Dreams of Origami (18 page)

‘Unless it was the chapel of a religious community?’ Gideon cuts in.

‘Well, that’s the only thing that makes sense,’ says Drew. ‘The monks’ living quarters were probably very basic, but the chapel itself could have been stone-built, especially if the Mother House in France footed the bill.’

‘That’s right.’ Audrey empties her glass. ‘A lot of these religious houses brought money into the area as well as employment. And I expect they had to pay to have it taken down as well. Anyway, that’s what Samuel Street’s workmen found. Samuel also guessed that it could have been the remains of a monastic building and had the presence of mind to inform the administration at Ely, in case there was any problem with it being Church property. But as they had no record of it, they told him he could go ahead with the building.’

‘So, presumably the foundation stones are still there under the schoolhouse?’ asks Gideon.

‘More likely in the garden.’ says Drew. ‘I wouldn’t think they’d build on top of it. No point. The schoolhouse is Burwell brick and they would have put a proper foundation down. No, they probably just covered the old stonework over again and left it.’

Audrey hands Drew her empty glass. ‘Anyway, I’ll try to find out more tomorrow. Meantime, I’d better be getting back to Triss. Griffith said he’d ring me in the morning. I’ll let you know if anything comes to light.’

Gideon is about to enter his own cottage, but hesitates, deciding to walk further along the row and see what is happening at Tom’s place. He knocks several times, but there is no answer. There are no sounds from inside, despite Gideon pressing his ear against the door. But the house feels peaceful. He takes a backward step into the road, craning his neck to look at the upstairs window. The curtains are drawn, and Gideon is certain that Tom is sleeping. Good. He’ll try again later.

Nine o’clock in the evening and the pub is crowded. Drew slips between the backs of standing drinkers and edges past the darts team, as if he’s playing some party game where you have to reach your table without spilling a drop of beer. He’d insisted on calling in for a drink by way of a celebration. They’ve been to Lacey’s home in Shelford so that she can collect more clothes, including something suitable to wear for work tomorrow morning.

‘It would be easier if you stayed at my place for a few days,’ he’d argued. ‘At least until this Gainsborough Street business is resolved.’ It seemed a practical move under the circumstances, but now Drew looks as if he’s won the lottery and Lacey’s not at all sure it was the right thing to do. It seems she’s given him the wrong message, or, at least, a premature one.

‘There we are: two pints of the best Tolly and a couple of packets of crisps. They only had salt and vinegar, I’m afraid.’

‘This is only temporary—you do understand that, don’t you?’

‘What, the crisp shortage?’ She punches him on the arm, and he puts on a more serious face. ‘Oh, absolutely. But it’s a start, isn’t it? I mean, we can see how it works out, our being together every day.’

‘It’s hardly what you’d call a typical daily routine, though. Life won’t always be like this.’

‘What, mysterious visitations? Psychic investigators moving in next door and dipsomaniac spinsters playing history detective? I sincerely hope not. I’ll be glad when we can get back to some form of sanity. I must admit I’m finding the whole thing just a bit unnerving. And I don’t think it’s doing you much good, either.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lacey takes a gulp of her beer, licking foam from her top lip.

‘Well, it’s stirring up all sorts of stuff. It’s not as if it’s giving you any answers—certainly not about life, death, the universe and everything.’

‘It’s saying that there is a lot we don’t know about, things we can’t account for.’

‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’

‘Exactly. Those flashes in the sky and then what happened to the field. And you can’t deny you heard the bell. If one thing is true, then perhaps other things are. Perhaps we do go on to something else.’

‘But we don’t come back, do we?’ He speaks very gently. ‘Whatever happens next, we don’t come back.’

‘I wonder if Matthew Caxton will? Come back, I mean. You don’t still believe he ran off, do you?’

‘No, all right. I agree there’s something very odd going on. But there is an explanation.’

‘Of course there’s an explanation. But it may not be the one you want to hear.’

‘We’ll see. You’ve got to go to work tomorrow; things may look different when you get back to a normal routine.’

‘What? My job? Call that normal?’

Next door has been silent all evening. Now that Gideon is in bed, he hears the noises resume, the clanking of paint tins, the scuffing of a chair being dragged across the floor. Tom is awake and back at work. He’s whistling, but the tune is erratic, formless. Still, the sleep must have done him good. Gideon, feeling somewhat relieved, allows himself to relax. Eventually, his eyes close and he slips from one darkness into another.

The sky outside his window is clouding over, obscuring the moon and stars. His eyes open to another sky, this one heavy with thunderclouds and torrential rain. Although he knows at once that it is a dream, that awareness does not disengage his mind from the process of dreaming. He tries to move, to step forward. Mud sucks at his feet, and the weight of water-drenched clothes drags his body down like fetters. His seeking hands stretch into the blackness, but all he can feel is rain being hurled at him like handfuls of sharp gravel.

The sky cracks. Lightning whips the air, striking deep into a chasm, a huge and ancient crack in the land. For less than a second, the ragged mouth is limed with neon green, its walls terrifying as they plunge down into the earth. Then it is gone, eaten up by the night, and all that remains is the recurring zag of light burnt into the back of his eyes. But Gideon has seen the abyss at his feet, and, blinking away the illusion, can now discern the deeper black of its edges.

He looks up and across to the other side, another jagged line where the ground stops at the rim of emptiness. She is there, standing on the opposite edge, wind dragging her hair, and her fragile body bending against it. He calls her name: ‘Cassandra! Cassandra, I’m here!’ But the wind gathers up his voice and tosses it away long before it can reach her. Why is she here? This is a dream. This is
his
dream. It is not like the other times when the dream was hers and he was part of it. He has never dreamed of her before—really dreamed—so why should he now? Another flash of green. This time the lightning strikes the ground behind her and she is a silhouette against an opal sky. Then all
is dark again, except for the stark white of her face and the clinging drape of her wet clothes. She raises her hand, reaches for him, her mouth forming his name.

Suddenly there are shapes in the wind. White squares, twisting and soaring like a flock of storm-tossed birds. Their minds meet, both grasping and snatching at the paper, both twisting it into ropes and rungs. Build a bridge, that’s what they must do, build a bridge across the gulf that separates them. Build a bridge of paper, their minds working together, she on one side and he on the other. But as fast as they work, the rain falls harder. The rungs become sodden and break up, and the wind tears the ropes away. But still they must try and try. Time is running out and this is the only way they can reach each other.

As he watches the bridge grow and fall to pieces, Gideon realizes he is no longer sure which one of them is trying to save the other.

The mind is not the brain and, no matter how hard scientists and physicists have tried to locate consciousness inside the body, they have never been even remotely successful.

The mind—consciousness—obviously relates to the body via the brain; however, there is no evidence that it actually arises from or is located there. One could think of the body as a vehicle and the brain as its highly sophisticated onboard computer.

But where is the driver?

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

D
ETECTIVE INSPECTOR FLETCHER
is alone in his bed, next to his sleeping wife. He is both aware of, and thankful for, the space between them. He woke early, a habit he has developed in recent months, and knows he will not be able to sleep again. The window has become visible, a grey square against the black of the bedroom wall. Outside, birds are already clamouring for attention. But for him the dawn stretches ahead like a long, hollow tunnel until it reaches the seven o’clock alarm.

His thoughts circle like vultures, alighting once again on the schoolhouse and the Caxton woman. He’ll pick the bones clean on that one,
no matter how many times he has to go back there and sit at that table with its flock of silly, white china finches. She thinks she can fool him with those vapid, red-stained eyes and her pale hands twisting at her handkerchief. Does she think he hasn’t seen a woman cry before? Does she think an officer with his experience is going to be taken in that easily? She knows where her husband is, all right. Perhaps it’s time he had her down at the station, put the pressure on. He knows her type, weak and clingy. She’ll break easily enough without her man around to help her. She should have thought of that before…before whatever it was she did to get rid of him.

Perhaps he should find something to charge her with. Wasting time—police time—his time—that should be enough. What is the time? He glances over at the clock. Half-five, it says. An hour and a half to go. An hour and a half to consider what he should do about Mrs Patricia Caxton. In the long, lonely dawn, his thoughts again begin to circle around and around the schoolhouse.

Lacey takes her place on the sidelines of the Tuesday-morning police handover. Monday was fairly quiet it seems; a few traffic violations, a bit of a skirmish outside a village pub. Not Covington. Still, all part of the increased pattern of crime in small villages. She’ll follow up on that one. Fletcher’s here. Not saying anything, but he looks rough, as if he’s had a hard weekend. Perhaps he’s not well. A break-in at an isolated house on the Ely road, not far from Gainsborough Street. She takes notes. Apparently vandals trashed the place. Nothing taken apart from the contents of the booze cabinet. Look at the way he’s sitting, staring at the table. His hands are trembling, the report sheet he’s holding visibly quivering. A missing child was found safe and well, hiding out in a friend’s garden shed. A sigh of relief travels around the table, smiles, a shuffling of feet. Then it’s Fletcher’s turn. He reads from the report sheet in his hand. A short list, nothing significant.

‘What about the Caxton disappearance?’ one of the other officers asks. ‘It’s a week today since the bloke went missing, isn’t it?’

‘No, nothing.’ Fletcher shakes his head and looks down at the table. ‘Time-waster if you ask me. I’ll have another crack at it this morning, but we might have to shelve it.’ His head tilts slightly, his gaze sliding in Lacey’s direction.

Lacey bites her lip, clenches her hand so tightly that her nails almost draw blood. The press are tolerated here, an uneasy alliance that relies on a tradition of protocols. At this moment she is an observer, no more, and the
Herald’
s relationship with the Cambridge constabulary could be blown to pieces if she utters one word of protest. Fletcher knows that as well as she does. Concentrate on what’s being said, make notes, don’t make waves. Perhaps after the official part of the meeting…But the officer dealing with the break-in wants a word with her. Some publicity would be appreciated, someone might have spotted a vehicle and so on. When she looks around again, Fletcher has gone.

Lacey’s not finding it easy to settle back into the morning routine. It’s as if she’s been off on extended leave instead of a long weekend. The reporting officer on the break-in said the place was a right mess, so she thinks it would be good to get the personal reaction of the owner. She telephones the victim and makes an appointment for ten, then sends a photographer around in advance while she writes up an outline ready to add the victim’s comments before emailing the copy and photo back to the editor’s office in time for today’s edition. Thank God for technology. There’s also a brief piece to write up on the pub fight, which she hands in on her way out the door. If she can wrap this up in good time, she’ll call in home and see what Fletcher’s up to at the schoolhouse.

Oops! Steady on—Gainsborough Street’s not home. Not her home, anyway. She’s only there because of the Caxton disappearance, nothing more. But she seems to have lost sight of the goal posts. Over the past three days she’s been witness to one supernatural event after another, and knows less now than when she started. And despite making copious notes, the production of a feature series is the last
thing on her mind. What’s more, she’s learned little or nothing about the psychic workings of Gideon Wakefield. Other than being very knowledgeable, he appears to be as helpless as everyone else.

But as she crosses the car park and rummages in her bag for her keys, she is aware of something else working away at the back of her mind. A small voice that whispers
Stick with it—you’re on to something.
It’s a sort of instinctive thing that nudges her sometimes, and she has learned to pay attention to it, certainly a useful asset in journalism. Could it be that she’s a little psychic, too, whatever that may mean? It was certainly more than intuition that had led her to Michael. But it didn’t tell her that he should have stayed home from work that day, did it? Perhaps there are some things you can’t change. But then, while she was still raw with grief, that same instinct told her to go to a football match with the man who came to fix her window. So now she’s moving in with him. And whose idea was that? His or hers—or that little voice at the back of her mind? She throws her bag on to the passenger seat and turns the key in the ignition.

Detective Inspector Fletcher is also heading towards Gainsborough Street. He’s being driven there by Sergeant West, who is watching his superior in the rear-view mirror. It’s customary for the junior-ranking officer to act as chauffeur, but not for the D.I. to sit in the back seat. Fletcher said he needed to think. Even so…West’s not sure which is worse: having Fletcher hunched in beside him, or staring down the back of his neck. Not that Fletcher has ever been a comfortable man to work with; not one to relax on duty, sticks rigidly to the book. But West has to admit that Fletcher, although not generally liked, is highly respected and for good reason. West was pleased to be given the opportunity to work under him. Apart from the experience itself, a few months as Fletcher’s sidekick will look good on his personal record. At least, that’s what he’d thought up until last week. With this missing-person case, he’s beginning to have second thoughts.

It’s this business about the wife, her supposedly trying to hide
something. Fletcher seems to have become fixated on it. But that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Focus on the situation, turn it around in your mind, look for the cracks, the bits that don’t quite fit. Instinct, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? That’s the way Fletcher works—intuition—and you can bet he’ll be spot-on. Usually.

West takes another glance in the mirror. Fletcher is slumped over in the seat, his face contorted in—what?—anger. And he’s muttering to himself again. He seems to be doing a lot of that these past few days. Like yesterday morning, when he came back from seeing Mrs Caxton. Fletcher had insisted on going there alone, even though the paperwork he’d told West to do could easily have been left until later. Then, when he came back, he’d shut himself in his office, said he was busy and didn’t want to be interrupted. When West tried to take him a coffee, he found Fletcher just sitting there, staring out the window and talking to himself, something about stealing his time. It was ages before West could get his attention, and then Fletcher blew his top. Told him to get out and not to come back until he was told.

At the handover this morning, Fletcher looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. He didn’t say a word to anyone afterwards, then suddenly decided he wanted to go out to the schoolhouse again. At least he’s not going out there alone this time. West wasn’t happy about that at all, not after the way he’d been behaving towards the poor woman. All right, it’s a strange set of circumstances, but he can’t seriously believe Mrs Caxton’s being anything but straight about her husband’s disappearance. You’d think she’d done something against Fletcher personally, the way he’s been questioning her. Nothing short of harassment, to be honest; she’d have every right to make a complaint. Perhaps he ought to speak to someone about it himself, before the whole thing gets out of hand.

As they turn into Gainsborough Street, West takes another glance in the rear-view mirror. Fletcher’s rubbing his forehead and frowning, as if he’s in pain.

At ten minutes past eleven, Lacey turns into Gainsborough Street. As usual, there’s hardly anyone about at this time of day. Audrey said she would go to Ely again in search of that letter written by the old monk. There is no sign of Drew, but he’ll probably be home later for lunch. There are only two cars: Gideon’s Jag parked outside next door, and a now-familiar vehicle outside the schoolhouse, one they have come to associate with the presence of D.I. Fletcher. She knocks at Gideon’s door, and it opens immediately.

‘Come in. I thought you were back at work?’

‘I am, but I’ve been to a house just up the road. Break-in. You should see the place, talk about mindless destruction.’

‘Impulsive, irrational behaviour?’ Gideon loads the question with a raising of his brow.

‘Yes, I suppose it could be another effect of whatever’s going on here.’ Lacey throws her bag onto the chair and pulls the grips from her hair. ‘What’s happening over the road? How long has Fletcher been there?’

‘Only about fifteen minutes.’ Gideon moves over to the window. ‘But I’m not happy. I have a bad feeling about that man.’

‘Yes, well, you’re not the only one. I reckon there’s something really wrong with him. You should have seen him at the handover earlier. Did he come on his own?’

‘No, the other officer’s with him, the one who usually accompanies him.’

‘Detective Sergeant West.’

‘Triss asked me to go across with her. We hadn’t been there long when they turned up. I was told to leave.’ Gideon’s anger and frustration are obvious, but the police have the authority and what else could he do?

Lacey sees that his computer screen is on. ‘So what have you been doing this morning?’

‘Following up some ideas. I thought I’d check out the local pattern of ley lines.’

‘They’re something to do with UFOs, aren’t they?’ The screen displays a map of East Anglia criss-crossed with what appear to be random lines.

‘Some people think so. Strictly speaking, ley lines link ancient sites or holy places. They were discovered by a man called Alfred Watkins, although it’s believed they’ve been recognized since very early times. All part of the knowledge of Earth and its energy fields. Anyway, I thought—’

‘Hey, what’s going on over there?’ Lacey moves quickly to the window as a police patrol car screams to a halt over the road. A uniformed officer scrambles out and runs to the schoolhouse door, which opens immediately to admit him.

‘What the hell?’ Gideon is beside her.

‘Perhaps we should go over?’

‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Although he sounds unsure himself, he lays a restraining hand on Lacey’s shoulder. ‘That Fletcher is not a reasonable man; it won’t do to cross him.’ They wait and watch for agonizing minutes. Suddenly the door opens. Sergeant West comes to the gate, looking in all directions, then heads over towards Audrey’s cottage. Lacey can’t ignore this, and runs out to intercept him.

‘If you’re looking for Mrs Stanton, she’s out for the morning. Is something wrong? Can I help at all?’

The officer looks flustered, his brow beaded with sweat. He turns to Lacey and takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, perhaps you can. Mrs Prentice, isn’t it? You’re a friend of Mrs Caxton, aren’t you?’

Lacey nods. ‘Is she all right? What’s happened?’

‘It’s the Inspector, he’s been taken ill. He’s…He…’ He takes another breath. ‘Mrs Caxton’s a bit distressed. Could you possibly look after her for a while? We need to get him back to the station, he needs to see a doctor.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell Mr Wakefield.’ A moment later, Lacey and Gideon are entering the Caxtons’ gate. The door opens and West emerges with the uniformed officer. At first it appears as if they are holding Fletcher up between them, but no, thinks Lacey, it’s more like they’re restraining him. He looks dreadful: pale and gaunt, his eyes unfocused as if he can no longer make sense of the world. There’s an ugly red mark on his chin. As they pass Lacey, Fletcher makes a dive for her but, despite his struggles, the two officers wrench his arms
behind his back and, keeping a tight grip, manage to frogmarch him to the road. They bundle him into the back seat of the patrol car, the uniformed officer placing a hand on his head, preventing a collision with the car roof. West gets in the back beside Fletcher, slams the door, then slides the window down an inch to speak to Lacey. ‘We’ll send another officer out as soon as we can. You’ll look after her, won’t you? Tell Mrs Caxton…Tell her…’ He shakes his head and winds the window up. The car moves away, lights flashing and siren wailing. Lacey and Gideon look at each other, both too astonished to speak, then run inside to find Triss.

The kitchen is a disaster. Chairs are upturned, and the big central table is askew as if it has been pushed across the room. Things are thrown everywhere, domestic debris from the pedal bin strewn across the floor, along with cutlery and most of the jars from the storage shelves. Some are broken and the contents spilled everywhere; there’s sugar and rice all over the room, and a shower of small, white fragments. At first it looks to Lacey like some sort of crudely made confetti, then she realizes that it’s shards of white china, the remains of the porcelain birds Triss so carefully paints.