They laughed and hugged as the work began.
He would break the mortar with the bar and she would remove the tiles and broken mortar. For hours they worked silently until the floor was uncovered and the gold could be seen.
They took a moment. Both were filthy, her nails were ruined and so were her tights as they embraced and kissed.
“So what you going to do?” he asked.
She sighed and looked up.
“Whatever I want.”
“Probably get your father back in that fancy hospital?”
She frowned a little and nodded.
“Well, yes,” she said.
“Because the doctors at the institute said he had air injected in his vain. It was lucky he just had a stroke.”
She watched me for a moment and nodded.
“I wouldn’t call it luck,” she said.
“He also told me that he never told you about the gold and a quick chat to the bank manager confirmed you tried to access his account the day after his stroke and that’s when he told you about the gold.”
“What are you saying Jack?”
“I can’t prove it, but you tried to kill you father.”
She smiled and played with my collar.
“I see how you look at me. Let’s forget this and take this gold… I could be yours baby, I couldn’t be totally yours. You said it yourself, you can’t prove it… I didn’t do it Jack. Let’s go somewhere quiet and I’ll buy you that whiskey?” she soothed.
He thought for a moment before giving a nod and a smile.
“There’s some rope in the car. Get it for me so we can get these up the stairs?” he asked.
She nodded and moved up the stairs.
John watched his guest and sighed heavily as he took a pull of his pipe; he seemed pensive.
“She can lie. It’s like she doesn’t even realize, she just…. does it.”
“I have never believed a lie sir,” I said with the ignorance of youth. Youth compared to the man I knew to be lying in that bed.
“Neither had I… till I had her lie to me. She will lie to you. Twist you till you are the one laying in some hospital bed. I got her married to that ape to keep her under control, and for a while it worked, but she must have lost patience to try and kill me.”
The room shifted and moved from the lake to the playhouse. We were in the back of the private box and she was with him holding his arm. From this angle we could see her produce the empty syringe. She didn’t even think about it, she simply stuck it into his leg. He cursed and pushed her away. She simply went, taking the syringe and slipping into the shadows. Just as quickly we were back by the lake as if I hadn’t seen a thing. He laughed softly as I starred slack jawed.
“She did this, I can assure you. And she wouldn’t have been subtle, just hope she could twist you into getting her out the country.”
“I’m a private investigator but I still have my badge, the institute made sure of that. I need to arrest her,” I said gravely.
“Then do it, keep the money. And just remember if her husband isn’t about, then she’s most likely taken him out and if you’re not careful she will take you out too.”
Silvia walked out into the dawn, mist covered grass and stopped. Three policeman were watching her silently.
“Also. One call to Manchester I found out your husband was discovered dead yesterday. The brake lines were damaged. And I’m sure these men give one good call to the playhouse the night your father was found we’ll find that you were with him. You’re good, but you forget to cover your tracks.”
“What are you saying?” she said with a frown.
“Silvia Bennett. I’m arresting you for murder.”
The policemen grabbed her as she tried to struggle against them.
“You can’t do this! The gold is mine!”
They started to take her to the prisoner transport van and the last policeman approached him.
“What did you find in there?”
Jack looked back at the door for a second and smiled.
“Nothing. I’ll clear and secure. You take her to the station.”
The two men stood and walked to the door. It was symbolic of the exit as it was nothing but a door in the middle of the field. The field was in perfect sunlight, the world was getting dark around the little bit of world. The darkness was closing in around them. Usually Jack would just come in and out of a man’s mind thinking of it nothing more than a job but this time... This man he felt he needed to declare he was leaving for the last time, say goodbye before he slipped into oblivion.
“I’ll get you a nice room. Looked after till the last,” Jack smiled.
John turned to see the beautiful woman lying in the orchard.
“How did you lose her?” Jack asked.
“I honestly don’t know any more… I never thought someone that young could be that cold. But ..." John sighed “But right now… till the end. We’ll be together.”
***
Interlude 2
The newspaper weighed heavy in the young man’s hands; heavy with purpose, possibility, portent, or perhaps a bit of all three. He’d found it sandwiched down the side of his seat on the bus, neatly folded and wedged between the faded and scuffed mahogany leather. Much like any commuter he browsed aimlessly through the crumpled and smudged pages, not really taking anything in, just passing the time. Until an advertisement caught his eye. Its title at once elegant and refined, yet strident and brash.
“Better Yourself” it said.
It was a pair of words that really burrowed into your mind and got under your skin. No matter how much he tried to ignore it and move on, he kept turning back to that page and his eyes kept alighting on that advertisement.
“Better Yourself” it whispered in honeyed words.
“Better Yourself” it cooed with a sultry reassurance.
And so it drew him in, pulling his eyes down the page and dancing across the neat newsprint.
“Recent scientific advancements have allowed us to unlock the hidden potential of the human brain.”
It sounded plausible, thought the young man. Science has been coming on leaps and bounds in the last decade.
“With our simple programme you can train your mind and make yourself more than you were! Our training can help you achieve:
Clarity of thought,
Block out those distractions,
Grit,
Determination,
Confidence!
“Use your new found skills to get your life back on track!”
The young man mused that he had been feeling a little dissatisfied with his place in the world recently, that things weren’t going quite the way he had hoped they would. Everyone should strive for self-improvement shouldn’t they? Isn’t that part of what being human is about?
“Better Yourself” it sang to his heart.
At the bottom of the advertisement was an address.
“Visit our offices at Davidson inc. 5 Woolshearth Road, London. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”
It was on his way to work. He may as well pop in and see what it was all about. What was the worst that could happen?
***
Smoke and Mirrors
Sam Kurd
Stephen Nelson’s mind was the worst I had ever had the misfortune to enter. It was also the last. What had started as something of a disappointment had rapidly become an unbearable nightmare.
I recall the first time I saw him, slipping into my office and shooting nervous glances at everything from my desk to the standing lamps in the corners. He didn’t look dangerous, no more so than any man does at first glance. There was nothing otherworldly about him, no cause for alarm. How was I to know?
I greeted him cordially and offered him a scotch, which he declined with a polite murmur. He settled into his chair, perching like a fragile bird. I filled my pipe and listened to him describe his circumstances.
He had come to me with the intention of securing my
help in his attempts to stop smoking cigarettes. As a medical professional and a fellow slave of the tobacco leaf myself, I was of course aware of the studies in the last decade, studies linking smoking to damage to one’s lungs. I didn’t care overly much for it; a man should be allowed one or two vices, and I was careful to ensure I was fully fit in as many other ways as possible.
Of course, I had a professional interest in helping others. Though not a fully-fledged medical doctor, I had dedicated my life to the study and treatment of maladies of the mind. I was less interested in treating the common cold, or seeing to limbs and organs (aside from the primary one, naturally). I have always been far more interested in the mind. How it works. How it can be used. How it can snap.
It was my interest in psychology and psychiatry that had led me to The Institute’s doors so long ago. It was my interest in extracurricular activities that had led to my dismissal.
Nelson was approaching the end of his account. I grunted the occasional sympathetic noise as I tamped the tobacco in the bowl, struck a match in the ensuing silence and favoured him with a thoughtful gaze as I puffed away.
“Mr. Nelson,” I began. “I believe that I may be able to help you. Firstly, if I may say so, I am immensely relieved that you have come to me. It shows a marvellous trust in the techniques of modern medicine. So many of us would hear the news of smoking's reported ill effects and wave them off. ‘It couldn’t happen to me,’ they’d say. Or perhaps ‘Stiff upper lip, old chap, worse things happen at sea.’ We do so love our pithy avoidance techniques.”
Nelson nodded slowly. “I have to say, Doctor Armitage, I’m surprised to see you smoking, and you a medical man. Can you not work your head-magic on yourself, or does it not work quite like that?”
“Well, it certainly can in many cases, though not all. No, I choose to continue, though I fear it does rather lend me an air of ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ Man is ever a creature of habit, and habits though easily formed are not so easily broken. It takes considerable strength of will to admit that one has a problem and to then take that first step towards redressing it. I applaud you, Mr. Nelson.”
He favoured me with a smile, but in his eyes I saw a very brief flash of … something. A sliver of ice, perhaps, just for a moment. I had idly entertained the notion of using him for my purposes before that; the flash simply piqued my interest further.
“Doubtless you came to me for my much-lauded skills in hypnotherapy,” I said. “It’s true I am established in this under-appreciated field. It’s not my sole interest, but it’s as noble a profession as any. Hypnosis has a long and rich heritage dating back to civilisations that fell untold eons ago. It has cultural, social, medicinal implications that reach far beyond training men to change their inconvenient habits.”
At this, the small man shifted uncomfortably and leant forward.
“Dr. Armitage,” he said. “Please understand, I’m not entirely comfortable about this. I mean, I’ve read reports of the studies that show evidence of smoking-related death. The thing is, though…” he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “The thing is, doctor, I’m worried. About my privacy, see. You, er, you won’t make me … do stuff?”
“‘Stuff’, Mr. Nelson?”
He coughed and shrugged again.
“Yes. You know. Stuff. Silly stuff, embarrassing and the like.”
I nodded sagely and puffed some more, fixing him with a look that I hoped fell somewhere between mild reassurance and steely indignation.
“I understand completely, Mr. Nelson. There are many who are nervous of hypnotherapy. Charlatans and frauds are among us in all walks of life, I fear. I can only assure you that as a practising professional with, I flatter myself, a sterling reputation, I have no interest in making you cluck like a hen, or bark like a dog!”
At this Mr. Nelson chuckled and relaxed – but only slightly.
“No doubt you harbour some wild and fanciful notions about brainwashing, mind control or some other such nonsense. That popular picture, what was it called, the one that starred Frank Sinatra? The Mancunian Candidate?”
“Er, Manchurian, I think.”
“Ah, yes. Manchurian. Quite. Mmm. All nonsense, of course. Fanciful Hollywood fluff. Hypnotherapy is quite safe, I assure you.”
He nodded slowly, considering my words. He still looked sceptical, though.
“Your reputation is flawless among your peers,” he replied. “Though I still... I value my privacy very highly, sir. Hypnotic suggestion can be used to draw out truths without the client's knowledge, isn't that correct?"
I waved a dismissive hand.
“It can, Mr. Nelson, in the hands of the unscrupulous. You have nothing to fear from me, sir, as I have nothing to gain from you. I am a doctor with an established career and a modest income, so I have no motive to trick you for monetary gain. Hypnotherapy is an unintrusive procedure, though somewhat akin to surgery, a surgery of the mind. My own mind is my scalpel, and I assure you I keep it sharp. A steady hand is required, if you’ll allow me to extend the metaphor, to ensure a happy result.”
“Hmm,” he said, wringing his hands thoughtfully. “All the same, doctor...”
“Oh come, come, Mr. Nelson,” I said firmly. “Have you ever seen a diseased lung? I have photographs in my drawer. They’re not a pretty sight. You can try and stop smoking by hiding your cigarettes, by throwing them away, you can even try feeding them to your dog if you’re feeling particularly cruel. It would be a long, difficult slog with absolutely no guarantee of success. Or … I can guarantee, on my reputation, that I shall not use hypnosis to pry into your personal affairs.”
He hesitated. I had him.
It was the price that convinced him more than anything else. His worn shoes and threadbare suit had marked him out to be a man of frugality, and I used this as leverage. Some minor haggling and mild persuasion later and his mind was mine.
With my soothing tone of voice, I talked him softly and gently into a hypnotic trance. His breathing slowed and deepened, and his eyes closed. Down … down … down … under.
I needed him to be pliable for my purposes.
I led him into the small back room where I kept The Apparatus. A bank of computers and similar electronic equipment took up one wall, humming quietly to itself and emitting the occasional low-pitched beep. The middle of the room was taken up by two chairs: reclining affairs of the sort you might find in a dentist’s office. Sundry other items, hoses and gas tanks and so forth, lay strewn around them in untidy piles. I bid Nelson take his seat and he did so obediently.
The procedure would only take a few moments to initiate. I kept the majority of the Apparatus running before appointments in case I would have the chance to use it; it makes the process swifter if you do not have to start it up each time. The process had been developed many years ago, and was still in development deep underground in some parts of the country. It had been born in blood, perfected by sweat and toil. It always gave me a nervous thrill as I used it; I fancied myself part of something bigger than myself and my jaunts.
Nelson lay back in his seat, an empty smile fixed on his peaceful face. It was innocuous at the time, but if I’d known then what I know now I have no doubt it would have chilled me down to my bones – and further, perhaps, to my very soul. What a fool I was not to take the precaution of restraining him.
As it is, I dismissed it. He was but a means to an end. I needed more research, more minds, to further my studies. Here one was, willingly in attendance, unwittingly readying itself to give up its secrets to me.
I affixed a small gas mask over my patient’s mouth and followed the attached hose to a gas canister by his feet. I began to turn the valve slowly, making sure to allow the gas out at a slow and steady rate.
“Breathe deeply, Mr. Nelson.”
He did so. I waited the customary seven minutes. I have no idea why seven exactly; my own experimentation had proven that by this time the subject's mind would be nicely receptive. Perhaps it was s
imply one of the quirks of the process when using this particular apparatus.
I moved quickly, flicking a few switches, pressing a few keys, taking my place in my own chair. As I slipped on my face mask I felt the same curious mixture of elation and dread that always comes over me at this stage of the procedure. There is a sense of great adventure; every patient is radically different, each experience a wild departure from the last. I was, as ever, taking a plunge into the unknown.
I did not do so without precautions, however. Unlike Mr. Nelson, I was prepared to have a certain measure of control during this jaunt. I would maintain lucidity through the application of a series of taps on my palm spelling out my name in Morse code. Doing this as I succumbed to the gas would keep the pattern in my subconscious and allow me to associate myself on some base level with my name, and thus my identity, my self. Should I need to beat a hasty retreat, I would simply focus on the pattern and allow reality to solidify around me.
I tapped the pattern out as I mentally counted down, taking deep breaths of the amber-coloured gas that coiled and swirled lazily into my lungs. I could feel my limbs becoming heavy, coupled with a sensation of rising. As my mind slipped deeper into darkness, a paradoxical feeling of ascent grew stronger; I felt myself rising and becoming buoyant despite my leaden limbs. This lasted but a few seconds. Within moments I was gone.
And I awoke inside the mind of Stephen Nelson.
It will be very difficult to describe exactly my surroundings. The mind-scape is no physical world, bound by natural laws and quantifiable angles. I did not occupy any physical space there, no depth, width, breadth. That would have been ridiculous.
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