by Sam Nash
A wave of sadness rippled through her thoughts in realisation that she would never again feel those lithe mocha limbs entwined in hers, that cute little mole that looked for all the world like a third nipple and those taut stomach muscles pressed against her belly. She moved closer. He was wearing those turquoise boxer shorts with the pink pigs printed all over them that she had bought for a joke. Bless him, he’d rather come down here and work than disturb me in bed. I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the insomnia.
Aristotle was making himself heard on the opposite side of the door once more. Parth tutted, then stood up and depressed the handle, allowing the cat to bound in and wrap himself around his owner’s legs. Mary watched her husband push their pet away with a flick of an ankle and return to his frantic report writing. What could be so important that it needs documenting at four O’clock in the morning? She edged forwards again, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen when Aristotle jumped up onto the desk, padding across a leather folio of papers. An angry swipe sent the cat flying, scattering the documents across the floor. That was unnecessarily harsh of you Parth. I thought you had more patience. As he crouched down and began gathering the strewn sheets together, one partially covered phrase caught her attention. An unfamiliar crest was visible on the top right hand corner. In bold letters it read - Less Lethal Weapons.
Immediate distress activated a chemical cocktail in her brain so potent, the sudden shock jolted her presence, sucking her consciousness through the door, up the stairs and into the bedroom. In a thrilling rush of urgency, her amorphous mass reintegrated with a sickening thud back into her physical body. With one giant gasp of breath, she opened her eyes. Mary lay on her side of the bed, suffused in the dawn light that streaked through the gap in the curtains, trembling. I am not dead and that was no dream.
Chapter Two
There was no way that Mary could go back to sleep. She lay still, listening to the birds welcome in the new day and waited for the alarm clock to sound. Parth had not returned to the marital bed. Mary knew that he would appear at seven O’clock, carrying a cup of tea, pretending he had woken early. She contemplated telling him about her bodiless amble into his study. Given the revelations discovered in Parth’s leather folio, she thought that he would attribute it to a vivid hallucination. Well acquainted with Parth’s ridicule, she had no intention of affording him further opportunities to use it. She would have to verify the facts before confronting him. Asking straight out would prompt his usual response to anything he didn’t want to answer; ‘you know that some of my projects are classified, honey,’ his get-out clause for everything. Perhaps Yelena would be more forthcoming about her messages to her husband. One thing was clear – Parth was hiding more than a couple of secret Neuroscience studies.
By the time the clock shrieked its warning, Mary had made the momentous decision to be selective with information. It would be a steep learning curve for her, to conceal rather than reveal, fighting against her natural inclination to be open and honest with everyone.
“Morning, darling. Did you sleep well? How is your head today?”
How does he act so sprightly all the time? She widened her eyes, fingering the sleep crystals encrusting her tear ducts, playing along with the ruse. “Better today, thanks.” Mary pressed her knuckles into the mattress, pulling her bottom up close to the pillow and into a sitting position.
He twisted the mug around so that the handle was facing her. She took it from him, mouthing her gratitude. His attention focused and alert, he monitored her every move and gesture.
“I have booked time in the MRI suite for you this morning and sent Plender a text telling him you aren’t fit for work. We’ll do a round of tests and fast track them through the department, just as a precaution.” He sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to analyse her pupils for any signs of inequality without her noticing. Mary did notice. He hovered too close, his motions strained and methodical, the detached medical practitioner displacing her husband’s quiet care.
“Do you think I have a brain tumour?” Articulating the words suddenly made the possibility real. She swallowed hard.
“No, I’m sure you are fine. Just do this for me, please? Put our minds at ease?” He pulled a cutesy face, knowing how it would provoke her. Mary responded with a dazed amorous smile. Damn him. He is so difficult to mistrust.
“I thought you had a meeting with Yelena this morning?”
“How did you…?”
Mary pointed to his iPad, still sitting on Parth’s bed side table. His blithe façade slipped a fraction, exposing an unexpected fear. He recovered it quickly.
“Oh yes, of course. Yelena and I have been working on a promising new investor for Neuro.”
Trying to read his expression, Mary peered a moment too long into the resolute darkness of his eyes. Turning away first, she rebuked herself. Stupid of me. There was bound to be a simple explanation.
“Come on, honey. Get up, get showered and dressed. I’ll drive us in and if you feel up to it, you can collect your bike and ride home. Leave it any longer on campus and someone will take the bolt cutters to your lock.” He was rambling, distracting her train of thought.
Maybe I have got a brain tumour. That would make me hallucinate – probably. Maybe I really did nearly die last night, although it wouldn’t account for all the weird experiences with electronics I’ve had lately.
***
Driving the few streets to the University, they left the Volkswagen in the staff car park and walked through the quads and clusters of buildings towards Neurosciences.
“You go and grab yourself a bite to eat and I’ll text you when Yelena and I are done.” He fumbled with his car keys, trying to slide them through an opening in his leather case.
“I didn’t bring my phone.” She grabbed the bottom corner of the dangling document wallet to assist his struggle.
“Why on Earth not?” Keys safely stowed, she let go of the case, allowing him to grasp its handle and let it swing to his side.
“Didn’t think I’d need it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t face food right now. I’ll come and sit in your department. I don’t mind waiting.” She watched his face switch from annoyance to evasion.
“No, it’ll be noisy and smelly in there. They’ll be cleaning the animal house out today. Give me an hour, then meet me at the front entrance.” He leaned on her shoulder, pecked her forehead with a dry kiss and turned away, striding with purpose.
Mary watched him walk to the corner of the block and disappear before she headed for the Union Building. Pondering her options, she climbed a set of concrete steps to the first concourse and viewed the shop windows. The pharmacy was advertising a two for one offer on contraception and a student union member’s discount on flu vaccinations. Wooden stalls gathered together in the rough shape of a market, had similar deals on glossy A1 posters. Beads, hemp bags and imported smoking bongs hung from racks and rails, surrounded by a massing crowd of unwashed youths, striving for adulthood. She nodded her amusement at the stall owner and entered the campus bookshop.
A sanctuary of calm, Mary browsed the titles in the Neurology section, then dismissed them for their complex titles. Maybe the theology shelves will help to explain all the weird occurrences. None of the cover blurbs struck her as being useful except for a tiny paperback, written by the Dalai Lama. Opening the pages at random, the sentences seem to speak to her in her hour of turmoil.
The wise sage spoke of a comparison between the mind and an honest and pure monarch or Prime Minister. He likened our thoughts and feelings, within the analogy, to cabinet ministers. Some of whom, provide good advice and care for the well-being of others, while some are only concerned for their own interests.
The passage continued to filter through her thoughts as she paid for the book, left the shop and queued for a drink in the canteen. The boards above the kiosk had a cartoon man holding his chin with a thought cloud painted above his head. In swirled green lettering his thoughts read “I think
I’ll eat healthy foods today.” I bet his mind doesn’t go zooming around the house, spying on his partner in the middle of the night. I bet he hasn’t got a brain tumour squeezing out all his logic and reason.
“It’s Mary, isn’t it?”
I bet he hasn’t got a partner who thinks you need wet-nursing and all your decisions taken out of your hands.
“Hello? Mary?” The tall man stepped from behind her in the queue to gain her attention. She snapped out of her self-pitying reflections and engaged.
“Dan! Oh, how lovely to see you.” They did a little mistimed dance of shaking hands and air kissing.
“You remembered my name.” He beamed, his eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Of course, I did. You are the only interesting person in the study group. Soon grow tired of all the students who are more interested in claiming their expenses than taking Parth’s experiments seriously.” They edged forwards in the queue.
“Parth?”
“Dr Parth Arora. He’s my husband.” A student tried to by-pass them carrying a tray stacked high with an assortment of sweet snacks. Mary shot him a just-try-it-sonny glare. The student resumed his place behind Dan.
“Good God, really? So, you’re… Dr Mary Aurora? As in the Northern Lights?”
“Ha! No. Just plain old Mary Arora, spelled without the ‘U’. Parth is of Indian descent. Arora is quite common, apparently.” She drew level with the counter where a large lady wearing a smock was resting on her elbows.
“Here, allow me.” With a chivalry seldom seen deep in the student territories, Dan paid for their drinks and carried the tray to a table of her choosing, folding his long legs beneath the cramped space in the American style booth. She thanked him.
“You have to admit, we made a pretty good team in that card pairing exercise.” Dan said, keen to preserve the conversation’s momentum.
“Yes, that’s true, but those early activities were to select a group of what Parth calls his Sensitives.” She removed the lid from the metal teapot and stirred the bag around with a plastic spoon.
“His what, now?” Dan licked the cappuccino froth from his top lip.
“People with a significantly above average guess rate in the card tests. He uses traditionally accepted psychology experiments to find his group of Sensitives, each study getting progressively more complex and involved.” She paused to flick some errant crumbs from her teacup. “As he whittles the candidates down, he retains a smaller test group for neurological study and then passes the remainder over to the psychology department.” She scrunched her nose up at the paltry amount of fresh milk the smock lady had poured into her tiny jug.
“What does he do with his target candidates?” A wry smile formed on his lips, watching her perform what was clearly a ritual pouring of her tea.
“They have a series of medical tests done to see if they are physically fit, then Parth decides which test group to place them in.”
“Ah, that was why his staff took an armful of blood this morning.” He showed her the tiny circular plaster nestled in the crook of his arm. “I don’t really know what I thought the study would entail when I signed up. The advert seemed so intriguing, like we were going to discover the science behind all paranormal phenomenon.” They giggled.
“Maybe we will. You are a sceptic then?” Mary took a sip. The tea was still scalding hot, but she bore the millisecond of pain like an old pro.
“I’m fascinated by it. I want to believe but I cannot find any evidence to support it. I have so many books back in the shop about it, I’m in danger of becoming a specialist supplier.” Dan offered her a napkin to mop up the dribbles collected in the saucer from the leaky pot.
“You own a bookshop?” She scanned his apparel. The corduroy jacket should have been enough of a hint.
“Yes, the one just off West Walk, near De Montford Street.” Dan saw her perplexed frown and added; “It’s called Wildman’s Books… blue canopy over the shop front.”
“Oh yes, I know it. Never been in, sadly. I shall make a point of venturing over that way.” Her expression was too eager.
He grinned. “That’s what they all say.”
Her ephemeral smile shone, then faded, replaced by something that resembled concern. “I don’t suppose you have anything on weird experiences, do you?”
“Tonnes. Define weird.” Taking the cue from her serious tone, he sat upright and moved in closer.
“Like leaving your body and spying on relatives weird. And I don’t mean dreaming.” Concern matured into full blown worry.
“Out of Body Experiences. They call it Extra Corporeal Travel, these days. Has that happened to you then?”
Mary nodded, the bridge of her nose wrinkling up the skin in her forehead. “Last night, but please don’t tell Parth. He’s making me have a brain scan this morning. If I tell him about it, he’ll say it was a hallucination, probably from a massive tumour that’ll kill me any minute.” There was a catch in her voice, the note of panic straining her vocal chords.
Dan shook his head slowly. “I won’t tell him, but perhaps you should. He sounds like a worrier. Must be nice to have someone care that much about you.”
“Suffocating, sometimes. I mustn’t grumble. He is very good to me.” Keen to change tack before the wobble in her throat became a torrent of tears. “Do you have someone special?”
Dan blew out a forced puff of air. “That’s debateable.”
Mary lowered one eyebrow and held it there. He took the prompt and continued. “Connie. Constance – she’s French, but over here working as a freelance journalist.”
“And the debateable bit?”
Dan took a deep breath. “Some months she practically moves in. Life is exciting – parties, soirees, theatre trips, mini-breaks, then the next month she’ll vanish, completely. No warnings, no note, texts, phone calls, nothing.” He pushed his cup handle from side to side. It made a grating noise against the Formica table. “The first time she disappeared, I was out of my mind with worry. I did the usual - called round to a couple of her friends’ places, no luck. She wouldn’t answer my calls, messages, I was frantic. Then I contacted the Police and registered her as a missing person.” Dan’s mouth dried. He took a gulp of coffee. “Within twenty-four hours, they’d tracked her phone and card transactions back to Paris and then cautioned me for wasting police time.”
Mary sat captivated by his tale, supping her tea, feeling his desperation. She urged him to carry on.
“I thought she had split up with me but six weeks later, she lets herself into the flat above my shop as if nothing had happened.”
“And you forgave her?” Mary poured her second cup, trying to maintain eye contact and watch the liquid slopping up to the brim.
“I tried to discuss it with her, get my side across, but she just shrugged and said that she was following a story. And, well, she can be maddeningly…”
“Charming.”
Dan nodded.
“She sounds a lot like Parth.” They raised their cups in silent meditation, contemplating their respective partners.
“She’s dragging me to some posh ball around here next week. I have to go and book a rented dinner jacket this afternoon.” He rolled his eyes.
“It’s not the Investment Group bash, is it? At the Gilbert Murray Hall, near to the Botanical Gardens?” The sparkle reignited in her irises. It seemed to have a reciprocal effect in lightening Dan’s mood.
“Yes, I think so. Are you going?”
“I was going to try and wriggle out of it. Those Investors Balls are deadly.” She shifted backwards on the vinyl bench seats.
“Aww, please say you’ll go. Connie will run off and grab any dignitary she can corner and I’ll be stuck by the buffet holding a shrimp in one hand and an orange juice in the other, waiting to chauffeur m’lady home.” He pawed at the table, affecting a pathetic air.
“Only if you will promise to rescue me from the Director of Biomedical Sciences. He’s a lecherous old sod, wit
h the personal hygiene of an elderly walrus and he always seems to find me no matter where I hide.” Her bubbly warmth was infectious.
“Done. But wont Parth be your gallant knight?”
“Not when there are departmental funds up for grabs. He’d pimp his granny out if there was a promise of new equipment in it.” They drained their drinks and Mary wrapped the strap of her satchel diagonally across her body ready to leave. “See you at the next study session on…”
“Tomorrow. Yes.” They squeezed themselves out from the booth seats.
“Gosh, yes, tomorrow. Thanks for the tea, Dan.” Mary double tapped his arm.
“Good to see you, Mary.”
As she made her way to the door, she glanced back to see her new friend taking his long strides towards an exit at the far end of the room. Turning again, she bumped into a stocky man in suit trousers and formal shirt, who shoved past her and scuttled off in Dan’s general direction.
“Don’t mind me!” Mary shouted after him. He waved, but didn’t stop to offer an apology. Hmm, rude man. He’s got a little finger missing, like Terry Nutkin. I wonder if he got it bitten off by an otter too. She studied the wall clock. Might have been sensible to have made a note of the time when I left Parth earlier. Has it been an hour yet?
Resolving to wait on the Neurosciences front steps in the sun, Mary quickened her pace and lengthened her gait. She had always felt a sense of comfort on campus, like the buildings were cradling her, protecting her from the harsh outside world. Today she felt them watching her with ominous intent. Their friendly faces turned sour and sterile. Rounding a corner, she caught sight of her boss, Professor Cyril Plender, carrying a bulging document wallet into the Biochemistry building. Halting abruptly, she back-tracked and shuffled behind a wall, peeking out every few seconds to see if he had cleared the entrance. I can’t face Cyril today. He jars my nerves on regular days let alone brain scan days. His ranting could make my tumour pop in my head and kill me. Between him entering the building, walking up two flights of steps and unlocking his office door, she estimated a thirty second opportunity to dash past before he would look out of his window and see her.
