by Alan Garner
‘Hello. Is that High Forest Taxis?’
‘It is indeed, Professor Whisterfield.’
‘I have to go from Alderley to Toft. Now. As soon as possible. And I’d like the driver to be Bert. He knows where I am. Thanks. Thanks very much. You’re so kind.’
He left the quarry for the road and paced until the taxi came.
‘Eh up, Colin. Are you all right? What’s it today, then?’ said Bert. ‘The nut house?’
‘It’s not as far as Barcelona.’
‘No worries.’ Colin sat in the front. Bert whistled as he drove, and kept winking at Colin. They turned onto the drive. Meg was by the house, lopping holly branches.
‘Hi, Colin. Hi, Bert.’
‘Hi, Doc,’ said Bert.
‘Go in, Colin,’ said Meg. ‘I’ll stow the gear and be with you.’
‘Watch them gullantines, Doc,’ said Bert, ‘else they’ll have you.’
Colin went to the library and looked out over the lawns.
‘I didn’t know you knew Bert,’ he said.
‘Bert and I go back a long way.’
Only, in all the world, he entered the lodge.
‘Am I mad?’ said Colin.
‘Not yet,’ said Meg.
‘But a voice. That’s psychosis.’
‘Depends on the voice,’ said Meg. ‘Have you heard it before?’
‘No.’
‘Did you recognise it?’
‘Yes.’
‘A real person?’
‘—Yes.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I think,’ said Colin.
‘Oh, you “think”,’ said Meg. ‘Now. Let’s unpick this. You hear a voice you’ve not heard before, and you “think” it’s the voice of someone you recognise. Dead or alive?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I must find her.’
‘You just hold your water. So it’s a “she”.’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you tell? A whisper is voiceless. Hard to differentiate.’
‘She calls me Col. No one else does. No one else knows. It’s just between the two of us. At secret times.’
‘“Did” or “does”? “Knew” or “knows”?’
‘Does. Knows.’
‘So it’s all in the present.’
‘It depends on whether time is linear,’ said Colin.
‘Who is she? Was she?’
Colin began to cry.
‘Who, Colin?’
‘My sister.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘I—can’t remember.’
Meg took Colin by the hand.
‘Come up, love. Come up.’
She helped him from the chair and walked him across the room to the French windows.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I never cry.’
‘Why not? I do. Does me a world of good. You’re always apologising. Stop. Let it go. You’re OK. Let it go.’
They stood, hand in hand, looking at the sunlit gardens of spring. Wrench by wrench Colin’s tears turned to dew on his cheeks.
‘What’s that rock over there?’ he said.
The distant flat horizon was broken by a bluff.
‘Beeston,’ said Meg. ‘Shall we start now?’
‘Start what?’
‘Scraping off the crud.’ She took him back to the chair, sat herself opposite and opened his file. ‘This is the most God-awful collection of tunnel-visioned codswallop I’ve seen in all my born puff. There’s not a trace of insight, imagination, flexibility, humanity, humility in it. Apart from Eric. It’s you that has to conform to the preconceptions of others, and when you don’t you’re closed down with dope to make you go away. Wuthering dry wankers. They don’t want to learn. I’m being unprofessional, of course. You understand.’
‘What does it say?’ said Colin.
‘What doesn’t it? About the only thing missing is athlete’s foot.’
‘Oh, I have that,’ said Colin. ‘I have that, too. Tinia pedis. In summer, by and large, or when using occluded footwear for long periods. I treat it symptomatically. I wash the affected part first and dry it well; then either spray with a fungicide, avoiding inhalation and the eyes, or I can use a cream, twice daily; usually a miconazole nitrate base. It’s important to continue the treatment for ten days after the symptoms have disappeared, to prevent them from coming back.’
‘That’s true,’ said Meg. ‘Most people do stop too soon. Shall we go on?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Colin. ‘But it can be a most aggressive itch.’
‘It can. Meanwhile, back at the ranch,’ said Meg, ‘as far as there is a consensus, it’s that you’re an immature uncooperative hysterical depressive Asperger’s, with an IQ off the clock, for what that’s worth; which is zilch unless you use it.’
‘I can’t help being intelligent,’ said Colin. ‘I’m not contagious.’
‘But that’s what scares them: the IQ. Makes them defensive and aggressive at the same time. The pack turns on the outsider. Eric says you play games if you think anyone’s getting too close. You tried it on with me as soon as we met, as well as now. Some of this, then, could be you farting about. Or are you? If it was as easy as that we could tank you up and all live happily ever after. But you would not. Cutting your emotional balls off would solve nothing. Colin, has no one spotted the truly weird part of you?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your tail feathers. They’re grotesque.’
He looked behind him. ‘There aren’t any.’
‘Oh, come on. That doesn’t wash with me. Concentrate, will you? MA, M.Sc. Clever boy. D.Phil. Fine. D.Sc. Right. FRS, FRAS. Congratulations. M.Theol. A bit de trop for an astrophysicist? Then, perhaps not.’
‘It takes two lines to get your qualifications on an envelope,’ said Colin.
‘My inferiority complex,’ said Meg. ‘Nothing to write home about. But you, matey, you’re something else. What’s this truckload of Masters’? Archaeology and Anthropology? Geography? Geology? What’s going on? It’s barmy. How’s your sex life?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘Does the thought make you puke?’
‘No. I’ve got colleagues. They’re good colleagues.’
‘Have you talked to any of them about this?’ said Meg.
‘They wouldn’t understand what’s wrong. They don’t think anything is. They don’t know what it’s like. Inside. For them it’s only fun, even though I tell them it isn’t. You see, I don’t delete. Anything. Ever.’
‘Are you saying you’ve got an eidetic memory?’ said Meg.
‘My colleagues think I have,’ said Colin. ‘But it’s not that I don’t delete. I can’t delete. I can’t delete. Not even dreams.’
‘Oh, heck,’ said Meg. ‘What were you doing at half past eleven on the evening of November 7th two years ago?’
‘Arthur’s tracking an anomaly near 24 Tauri for me, and I’m supervising some postgrad researchers with the Mark II on the Taurids maximum at Right Ascension 53° Declination +24°.’
‘Who’s Arthur?’
‘The main computer for the telescope.’
‘And what about noon on January 14th thirteen years ago?’
‘I’m splitting logs. A Scots pine blew down in the night of January 11th.’
‘Who was President of the United States then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What won the Grand National two years ago?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where were the last Olympic Games held?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What did you do in the afternoon three days after your sixteenth birthday?’
‘Double Latin. Double. I ask you! It’s a set text. The Aeneid, Book Six, lines 703 to 751. It’s too much to expect anyone of our age to take in all of that at the one go. I want to hide. I’m frightened. I’m no good at it, and I don’t understand. Then Maths. Calculus. Infini
te Series Convergence. Then we go for a cross-country run. I come fifth. Tea’s Welsh rarebit and cake with chocolate buttons on. I have two pieces.’
‘OK. You’re not a savant,’ said Meg. ‘Your recall seems to be totally autobiographical, and we must assume totally accurate.’
‘That’s right,’ said Colin. ‘It is.’
‘Press on,’ said Meg. ‘What was the weather when you were twelve years nine months three weeks and six days old?’
Colin thrust his face against a cushion and gagged. ‘No! No! Sky gone! Eyes! Old! Old eyes! Strong! Blue light! Silver! No! Gone!’
Meg waited. Colin flexed and slumped. He lifted his face from the cushion. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You see. That’s it. You see. I can’t access anything, anything, before I was thirteen.’
‘Oh, twice and double heck,’ said Meg. ‘You don’t present this way in the file. Haven’t you told anyone?’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Colin. ‘But no one listens. Or I’m not clear. I suppose I’m too scared.’
‘So you should be.’
‘Of going mad.’
‘You are not going mad. Yet. Let’s work arsy-varsy. You can’t remember anything before you were thirteen, right? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I get flashbacks,’ said Colin. ‘But they don’t connect. They don’t add up to being me. It’s as if they’re teasing on purpose. They’re cruel. Him! His eyes!’
‘So you’ve no autonoetic awareness of yourself as a continuous entity across time.’
‘I don’t. That’s it, Meg. I can’t access the data. Not at will, I can’t. That’s it.’
‘I’m not so sure it is it,’ said Meg. ‘Episodic memory and isolated retrograde amnesia are rare enough. But this may be another ball game.’
‘What are you going to do?’ said Colin.
‘Me? I’m not going to do anything. You’re the one that has to do. Now then. Once you’ve had a flashback from your forgotten past, are those images retained and retrievable in the present?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you able to remember dreams as flashback?’
‘I think I can. But I can’t be sure whether they’re dreams or something else that actually happened.’
‘Mm. Okey-dokey. Well. There’s a handful of case studies of your other syndrome of autobiographical total memory, and some ambitious people are trying to build their reputations on it. Hyperthymesia; makes it sound kosher. They may be right. But I’m not having you dragged in. You don’t know these careerists. They’re bent on being first, and they wouldn’t see; or if they did some wouldn’t care. On top of that, if hyperthymesia turns out to be genuine, which it well may, you could have both syndromes, butt-jointing at some time when you were about thirteen. And that, Humpty Dumpty, O best belovèd, would be dynamite to blow you apart. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. I’m flummoxed. This could be unique. I’d not wish uniqueness on anyone.’
‘What’s the answer?’ said Colin.
‘Squit all, at the moment,’ said Meg. ‘You have flashback from your forgotten period, and those images are retained and retrievable.’
‘Yes.’
‘So why did you smash the glass, Colin?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you smash the glass?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you?’
‘No!’
‘OK. We’ve shovelled enough shit for one day. Let’s sleep on it. I want you to have an MRI brain scan.’
‘Not hospital,’ said Colin. ‘I mustn’t leave home. I have to be there.’
‘It’s a morning trip to Macclesfield, non-invasive, no after-effects; and it might tell us more.’
‘Will Bert look after me?’
‘I’m sure he will. Let’s have a breather, and I’ll show you something that might interest you. Come into the corridor.’
‘I’m feeling so much better,’ said Colin.
‘Don’t worry. It’s a transient euphoria.’
They went from the library to the corridor. The corridor ran straight through the house, from front to back. ‘Look over the lawn,’ said Meg. Beeston bluff was in the centre of the view. ‘At the winter solstice, the sun sets towards the hill, almost.’
‘“Almost”?’ said Colin.
‘It goes down to the left, by that bush, and when the sky’s clear Beeston stands out a short while later, as if there’s a fire behind it.’
Colin held his thumb sideways and closed one eye. ‘About ten thousand years ago it would have set exactly there. This corridor could echo an earlier significance.’
‘Oh Gawd. Are you into ley lines?’ said Meg.
‘No, but it may be, it may be, that this place could have been used for solar and lunar observations.’
‘Well, it has good vibes,’ said Meg. ‘Anyway. Time to go now.’
‘Will it be inconvenient if I wait till Bert gets here?’ said Colin.
‘I think you’ll find he’s outside.’
Colin went to the front door. The taxi was on the drive; and Bert was reading a paper.
‘Have I kept you waiting?’ said Colin.
‘Part of the service,’ said Bert. ‘Are you all right? Let’s be having you.’
Colin lowered the window. ‘I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to.’
‘Take care,’ said Meg.
‘Do you always say that?’
‘Not always.’ She waved as they started to move away.
‘Our Meg,’ said Bert. ‘She’s an odd un, that one. She is and all. What! She reckons you up, rump and stump, she does. Rump and stump. What! But she sees you right.’
‘How long have you known her?’ said Colin.
‘Meg? Oh, as long as me arm.’
They came to Church Quarry. ‘I have to go to hospital,’ said Colin. ‘You will be able to collect me and bring me back, won’t you?’
‘Part of the service. But let’s have you in here first.’ He went with Colin to the hut.
‘Thank you,’ said Colin. ‘I really do appreciate your kindness.’
‘Any time,’ said Bert.
Colin put on his robes and walked the woods.
The woods opened summer. Pine, birch, juniper, willow. He went down the length of two days’ hunting into the valleys. He found no one, nor any sign of a one, to the start of the Flatlands. Then he looked for three days’ hunting in the hills away from the Tor of Ghosts but found no one, nor any sign of a one. So he went up towards the Tor and the land of the star that did not turn.
He met spirits on the high fell; wolves, too, and bulls, and bears and boars, but of people he found no one, nor any sign of a one. He climbed the Tor and looked out across all that was; and he saw nothing. He went back to his lodge, and wept; but he did not forget.
Bert was prompt.
‘Grand day for it, Colin,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Let’s be having you.’ Colin sat at the front. ‘I was thinking. A grand day. Though we’ll get a rinsing before we’ve done. When you can see the rocks on Shining Tor it promises wet.’
‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’ said Colin.
‘Shoot, Prof.’
‘I rang your office, and the manager knew who I was without my saying. How was that?’
‘She’s got a memory for voices, has our Fay,’ said Bert.
‘But I’d not spoken to her before,’ said Colin. ‘The hospital made the call.’
‘We look after our customers,’ said Bert.
‘And your milometer isn’t working. It doesn’t change.’
‘I’d best get it fixed.’
‘But, if you don’t know how far you’ve gone, how can you manage your fares?’
‘When you’ve been at it a while,’ said Bert, ‘you know how much it costs.’
The taxi stopped at the main entrance of the hospital. Colin checked in at the desk and went to the waiting area. ‘Professor Whisterfield? This way, please.’ The nurse was gentle. ‘Now, I want you to go into the booth a
nd take everything off, including your watch, and put this gown on. Your details are here, but I have to be sure that you’re not wearing a pacemaker and that you have no other metal on or in your body. Right?’ He put on the gown, and the nurse took him to the room. There was a large tube, a tunnel, and at one end a padded bench.
‘Lie down here, please, Colin. Are you bothered by being closed in?’
‘As far as I’m aware,’ said Colin, ‘I am not claustrophobic. At least I believe I’m not. I feel enclosed sometimes, in dreams. On my shins. But that’s all.’
‘Good,’ said the nurse. ‘You won’t go in that far. Now I want you to hold this bulb, and if you’re at all worried you’re to squeeze it, and we’ll stop. And remember. We can hear you and speak to you at all times. During the scan there’ll be quite a lot of noise as the magnets switch on and off. Some people find this distressing, so we’ve got earplugs for you. Or you can listen to music.’
‘Thank you,’ said Colin. ‘I’m interested in the procedure. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do without.’
‘That’s fine, Colin. Now I’m going to put this frame over your head, but you’ll be able to see clearly. All right? If you’ll make yourself comfortable, we’ll start. It’s important that you don’t move. I want you to keep perfectly still.’
The nurse left to join the radiographer behind a window at the end of the room. The bench was raised and slid into the tube, until Colin’s head was inside. A voice spoke.
‘Can you hear me, Colin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, if you’re ready, we’ll begin. Remember, we can hear you and speak to you. Try to keep quite still. We’re starting. The noise will be loud, so don’t hesitate to say if it’s too much.’
‘Understood,’ said Colin.
The bench moved into the tube. There was light, and the curve closed over him. A pause, and then he was lapped in clanging, calling sound. The sound stopped. It came again. It was a sound that pierced. And stopped. And came again. He felt himself a part of its din.
‘Good heavens.’
‘What’s the matter, Colin?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Please continue.’
The call rang in the tunnel and became him, so he could not tell which was him, the cry, the tunnel. ‘It is. Grus grus.’
‘What, Colin?’
‘Grus grus.’
