Dreams of Origami (2 page)

Sergeant Wadsworth, he said his name was. Triss had met him before; he was some sort of community-liaison officer for the area, and he had paid them a courtesy call when they’d first moved in. As he lived in the village, he was thought of by the residents as their local policeman, although in reality he was rarely there, being based at Cambridge. One of the disadvantages of being the local man in a small community is that you’re never quite off-duty. Bill had just caught him arriving home and had explained the problem. It was far too early to start thinking about making a missing person’s report, but Wadsworth thought he’d just call in to make sure everything was OK now. Only it wasn’t.

Triss went over everything again, and then the policeman asked a few obvious questions: had she looked in the outbuildings, what about the neighbours? She thought she would scream. As if they hadn’t thought of all that. As if she were that stupid. Or that fragile.

But she was, wasn’t she? Fragile enough that Matthew wouldn’t leave her for a moment without checking first that she would be all right on her own. Fragile enough that he would telephone if he were away from the house for more than half an hour. Fragile enough that he would not step outside the door without telling her first.

And yet that is exactly what he had done.

Although she’d found the door still firmly closed.

For the mystics, all things and events are interrelated, connected, and are the manifestations of a basic Oneness. In Hinduism, the oneness is called
Brahman
; in Buddhism,
Dharmakaya
; and in Taoism,
Tao.

Traditional Western thought perceives the world as a multitude of separate objects and events. However, the Quantum Theory seems to be hinting at an underlying unity between different aspects of matter, and the work of modern physicists continues to reveal the essential interconnectedness of the cosmos.

Einstein’s famous mass-energy equation revealed a new and very different universe. It caused the physicist to abandon the concept of mass as ‘stuff’ and regard it as a bundle of energy, thus overturning the concept of fundamentally separated objects.

It appears that, contrary to previous Western thought, we cannot decompose the world as we see it into independently existing smaller units. As we penetrate deeper into matter, we find that it is indeed made of particles, but these are not ‘basic building blocks’ in the Newtonian sense.

A study of the works of the mystics has revealed that, in their non-ordinary state of consciousness, they seem to be aware of the interpenetration of space and time, energy and matter, and thus see
the manifest universe in a way which is very similar to the scientists’ concepts of subatomic particles. It may be that scientists have simply reached a level that has already been explored by the Eastern mystics.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

L
ACEY IS SITTING
in the back row of the lecture room, the seat next to the aisle, so she can make a discreet exit when she has enough information for the article. It isn’t her usual sort of mission. Admittedly, police reporting can be tedious at times, but at least she doesn’t have to listen to this sort of pseudo-spiritual drivel. That’s what comes from offering to do a favour for a friend.

However, she thinks she’d better note some of this down. ‘It is time to be yourself’—that’s a good line. ‘You will live your truth if you allow the truth to live through you.’ A few more like that and she’ll be able to throw a piece together in the morning, well ahead of the eleven o’clock deadline. Naturally, she’ll make as good a job of it as she can. She was quite intrigued at first, that’s why she offered to stand in for Sue, who has some sort of family problem. Now she’s getting irritated with the whole thing. The man even looks the part, with the loose-fitting white robe. He isn’t actually sitting in the lotus position, but his body language makes it clear that he is the guru. Amazingly, some of the audience are actually sitting at his feet.

Steady on. I’m supposed to be a professional, she reminds herself. I’m here to report on the event, remain balanced and objective, inform the reader. I was told he’s quite a catch; can’t think why. Still, I should at least give the man a fair hearing, even if I do think he’s an obnoxious little squirt. Besides, he’s been invited by some high-ranking professors on behalf of the society, so I can’t be too scathing. One has to think about the paper’s relationship with the university, ‘town and gown’ and all that crap.

She shifts in her seat, stretches her back and re-crosses her knees. It’ll be bliss to get these shoes off. Her legs are her best feature, so she always makes a point of wearing short skirts and high heels when working. Trouble is, she has been on the go since eight o’clock this
morning, over twelve hours, and her feet are screaming at her. And she can feel a ladder working its way down the back of her tights.

Drew is fidgeting next to her. She can just imagine what he’s thinking. This is not the sort of stuff you ask someone like Drew to listen to. That’s one of the things she likes about him, his no-nonsense attitude, although at the moment she wishes he’d keep his opinions a little more to himself instead of all the huffing and heavy sighs. Never mind, they’ll probably have a good laugh about it later, and she can always stand him a beer by way of apology. She glances sideways at him. He is slouched down, arms folded defensively over his chest while he looks out from under a mass of dark, curly hair. He stretches his legs under the chair in front, ankles draped one over the other. No one should have legs that long. He turns, as if he has felt her attention shift, raises his eyebrows, and glances at the ceiling before turning back to the speaker. Enough said.

Lacey looks around at the crowd. A strange mixture: a lot of students trying to look earnest and thoughtful; surprisingly, quite a few older people, women mostly. Searching for the secret of eternal life before this one runs out? Who is that man sitting at the end of their row? He looks familiar; angular face and refined features, longish hair. Quite striking, really—she should know him. He’s concentrating on the lecturer, but his expression gives nothing away. At least he’s found a good use for the leaflet, she thinks. She watches, intrigued, as he turns and folds the paper. An aeroplane, maybe a rabbit? What
is
his name?

Thank God, the so-called guru is about to finish. He’s advising the audience to go away and not think too deeply about what he has said. ‘Just let it float in your mind, allow your higher self, your spiritual consciousness, to guide you. And if, after a few days, you find you are remembering my words, use the phone number on the leaflet to contact me.’ She can hear Drew’s snort of derision above the applause.

Ten o’clock—early for a summer’s evening in Cambridge. The sky is still streaked with light from the setting sun. Lacey and Drew spill out onto King’s Parade ahead of the rest of the audience. The street is alive with taxis and cars, groups of young people drifting from pub to
club. Lacey shivers, glad of her jacket. It’s the Fen wind that’s doing it, blowing through the city, although it is slightly warmer here. Out where Drew lives, north of Cambridge, it’s positively freezing. Weird weather; summer, just after the longest day, and they should be having a heat wave. At least the paper has been getting some mileage out of it. They got in some expert from the met office who talked a lot of technical jargon but was obviously just as flummoxed as everyone else.

The pavement is filling up behind them, so they start heading back to the car park. Lacey pulls out the elastic hair-tie, shaking her head to free her thick, dark hair, then letting it hang loose to her shoulders. Drew smiles as he watches her. He’s become used to the way she changes her hairstyle several times through the course of the day, twisting it up into a knot, then letting it hang loose, only to scrape it back into a tail when it gets in her way. He believes that half the time she’s not aware she’s doing it. She always carries several hair ties and clips in her pockets.

‘So, what did you think? Load of crap, eh?’

Drew wraps an arm around her shoulders. ‘Well, you said it.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested you come…’

‘No, not at all. It was fascinating, watching how he does it. I liked the parting shot. Obviously he doesn’t want you to think about it too deeply. Once you start analysing it in the cold night air, anyone with half a brain can see right through the bullshit. It’s standard brainwashing techniques, subliminal suggestion—he even got them to synchronize their breathing with his. Half the audience were partly hypnotized.’

‘So you reckon he’s a con man?’

‘No, not exactly. I think he believes in what he’s saying, and all that path-to-enlightenment stuff is probably genuine. It’s the whole commercial angle that gets up my nose. I’ll sell you the secrets of the universe for five hundred quid, best investment you’ll ever make.’

‘It wasn’t that bad.’ Actually, she’s inclined to agree with him, but is struggling to maintain some professional impartiality. ‘Besides, surely not everyone can be that easily fooled. I mean, he’s world famous—’
‘So’s George Bush.’

‘—and the people who arranged the talk, they’re important names from the university—’

‘Which proves my point precisely.’

Lacey is getting a little exasperated. Sometimes Drew takes this pragmatic persona too far. ‘Look, I realize you hold academia in a certain contempt, you being a builder—’

‘An expert restorer of historic houses, if you don’t mind.’

‘OK, a house restorer. But can I remind you that you were also once an academic, a teacher of mathematics no less. How cerebral can you get? Until you dropped out, that is.’

‘As I keep telling you, I didn’t drop out. I got tired of all the bureaucracy and decided to waste my life on something worthwhile.’

Lacey stops in the middle of the pavement, turning to put a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, come on, Drew. It’s been a long day, let’s not get into an argument. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Fancy a curry?’

Meanwhile, the man at the other end of the row, the one Lacey thought she recognized, is still inside the hall. Having edged past the line of seats and waited for the bottleneck at the door to clear, he is about to make his escape when a heavy hand descends upon his shoulder.

‘Ah, Gideon. I’m glad I caught you. The Swami is so pleased you could make it. He’s really keen to be introduced to you.’

Gideon’s mood plummets. So near the door, and that excellent bottle of brandy waiting for him at home. Nevertheless, he maintains an inscrutable expression and allows Professor Whitely, chairman of the Parapsychology Forum, to lead him to the platform.

The Swami bows his head, palms pressed together in greeting. ‘Gideon Wakefield, I am so delighted and humbled that you were able to attend my little gathering.’

Yes,
thinks Gideon,
I bet you are.
He detects something beneath that affectation of an Eastern accent. Wanstead or Leytonstone, his instincts tell him; some part of London, anyway. ‘Yes, it’s always interesting
to meet a fellow author, even though we approach the subject from a very different angle.’

‘Ah, but do we not speak the same truth? In essence we are of one accord, do you not agree?’

‘Something like that.’
Oh, God help us,
thinks Gideon,
we’re not even on the same planet.

‘Yes, I thought you two would have a lot to say to each other.’ Between the two writers, Professor Whitely beams with satisfaction and is rewarded with a further exchange of even more meaningless pleasantries, completely oblivious to the chasm that separates the two advocates of spirituality.

Eventually Gideon makes his escape, heading for home and that bottle of brandy.

After the mid-evening lull, the restaurant is filling up again with the last customers of the day. Lacey and Drew have managed to get a corner table with an illusion of privacy created by dim lighting and heavy red flock wallpaper. They are working their way through a pile of poppadoms washed down with Indian lager while waiting for the rest of their order. Lacey has slipped her shoes off under the table, and the backs of her legs are throbbing with relief.

‘Now, seriously,’ says Drew, ‘what did you really think of him?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Yes, all right, he’s a complete twat. But some of what he was saying…Well, isn’t that why people go to listen to these so-called teachers, because they’re disillusioned with material values and are looking for something deeper? Besides, there were several really important people there, you know. They can’t all be gullible fools.’

‘No, you’re right. I was probably overreacting. One should keep an open mind.’

Is he being sarcastic? she wonders. But at that moment their attention is diverted by the arrival of numerous small bowls and a mountain of rice. ‘Did we really order all this?’

‘Don’t worry,’ says Drew, passing dishes between them. ‘I can find a good use for it.’

It is a while before Lacey speaks again. ‘Hey, who was that at the end of our row? The man with longish hair? He kept fiddling with bits of paper.’

‘Yes, I know who you mean. I should know him, but I can’t think of his name.’ Drew drains his glass and orders another round. ‘So, what will you write?’

‘I think I’d better concentrate on the occasion rather than the man—you know, the size of the audience, the Parapsychology Forum and who runs it. Everyone likes to see their names in print. Then something about the physical world being a transitory illusion and that reality is somewhere beyond. That’s a concept most people would like to believe in.’

Drew knows her well enough to be aware of where her thoughts are going. ‘You still miss him, don’t you?’

Lacey is silent for a moment. She puts down her fork. ‘Michael? Yes, of course I miss him. It’s been nearly three years now and I still wake up every morning and think…Oh, I’m sorry, Drew. I shouldn’t be talking like this, especially to you.’

‘It’s all right. That’s how it works. Grieving never stops. I don’t expect you to forget about him. Ever. But don’t go searching for answers about survival from some plastic maharishi.’

‘I’m hardly likely to do that. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on you.’

‘Who said this relationship has to be fair? I’m not complaining.’

As Lacey had asked Drew to pick her up from her home in Shelford earlier in the evening, she is now obliged to let him drive her back there. She knows that, as usual, he will be expecting to be invited in for a last drink, and that, as usual, he will somehow contrive to stay over as he has been doing several nights a week since the beginning of the year. But tonight she insists on saying goodnight in the car. She tells him that she wants to write up the article before she goes to bed,
or at least outline it while it is still fresh in her mind. But that’s not the reason. She hasn’t got the heart to tell him that tonight she just needs some time alone.

Drew heads off to his own place in Gainsborough Street, out the other side of the city. OK, so he’s disappointed not to be asked in, and feels a little rejected. But over and above that he is concerned for Lacey. That little ponce of a self-styled guru has gone and stirred up all sorts of stuff, just when she was beginning to get her head back together. Drew likes to think of himself as part of the healing process. Yes, all right, they’re great together, no complaints there, and of course he doesn’t like being turned away. But, damn it, they’re not just lovers. He’s supposed to be her friend.