ve probably upset her without realizing. This is her way of retaliating.

  There’s more, I know, the abandoned filmic hiding just around the corner. Can’t quite see this despicable manufactured truth yet I’m beginning to understand there’s no way of avoiding it.

  35

  Take my frustrations out on the wall. I’m going to begin this third one.

  Wonder if I dare? My action, under other circumstances, might seem to be unjustified. But I’ve created a different order. I’m able to develop and refashion new realities. That can’t be madness in any form. If anything it should be admired, revered for its excellent inspiration. I will dare and it’ll confirm my position in the hierarchy of the greats. I shall be known as a sculptor of time, an accomplished designer of realism.

  Choose carefully as if deciding over items in a delicatessen. The bit here: too large. I can afford to be choosy. This piece has embedded brick.

  Not fair, just the right size and texture, seeming faultless except it crumbles to powder at the touch.

  Better from under the piles instead of picking over silly chips on top. Yes, here we are. First, brush away the loose pieces. Smooth plastered side, the other side uneven as it should be to warrant having. See, doctor? The overall shape is rather interesting – a resemblance to a stone age man’s spearhead.

  Let it be a pale cheese. Or a sweet white chocolate.

  Bitter but I must persevere. I’ve embarked upon this voyage of discovery; I’ll see it through. First bite, small piece at first. There, I’ve swallowed it, doctor. Easy enough. I’ll take a larger piece. I’m salivating like a dog.

  Spittle has coated it and again there’s no taste. Chewing with confidence. Sort of soft yet crunchy with a sharp, acid flavour, quite unlike chocolate or cheese. The consistency is not what I was expecting.

  Rather disheartened. It could have been a useful source of sustenance. Still, I’ve no time for eating anyway. I’ve work to finish.

  How heavy these implements have become, and how puffed and swollen my fingers are. Feel the rough jolt sear through my blistered palm as the chisel cuts. Lumps pull away from the brickwork, sometimes resentful to part with the mortar beneath.

  You still there, doctor? The firm impression I’ve been talking to myself for the past half hour. You wished me to uncover the last of my barriers; I demand you return.

  Won’t be bothered by your dancing shadow demons.

  I know you’ve come back now. I feel you leering over my shoulder. Impressed with the progress? Soon it’ll be complete.

  Though your silence indicates loss of definition. You’re slowly fading. It’ll not be too long before you’ll have lost substance.

  You are governed by my laws. As you waver, you can tell me your spirit will survive. But I have to dash your hopes. My rules must be obeyed. Cuckoo souls must not be allowed to roam freely about. Soon you’ll have no choice but to join the grand repository of souls, and merge with all others. Quite frankly I’ll be glad to see you vanish. Nevertheless, I’m sure to join you there one day. My place is reserved. For the while though, I’ve urgent work to finish. I have to find the real Bernadette. I keep on losing her; I could almost believe she’s trying to avoid me.

  36

  What an effort to push between these people. The main lights have been turned off and lamps from the discotheque pulse with bright shades in time to the pounding music. Many of the tables have been cleared and chairs and sofas put to the sides. Groups stand chatting and drinking. Pungent cigarette smoke.

  I wish I knew where she was. Managed to fight my way to the bar counter. Spotlights from above the bar form a bright block in this flashing room – it’s a floating lighted island. I’ll peer along the length of the bar. A mass of individuals lining it with more standing behind. Lucky to have got this place quickly. There are extra bar staff to cope with the increase in the number of customers and they move from the bar to the optics and hand pumps, deftly avo
iding each other in a practiced way, weaving about in an energetic fashion.

  Four heads away, the one with the ten pound note in his hand: I recognize him. One of Aaron’s friends. I was reluctantly introduced to him earlier. I‘ll attempt to make my way around, perhaps he can help.

  Pushing through here, squeezing by there, excuse me while I hit the chisel…

  Why won’t he turn? I’ve tapped him twice on the shoulder. Mercifully, music has stopped for a short while. I really couldn’t cope with it, being so loud, loud, loud, being so unfortunately tired. I’ll have to tap him once more.

  He’s spun around. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Have you seen my wife?’ My voice is timid. Throat inflamed and raw. If only I had time to buy a drink but I must find Bernadette.

  Bawling his reply. ‘Is that all? Can’t you see I’m trying to get my pint? Wait a minute.’ Several party guests about him have turned their attention to me, grinning as though I’ve told a joke.

  The pulsing music has started again, sending sympathetic waves pounding through me. Those lights are flashing red, yellow, blue, orange, green – tainting these happy revellers. Women are dancing over by the double doors, throwing their heads back, and waving their limbs while they twist and gyrate. A couple of youths – I recognize them as the fountain guardians – stand by the large figurehead. See one then, impertinently stroking his wooden beard.

  For an instant I thought I saw Aaron over by the panelled wall but it’s someone else wearing a striped jacket.

  Wield the hammer, smack on the chisel.

  Aaron’s friend is having to bellow over the music. ‘What did you say?’ He’s shouted so loudly in my ear, it’s stung it.

  I’ll shout in return. ‘I asked if you’ve seen my wife. She’s around somewhere. Wondered if you’ve spotted her.’

  He’s draining beer from a glass jug. How I could do with a drink. My fingers are fiddling nervously with the hair on the back of this wig. Taken them away and such a cloud of white dust produced. He’s not seeming to notice. I’ll have to pull back to read the reply from his lips. An age before he responds. The flashing lights are changing his expressions. The red makes him appear brutal and impatient but then as the lights become yellow, his features are made softer, and acquire a forlorn appearance. He’s taking the last gulp of beer.