Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (15 page)

28

R
eally do believe I’m able to stay here for always. Everything I need to sustain me. Lights when it becomes dark outside, heat from the electric fire. This savage heartbeat, given tempo and regulated by my orchestrated timepieces. I no longer feel hungry.

Perhaps there’s a secret part of me which, now I no longer eat, will come into play. It will regulate metabolism for energies and bodily processes to be rationed, to maximize their potential. And maybe this vestigial capacity lies dormant in all real ones.

No need to see outside. I can create all I want with matchless clarity. If I pluck these organs out from their sockets it wouldn’t matter. Here, I have it clearly: the clothes shop with its awning and awkward mannequins, next to the butchers. I’ll wave to the butcher while he stands by trays of red and mottled meats. His head shall be that of a turkey, the wattle hanging obscenely from below its beak, bright comb flattened under a straw hat.

A green lorry has moved into view and blocked my perception of him. Only his gobbling instructions can be heard. But what an advantage I have over normal vision. The butcher now unseen by me – the perceiver – no longer exists. You understand, doctor?

That lorry, painted such a gaudy emerald. The colour’s evolving to chlorophyll paste and if I regard it much longer, I’ll become nauseous. My attention will stay on the two strongmen, seagull-moustached, dressed in tiger skins, standing on the back of it. Able to lift the barrels of tar and bags of cement, and lead caskets of pristine elastic bands. There are boxes and crates stacked neatly at the back of the lorry. They should contain, if I’m not much mistaken, bottles of musk oil and hair clips. The crowds are dawdling over those curling pavement slabs, each holding hands with the next.

I should be able to construct a whole sphere of existence, tuning each element to perfection.

Another question begs an answer. Doctor, you might know. You will be coming out of the library. Look over here, the least we can do is wave to each other.

Admit my power. I’ve made you and I can control you, much in the same way as you would want with me.

Three students, A, B and C, with crooked caps and uninfected vision, by your feet, will shuffle along to allow you to pass. They are studying graphite constructs with protractors and set-squares.

But listen, you’re walking too fast.

Will you wait for me to catch up? What strength of character you own which enables you to defy your creator.

There we have it. I’ve touched upon the crucial question I spoke of. Are you listening to me, doctor?

‘I am,’ you can say. ‘Any problems you have can be problems shared.’

‘I know, and I’m grateful. I’ve had much weight on my mind lately.’

‘Where am I, Donald?’

‘I’ve made us a cobbled street in a village. We are next to the police station over to the west, with the chimes of a big bell striking. Maybe not – let it be a park with neat flowerbeds and impeccable lawns of rolling exquisiteness. Distant birdcalls are from macaws and plumed parrots, with the shrieks of peacocks. I’ll have a peacock strut past for us, opening and closing its eye-speckled tail like a huge fan.

Let’s sit here on this bench overlooking the lake. The face of the water has copied the sky for its decoration. See the toy boats floating lethargically amongst the lily pads on its glass surface?’

‘You are in danger of straying from the subject again. I can only help if you try to help yourself. One must decide; you must cultivate self-discipline. I understand it might seem harsh sometimes but that is as you would want, I remind you. This aspect came out strongly from our first meeting together.’

‘I wonder to myself – more at night, kept awake by a mind wound up like the mainspring of an alarm clock which won’t
run down – I think if I’m ever going to be as I was. I must clutch your arm. This sensation of being in free fall without moving has become part of me.’

‘Indeed, hold on. You are in the grip of vertigo.’

‘Thank you, I’m feeling quickly better. Passes as fast as a gust of air. If only—’ How quickly you interrupt.

‘Your question. Ask me this question which is upsetting. You need information.’

‘I need to be told: God is creation yet in spite of this I’m able to create a world just as valid as It, although I’m no god. How can this be?’

‘Your words are based on the false assumption that there is a reality which may exist in your mind, as relevant as the one known through our senses. Why continue to clutter your life with such notions?’

‘Who’s side are you on? Since I’ve been visiting, doctor, there’ve been so few times when you’ve agreed with me. What are you becoming? Untrue? If only you’d try to understand. The usual life is full of deceit and lies; it’s sham. Not really what it seems or pretends to be. Even this particular mindroom is false: the flowers here have been created out of an extruded plastic; wood of this park bench manufactured from a synthetic material; the machinery used to produce these falsehoods is false. Certainly the imposters have a degree absolute of falseness in them. Their appearances are masks to hide the true feelings beneath. Faces unknown – who can be trusted? I no longer know.’

‘You’ll learn to trust again. One must have a balanced view. It is as bad to trust everyone and everything as to distrust all.’

‘If only I am able to encompass this fully and grow with the concept though I’m unable to accept it. I’ve lost ability to distinguish between real from not real in this case; unable to extract lies from truth like a mental dentist.’

‘But this is why you are here. We will find truth together. Your faith has been shaken. But it’s not beyond redemption. You must face reality. First you have to prepare for hurtful emotions. Tell me about your ex-wife.’

‘I don’t wish to talk about her, my wife; I still haven’t repaired fully.’

‘Do you not remember getting divorced?’

‘Do you remember dredging up the same old vile lies? Leave me be to consolidate, please. There have been too many copies, false ones, poisoning her beautiful perfection. How you are falling for that, is beyond me.’

‘What if Bernadette wasn’t perfect? I could suggest the phrase “putting someone on a pedestal”. You understand that analogy? Do you think there’s a bit of that?’

‘Are you a woman hater?’

‘Of course not. I’m merely trying to find the truth, not for me, but for you.’

‘I’ll tell you the truth. Men are out of touch with those vibrations perceived by women, the profound receptacles, conduits from a mysterious spiritual realm to being here.’

‘Most poetic, Donald, but how does that have relevance to
Bernadette?’

‘For an intelligent man, you can say the stupidest of things. Women are incorruptible; they are the lovers of truth and peace, loathers of deceit.’

‘And yet Bernadette hid truth, from you. I have it here, in my notes; this is what you told me on Thursday. How did she deceive you, do you think? Are you deceiving yourself because you know the answer but won’t accept it?’

‘She used words as weapons, that’s all. How could she have ever meant what she said? She would never betray me. We love each other. Don’t we?’

29

‘
Y
ou won’t answer.’

‘To be honest, I’m fed up with you constantly using that phrase. Think of another record to play.’ She is taking tomatoes from her shopping bag and placing them on the work surface by the sink. ‘Donald!’ she cries out unexpectedly. Let me replay it: ‘Donald!’ I don’t recognize my own name. ‘You’ve left the milk out again.’

‘Really, why worry?’

I’ll snatch at the carton and will accidentally knock a mug. There I go. And there it goes, skittering across the work surface. Hits the bread bin. Handle broken off and a wedge dropped from around the rim. Puddles of cold coffee in streaks on the worktop.

‘Imbecile, look what you’ve done. My dad bought me that on the pier.’ She’s picking up the pieces.

I’m feeling sheepish. ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’

‘Won’t be the same, will it.’

‘I really am sorry.’ I’ll go to hold her.

‘Get off. Forget it. Get out of my kitchen.’

‘No need to get into a mood. How can you expect me to respect you with an attitude like that?’

Watch her turn as she holds the pieces over the bin; see her stare in a peculiar way; wet pottery dripping.

‘Who cares about respect?’ Such a spiteful tone. ‘I don’t respect you anyway, why should I worry?’

‘What are you trying to do? You really have changed. It hurts to hear you being nasty. We’re meant to discuss, expose our innermost feelings. Instead, you keep secrets.’

She has disposed of the broken mug. Pushing me aside she snaps, ‘Give it here, useless,’ and pulls the carton of milk from me and puts it into the fridge. ‘Can’t be expected to tell you everything. Who are you to demand? I’m sure you’ve got your secrets, anyhow.’

‘No I haven’t. At least, not from you.’

Squirt of washing-up liquid into the bowl. Her hands are in the sink to wash dishes, the cutlery rattling. ‘Like hell. For instance, how many times have you been unfaithful?’

The casual way she asked this. ‘Never be unfaithful. You must know that, surely.’

‘Oh, do I?’ She places a washed plate on the draining board. My sight has come to rest on her hair clip. ‘You might have been in a situation which was difficult to get out of. It can happen, thoughts of those girls where you work, for instance.’

‘This is ridiculous. Alright I admit, that’s natural, merely in my old imagination.’

‘Listen’ – near to a whisper, sounding mischievous – ‘tell me how many affairs you’ve had then I’ll tell you how many I’ve had.’

Anguish building up inside, an aggravating influence.

‘I’ve never. I really can’t see why you’re talking like this.’ I’ll spin this pretender about to face me. Soapy hands are limp to her sides. Her eyes, showing coldness, looking at mine, her head turned away. ‘Tell me what you mean. Are you saying you’ve had an affair?’

She’s grinning the more, making fun of me. Of course my pretty young wife wouldn’t have committed adultery. This version is hurting with words. Her falsehoods are to punish me for breaking her mug, I can understand that.

I must try to pull her closer, but she’s struggling in my grasp. And without warning, she’s gone and in her place is you, doctor. Don’t you see my furious frustrations? Anyway, who have I been talking too? One of you is illusory. You’ve easily tricked me to reveal another part of myself buried, a false filmic protected from ever being seen again.

Try telling me once more to trust and I might spit in your face. All it brings is confusion and sadness. And even these are not what they seem, being no more than electrical activity and chemical reaction. They can’t be regarded in any other way. I feel despair but also comprehend there really is no such emotion. Nor is there sadness, happiness or misery.

I won’t believe in your world. And I’m starting to distrust my own. If that fails, I’ll be taken down to nothing.

30

I
t was dusk. Street lamps threw orange glare over wet pavements. No longer was it raining though a brisk coldness ran freely along the streets. Few pedestrians went quickly by, holding coat lapels up to their ears or burying raw mouths into scarves. A light came on above the clothes shop and curtains were hurriedly drawn. Then, pushing out a silver-buttoned uniform in an indifferent defiance to the cutting breeze, a policeman strode by. His cheeks glowed more red than seemed natural (as red as coals in the hot chestnut brazier on the corner of Market Street) as though he had applied dabs of rouge to either side of his nose. He kept on course, forcing an approaching couple to unlink. A paper bag overtook all three and hopped along the road as though pulled by an invisible thread before flying up, then lodging finally in one of the gutters piping the roofs.

A man bent down to tie a shoelace. Once this task was accomplished, he turned his head towards the lit foyer.

Clement had switched off the light in his office some time
before. He had become aggravated by passers-by staring in. The action of one rude person seemed to stimulate another. Clement was becoming a trained observer, able to decide who would want to make him the observed before they looked.

His breath quickened with vexation. Pedestrians, one after the other, entered quickly and filled up the quadrants of the revolving door as if flies attracted to flypaper. The door now revolving, around and around, like a merry-go-round, to the music from a fairground organ.

Clement turned away, feeling bilious.

He ached, and grunted with the painful effort of bending down to a filing cabinet under the counter. He pulled open the bottom drawer and took out four newspapers from it and a roll of adhesive tape. The newspaper would have to be a substitute for tin foil.

He sat by the small table for a while, attempting to regain composure.

‘The doctor is clever,’ he said. The distinguished man had been cunningly chipping away his resistance as patiently as a stonemason. Clement sensed other enemies of the barriers coming closer, rallying with a hideous whispering, a manic scuffling. His defenses were failing. And apprehension was growing. He must make himself safe against two foes, he felt, not only from attacks within but also an invasion of privacy from without. A protected domain needed to be built, a realm which would exclude others. Another cocoon.

He was ready. He went into the foyer and began to cover
the window glass of the reception office exterior with sheets of newspaper, neatly and methodically, his back to the attentive audience trapped in the revolving doors. Each spread of newsprint overlapped the next and every edge carefully stuck with a layer of tape. After more than a third of the pane had been covered, the sense of being watched became overwhelming, forcing the decision to continue from within the office.

When he had covered three quarters of the window, the strip lighting and spotlights from the foyer were barely adequate to work by. He thought to switch on the reception office light again or keep the door open but decided against these options, instead waited a while for his eyes to adjust.

The job of covering the window pane was complete. Without even a glance to admire the finished work, he turned to the back wall and pulled away the table and chair from it. A calendar and a date planner were ripped down with impatience; time was not to be wasted. He was developing an enthusiasm which quickened the pulse. He pulled his left shoe off.

The first blemish to the wall would have been an accident. Mr Klipps might have leant too heavily in his chair, causing the back of it to strike the plaster, making a centipede of a crack. This effect repeated many times, enough for a small piece of the plaster to fall, leaving a hole for bare brick to show through.

Clement went to it and using the end of his pencil to poke into the hole, attempted to make it larger. He had the idea he would like to sketch a picture on the blank expanse but rejected the thought without much consideration. Using the sole of his shoe as a hammer and the pencil as a chisel, he proceeded to chip away more of the plaster. The pieces were tiny and the job time-consuming. He swore under his breath when, after his shoe struck the end of the pencil at an oblique angle, the writing instrument snapped into two, sending splinters to the dusty pile along the skirting.

He should find proper tools. But before this he must be in league with Donadette again, he decided; the lively and modern, sexless and kind-thinking Donadette on this occasion who would prefer heavy, expressive makeup to enliven a cultured face. Apart from that, the stubble of his beard needed to be disguised.

He undressed and put on the blouse and skirt taken from his holdall. When applying the makeup, he attempted to match his own movements with the peculiar animated reflection – spattered with print – showing in the window glass. So be it, he decided. He used the lipstick to draw runes and hieroglyphs, spirals and intimately-crossed lines; first on his palms and wrists, then on the glass. Words on the newspaper caught his attention. He applied mauve cross-hatching to some while circling others, such as “multifoiled”, “Phaedra”, “porcupine”, “tree” and “kookaburra”.

When ready, and not bothering to return the shoe to his
foot, he pulled open the door and went back into the foyer. Crowds had gathered outside. They stood motionlessly, watching him with blank expressions. Those standing within the partitions of the revolving door had their faces distorted, pushed hard to the glass panels.

Clement had no time for them. An important mission had been bestowed.