by Sam Nash
Dear Mary,
We seem to always be out of sync with each other. I apologise if I caused you distress last night. Please allow me to escort you to the charity function tonight, and I will endeavour to make it up to you.
With warmest regards,
Karan.
Harvey unzipped the closest garment bag, draped across an occasional chair. The silk of the cocktail dress slid through the aperture. “Shall I hang this in the bedroom, madam?”
“Yes, please.” She swung her legs up onto the settee and lay back on the cushions. I’m a kept woman. I have gone from having Parth make all my decisions for me, to having Karan make them. I have got to get out from their control and start steering my own future. How on earth am I to get a job without a green card? How am I to get a green card with fake documents? If only I could go home. I’m sure the professor would let me continue my PhD studies. She sat up and reached for the suite’s iPad. Tapping in the memorised web address, Mary sifted through the links on the BBC News page, for any signs of an announcement from the Prime Minister. Other than a brief paragraph of lies, stating her recovery from a minor case of Legionnaire’s Disease, there was nothing to give Mary hope.
Abandoning the iPad, Mary directed her attention to the massive television screen on the wall. The menu of channels was immense. “Harvey… how do I get cable channels on this?”
He abandoned the new clothes and floral arrangements to attend her. “Was there something specific you would like me to find?”
“I want to see what is going on back home.”
Harvey scanned through the options on screen and landed on the BBC. He returned the remote to Mary, and continued his work.
“Thank you.” She murmured, lost in the tickertape ribbon of headlines scrolling beneath the newscaster. It read: Defence Minister detained over allegations of treason… Prime Minister recovering well and scheduled to return to Downing Street later today… Deputy PM stands in at the MoD and warns cabinet reshuffle imminent.
“Nothing about water contamination or the Mental Health Bill?”
“Pardon me, madam?”
“Oh nothing.”
Harvey finished stowing away the latest gifts from her admirer and cleared away the breakfast items. Mary locked herself in the bathroom and took a leisurely soak in the tub. With the Prime Minster out of action, there seemed little chance of her lifting the warrant for Mary’s arrest.
As she lay in the warm soapy bubbles, Mary contemplated her next move. The anonymity of a big city would not last forever. If a teenage boy in a small, New Jersey town could out her as the famed Miracle Mary, it wouldn’t be long before news crews tracked her location. She really ought to decline Karan’s offer to escort her to the charity auction. It could be surrounded by media teams.
Mary pulled the plug and dried herself off. Wrapping the soft towel around her body, she walked into the bedroom and touched the midnight blue silk of the new dress. It moved like a living creature, undulating through her fingers.
I shouldn’t, but I really do want to see Karan tonight, if only to ask him what he has discovered about Alexi. Maybe those ladies, downstairs in the salon, can spruce me up so that no one would ever recognise me. I could ask Karan to drop me off at a service entrance so that no one would see me arrive. Harvey had placed the matching shoes under the hanging gown. Their allure was too great to resist. Mary slid them onto her bare feet and sighed. What is wrong with me? Am I so shallow as to be seduced by all this materialism?
Dressing in jeans, a red cotton blouse and jacket, Mary grabbed her key card and satchel, and descended in the lift to the foyer. Taking big confident strides, Mary left the hotel and crossed the road to the park. Without the distractions of wealth, she had a better chance of thinking clearly. She strolled along the busy foot paths and cycle routes before settling on a bench to watch the wildlife upending in the lake.
“Dan?” She reached out into the ether for her brother’s telepathic frequency. “Are you able to talk?” She waited a few moments, and then tried again. “Dan?”
“Yep, am here… two secs…” Another short wait, and he returned with his crisp intonation. “Sorry, I was driving. I have pulled over with my hazards on. Good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, thanks. How’s your mum?”
“Much better. I’m heading to the hospital now. She thinks they will discharge her today. Still on medication, but the specialist said that she should make a full recovery.”
“Oh, that is good news. I hope to God that the Prime Minister has recovered too. She needs to get back to the day job and fulfil her promises.”
“Don’t hold your breath on that score, little sister. Where exactly are you now?”
“Central Park, watching the ducks.”
“How the other half live. And no dramas, so far?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” Mary refrained from blurting out the whole of her worries; her fear that Alexi was preparing for yet another grand scheme of the terror variety. On reflection, there was nothing to be gained by burdening him with her concerns. He could not do anything to help.
“Mary…? You are alright, aren’t you?”
She changed the subject. “Hey, Dan, I’m sorry that I lumbered you with sorting everything out over…”
He felt her sadness. The surge of emotion that stung his own eyes. The mutual grief over a beloved grandfather. “They haven’t released his body yet. I have been battling with Yelena over his personal effects. She says they are part of the investigation, but that is such bullshit. As if MI6 need to investigate what happened. Anyway, I’m seeing her later. Apparently, Pip was carrying a journal when… it happened.”
“Grampy carried a diary around with him? That’s an odd thing to do. It must have contained something important. I can’t believe I didn’t know that about him.”
“It seems there were quite a few things we didn’t know. I received a condolence card in the post, this morning. There was a metallic business card inside, embossed with a whole bunch of contact details.”
The disclosure crystalized a thought from her memory. Mary reached into her satchel, pulling out the sympathy card the Thin Man had handed to her on Parliament Square. She unfolded it and read the message once again. “It wasn’t from a man called Jenkins, was it?”
Chapter Eleven
“You got one too? Who is he?”
“No idea. He didn’t give me a business card though. He just handed me the envelope and called me, My Lady.”
“How peculiar. I really need to look into this, especially after finding that Earl of Sedgewell statement. Maybe Pip’s journal will shed some light on it. Right, got to go or I’ll be late for my mum. Take care, Mary.”
The moment she felt her brother’s mental halter release her, the solitude invaded. Surrounded by dog walkers, joggers, tourists and an ensemble of native New Yorkers, Mary had never felt so alone. For a full half hour, Mary just sat and watched the world go by, pondering her circumstances. It was only when a man sidled up to her bench, sat down and shuffled closer to her, did she move.
Wandering aimlessly, she gravitated to the area where she had first arrived in Manhattan, close to the Hayden Planetarium and American Museum of Natural History. The signage directed her around the corner from Central Park West to the entrance at Eighty-First Street. The massive grey sphere encapsulated in the glass box was magnificent; its attraction was irresistible.
Mary paid her fee at the ticket desk and followed the crowds into the main theatre. Distracted by the Big Bang feature, she allowed herself time to forget her problems. From there, the exit led her from inside the sphere down a long and gradual spiral of time. The entire history of the cosmos laid out in images, explanations and interactive screens. The atmosphere felt rarefied, concentrated by the hundreds of astonished children, gasping at the displays and running through the exhibitions.
It was when she reached a darkened area to view the Earth Event Wall, that
Mary shuddered. The real-time data streaming from thousands of seismographic and meteorological centres across the world, showed a minor tremor occurring in New Zealand. Her heart raced, sending a flush of heat through her chest. She did not want to be reminded of past ordeals; the events that culminated in the deaths of ten innocent people by her own powers. The disquiet made the memory real. Her abilities were a menace, not an asset. Turning on her heels, Mary hurried from the exhibit.
She took time with the rocks and meteorites to banish the thought from her mind. Here, she touched the five-foot mass of red rock, cut along its length and polished to a shine. Its cool surface reflected the artificial lighting above, which flickered as people, moved forming shadows.
“I don’t know why you are even considering it, frankly. Give a man a PhD and he thinks he has the right to pontificate on all subjects equally.”
Mary turned to watch them from a discreet distance. The man who spoke was familiar. She recognised him from the television; it was the widow’s peak hairline on his perfect black forehead, the cheeky grin and engaging way he explained complex concepts to children and adults alike. The second man Mary saw, looked fraught.
“Even still. You can guarantee that they will contact you about this, so you ought to have an answer prepared.”
“It is not worth my time. He’s a goddamn neuroscientist. His theories about the ionosphere are irrelevant.” The charming black man dismissed his colleague with a waft of the hand.
“Can you just have a brief statement prepared for when the media come calling? It would make my job a whole lot easier.” The fraught man scratched idly at his eyebrow, closing his eyes to his surroundings.
“Why would they contact an astro-physicist about atmospheric layers and consciousness? It doesn’t make sense.”
The men walked further from Mary, their voices became harder to hear. She sauntered closer, her inquisitiveness piqued.
“If what this Arora guy says is credible, it will initiate a massive round of televised debates. You are the obvious choice.”
Mary reeled. It couldn’t be Parth, could it? Why would he be releasing statements about this ionosphere? In a flat spin, she fidgeted, looking for any access to the world wide web. There were interactive screens, but all were locked into the child friendly interface displaying the cosmos. In desperation, Mary dashed to the nearest exit. She had to get back to the hotel to search for any recent activity tagged to her ex-husband. If only she still had her smart phone. The thought crossed her mind that she ought to buy a SIM card and register it with her new name.
Racing across the park, Mary ran in a straight trajectory, dodging the many obstacles until she arrived at the front entrance of The Plaza. The doorman tipped his cap to her as she bolted past and ran into the silent foyer. When she reached the elevator doors, the operator pressed the button for the nineteenth floor without her asking. Mary spent the vertical journey, doubled over panting. As the lift doors opened, she signed the thumbs up to the young man, and rummaged in her bag for her key card.
Upon entry, Mary discovered Harvey hanging the dress, from her dinner with Karan, up in the wardrobe. Its nylon sheath evidence of the dry-cleaning process, Harvey had arranged. He scuttled to the sitting room. “Can I be of assistance, madam?”
“Nope. Just needed the iPad, thanks Harvey.”
He loitered, tidying his pantry and switching on the small kettle, anticipating her need for a drink. Mary flipped the cover open and the device sprang to life. With a new browser window on screen, Mary typed Dr Parth Arora into the search bar. Within a millisecond, over a hundred thousand entries scrolled before her eyes. Each post began with a sensational headline.
Online tabloid services led with variations of, MIRACLE MARY’S HUSBAND CLAIMS HEAVEN IS A MYTH. Broadsheets focused on his neuroscience qualifications to lend them credibility. Theirs read; IONOSPHERE IS HUMAN MEMORY REPOSITORY. Oh god, what has he done now? I thought he would still be in hospital, or at least recuperating at home with his sisters taking care of him. She clicked on a link to an illegal upload of a debate aired on British terrestrial TV channels. The studio was decked one side with a live audience; the stage area supported four chairs lined up in a semi-circle. Parth sat at the end of the row, almost facing the TV host. Next to him, a man in a black suit and clerical collar. The final seat was occupied by Danish quantum physicist and Christian, Dr Hugo Blom.
Mary lowered the volume control on the iPad and touched the play arrow. The audience applause died down and the host introduced each of the guests. Parth looked especially gaunt. His freshly shaved cheeks caved in either side of his chin, the whites of his eyes yellowed from the toxins leaving his system. Mary swallowed back a twinge of pity. Even a near fatal poisoning could not dampen his fervour. If Parth could not collect a Nobel Prize, he would have to be content with media infamy. Mary observed the passive-aggressive exchange of looks between the former college house mates and sighed. This is what comes of having a competitive nature.
The host gave a precis of the events, which had culminated in a march of fifty-thousand disgruntled Christians through central London. It was punctuated by video clips illustrating Mary’s abilities in all their uncontrolled glory. The discussion began with an explanation from the guest cleric, The Archbishop of Canterbury. Mary recalled his compassion for her on that fateful day. How he had rescued her from the clamouring masses with his undeniable charisma. A kind, highly articulate and dignified man, who diffused the mob mentality with a simple prayer. A reminder that forgiveness, not judgement was part of the tenets of faith. His introductory statement left him sitting squarely on the fence. A tactical move which neither condemned Mary for her abilities, nor made claims of her Messianic potential.
Hugo charged in with both guns blazing. His animosity prepared in advance, to appease his following among the online trolls and religious zealots. While the Archbishop attempted to temper Hugo’s belligerence, Parth sat in silence, absorbing the petty bickering and semantics. The host gave Hugo free rein.
“I still think that Mary should be held to account for her blasphemy. No other faith would permit such mockery of their prophets.” Hugo was almost pouting, his nose held high in the studio air.
The Archbishop countered. “I don’t believe that she did mock our faith. It seems to me that Mary is as unsure of her abilities as we are. She should not be judged for being blessed with unique gifts.”
“Blessed?” Hugo lunged forwards in his chair. “You think God has blessed her with the ability to turn water into wine, to heal the sick and blow up electrical equipment?”
“Of course. Just as you have been gifted with abilities in theoretical physics. We each excel at something in life.” The Archbishop interlinked his fingers and balanced them on crossed knees. Mary thought he looked most sincere in his opinions.
Hugo would not be swayed. “Well, I know a collective of fifty thousand people who would disagree with you there.”
“That is my point, Hugo. Parliament Square was filled with impressionable people. You influenced their collective conscience into bitterness and antagonism; dare I go as far as hatred. You should be using your drive and celebrity to steer people for the betterment of society.”
Parth snorted, and then excused himself, masking his retort as a sneeze. “It is interesting that you use the term, collective conscience. It is making quite the revival in scientific circles. This ability to influence others has nothing to do with charisma. There are a couple of notable scientists investigating this hypothesis. One refers to this collective as Morphic Resonance; the ideas of one can become the ideas of many, even without direct contact. Sheldrake’s work centred on learnt mammalian behaviour, while Persinger favours aspects of the electromagnetic spectrum aligning, allowing transmission of thoughts. Being a Neuroscience myself, I naturally lean towards Persinger.”
The host looked utterly perplexed. “Can you boil that down to essentials for us layman here, Dr Arora? What exactly are you saying?”
> “I am saying that there is growing evidence to suggest that when our brain waves quieten to approximately seven to eight Hertz, we can align with the Earth’s natural electromagnetic frequencies, and communicate our thoughts along the ionosphere, much like radio signals.”
“But then, to where do our thoughts go?” The host was intrigued, allowing this tangent to blossom.
“It is but a theory, at present, but initial suggestions are that the ionosphere itself is a repository of all our memories and ideas; a true collective consciousness. If you think about it, those atmospheric charged particles are no different from the magnetic tape still used in some computer networks to backup data. It is certainly large enough to contain seven billion peoples’ thoughts. And it would account for why there are so many copyright and patent infringement lawsuits in the world, if we are all tapping into the same information streams.”
“That is preposterous.” Hugo blustered. “What have you been smoking? What evidence are you citing?”
“I did say it was a theory, Hugo. There is no need to be defensive.” Parth shot him a glare; a warning to allow him time in the spotlight. For the first time since she began watching, Mary was aware of Harvey listening in on the debate. She increased the volume to make it easier for him to hear. It seemed pointless to try and hide the video from him. It had already accrued millions of views worldwide. She angled the iPad towards him and gestured for him to sit beside her. He blushed, but then accepted her offer and sat down.
“All I am saying,” Parth continued. “Is that each thought and idea, takes approximately twenty minutes to form linkages in the brain. The tiny branches at the ends of the nerves are electrically labile - that is liable to change, can be easily altered. What if during those twenty minutes, the frequencies of our brain waves allow thoughts to be directed outwards too; sent as a transmission into the atmosphere?” Parth looked at Hugo. The antsy frown morphed into a glazed eyed introspection. Parth elucidated further. “It is proven that neural activity emits photons, even if they are too few to actually see. And we all know that where we have photons, the nuances of quantum physics come into play. What was it that Einstein said? Spooky action at a distance.”
