Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (2 page)

If I’m imagining you, then who is imagining me?

2

T
he question trembled on Donald Clement’s lips and dragged him to awareness with impatience. No vague dribbles of reality today. Eyelids flicked open, eyes focused – away from his reverie – onto the vertical slash of light at one edge of the wardrobe door. The light stood before him like a silver pole, as if a tangible object to be taken and wielded as a lance.

The next images to form: a beach with scattered oysters, starfish and semi-precious stones; pearls studding the sand, catching sunlight, looking like globules of mercury. Gulls, with beaks of bronze, hovered with lazy wings over the young woman swimming to the shore.

Clement pushed on the wardrobe door. The pole of silver thickened then was silver no longer. It became a swatch showing a sample of floorboard and rug, a strip of wallpaper, windowpanes stained with a red reflection, and a ribbon of ashen sky. Enough light ran into the wardrobe for him to inspect the clocks, one each side of him, and the matchsticks and elastic bands taped in patterns to the wardrobe’s sides.

Feeling was lost to his legs, each hair on them raised higher upon a pimple of chilled flesh. He was paralysed from his cold, rigid position throughout the night. Yet although spending uncomfortable hours inside, he was unconcerned. Satisfaction with his experiment easily dismissed the discomfort. Scientists have abused their own bodies to gauge a drug, artists might endure unbearable situations to uncover buried wonders, he was certain. Resist temptations to make life easier if it would dilute results; suffer for the sake of clarifying facets of a long-forgotten science, a form of alchemy. This required focused determination. He believed he must be obsessive despite the psychiatrist’s disagreement. There are many others and so few of us, he reflected.

After a decision to evacuate the cramped space he gave a count of two and leant to one side, the wardrobe door swinging open with a whine. He toppled out to collapse onto the rug, his tall frame bent into an embryonic position.

He smelled dust. A muted autumn morning was in the apartment. One of the landlady’s cats had found its way into the bedroom again and was sponging a pillow with its paws. The abrupt appearance of Clement made it anchor its claws to the bed sheets. The cat had ravaged a packet of biscuits. Crumbs and biscuit splinters lay between a pillar of books and a television set, the screen of it facing a wall and covered in tin foil.

Clement began to rub his calf muscles and the base of his spine to induce life back into them. His neck had become
fixed. He faced the bedside cabinet, his pyramid of unopened cartons of medication and a block of matchboxes upon it. Another clock stood on the floorboards with its crooked moustache showing twenty minutes past six.

A beautifully horrible sensation, the prickling to the flesh, washes of blood burning from the inside out, taut muscles throbbing in pulses…

What if the landlady came in and saw him curled on the floor with not even socks on his feet? Surely she would blush and enquire after his mental condition.

He reprimanded himself; he should have more confidence with his objectives. Perhaps now and then his actions might appear nonsensical or seem to verge on the ludicrous. Nevertheless, only a short while longer before he stumbled across the master key, the knowledge of how to initiate a clean start with Bernadette. That couldn’t be illness in anyone’s book.

He stood with difficulty to face the wall opposite the window. A good-sized canvas for daylight to apply itself in rectangles of orange, Fauvist impressions of windowpanes.

And there the kites hung, pinned to the picture rail. They were in the likeness of exotic birds.

Clement grunted with disappointment. A dream the day before had prophesied a surprising event. Both kites had gained organic substance, becoming what their shapes represented. Crying out with joy he had seen them fly into the middle of the room, rustling and crackling. He guessed that
part of the cocoon experiment wouldn’t have duplicated this miracle exactly but the least he had wished for was to see flapping, however weak, of plumped craft paper wings.

How many failures do I experience – he asked himself while pulling on pyjama bottoms – and how much more to endure? When might the imbued matchsticks and elastic bands of ability attain charmed properties to guide me? When would time weaving be finished to show the wondrous tapestry?

Back by the wardrobe, he checked the interior panels to see if the tin foil had become ripped. It seemed intact. Still more than enough protection from radio waves, television rays and computer webs. Those high-tech surveillance procedures which warped and corrupted mindrooms could still be blocked with the simplest of methods, he had discovered. The use of an everyday roll of foil easily defeated them. After the landlady’s refusal to comply with the simplest of instructions to avoid psyche infiltration he realized it wasn’t necessary for her — perhaps he was the only one being targeted by unseen agencies, those who would want him corrupted.

He scattered matchsticks and rubber bands from the base of the wardrobe onto the rug with a sweep of his hand. On impulse, he retrieved one of bands. While holding it open with a finger and thumb, another finger strummed it within a light shaft from the window. How powerful the elastic bands were with their impressive qualities, elegant in their simplicity. He spoke a mantra: ‘Circle of light, orb of female earth, supreme loop without beginning, without end.’

The cat jumped from the bed. With whiskers twitching, the animal followed him into the kitchenette. Clement switched on the kettle. Although he still felt chilled, he opened the door onto the communal balcony to let fresh air into the musty rooms before stepping outside.

The sky was cyan scrubbed with charcoal. A miserable morning with the promise of rain though still with a sun creating weak shadows. His sight followed three sides of the balcony which overlooked a weed-infested courtyard until his view fell upon Mr Shanklin on the lower floor. The old man was leaning precariously over the balcony railings, straining his neck to the dull heavens. He aimed along the length of a broom, pretending to fire shots at an advertising balloon – the shade of lead – seemingly glued to a cloud.

‘Morning, Mr Shanklin,’ Clement shouted. The reply was an impression of a spitting gunshot. ‘Won’t impress me with false reality checks,’ Clement muttered. ‘Impress him one day; I’ll walk over this yard with its derelict motorbikes and mildewed mattresses. Like a tightrope walker, only better. Wave in perfect circles, empowered by Bernadette’s refreshed love. Anything will be possible.’

He was considering whether or not to throw more aluminium foil down into the courtyard. Yet another electrical device had been dumped there below him; he couldn’t be too careful. But then the kettle in the kitchenette gave an energetic whistling as a call to return.

Once he had thrown a tea bag into a mug he drowned it
with water from the kettle. The bag bobbed to the rim, bleeding blackness. Then he took two rashers of bacon and an egg from the refrigerator.

The girl has reached the beach. Her hair is a glistening mat, drying like skeins of seaweed. Water beads run from shoulders down to her breasts. Sand clings in sodden clumps between her toes and lines the soles of her feet. She plunges back into the surges of salty water.

No she didn’t…

This is what I like about mindrooms – he told the doctor – I can tailor a new room as required, tune it to perfection. She will skip along the dividing line of sea and shore, straying to the beach where pearls are trodden into the golden stretch of sand.

The frying egg ejected a boiling gob of fat and it stung his face. It had happened again: he had broken egg shell, freed the jelly contents into a pan, placed bacon rashers under the grill as well, without a conscious thought concerning his outer reality.

When he had been courting Bernadette in the mindroom vision, not a single moment of his journey to her house could be recalled. Which way had he walked? Did he use the underpass and if so, how had he escaped unscathed, untouched by drunks and the addicts? He would make certain that when visiting Bernadette in the real dream, he would
avoid that underground tunnel.

He added milk to the tea; he lifted out the tea bag with a spoon and slapped it into a bin. A lorry droned past and rattled the panes in the lounge. He put the cooked food onto a plate. The slippery egg, and the bacon blistered and shrunken, appeared inedible. The tea had acquired greasy spots. A disc of mould floated to the surface of the hot liquid. Clement pushed away the plate and mug and went to the bathroom.

The bikinied female was bending, collecting satin spherules from oysters, placing them into a canvas bag tied by a cord about her waist. And as she farmed the molluscs with a penknife, leaving their shells and mash, wheeling gulls landed beside them. They poked the delicacies with their beaks, pulling away elastic strips.

A cliff yawned along the swathe of beach, pitted with jagged clefts and uneven with protrusions. Along its base were rock pools with crabs and shrimp living there amongst shadows and motes of sunlight. Sea kale grew in untidy patches. Higher up, clumps of stringy green sprouted. Higher up still, bushes defied gravity, their roots exposed and clinging to the cerulean rock face like mountain climbers. And at the summit, the intense shape of a man stood, looking down.

Clement brushed his teeth. He remembered his gums bleeding when he had scrubbed them with a toothbrush a few weeks
before. He finished washing and found a razor to rid himself of his beard. And after hacking at his hair with scissors, he shaved his head.

He inspected himself further. A final decision had been made. ‘Yes, my confirmed identity this morning,’ he declared confidently. This special day deserved special clothes again, he decided. He spoke to his reflection: ‘A refinement phase. Tribute to divine womanhood, higher consciousness; appreciation of tender female encapsulation.’

After Clement had removed his pyjamas he put on underwear, tights and a skirt. Make-up was applied in a clumsy way and nail varnish painted as best he could; only then did he put on a white blouse.

He took a wig from the bathroom cabinet. Before placing it over his shaved head, he adjusted the silver foil lining the inside. Clement had the idea that computer webs would be strong today. Infrared as well, ramped to an elevated frequency, trying to burn his barriers as they always did.

He returned to the kitchenette, disposed of the cold breakfast then closed the door leading to the balcony. Carrying his overcoat and a holdall – containing a change of clothes and shoes, as well as extra make-up – he went out of his apartment. He locked his main door and descended the stairs to the first floor landing with slight trepidation in his step.

Before turning to the final staircase he had a notion of the landlady’s presence on the ground floor. He wanted to go back to his apartment but knew any delay would make him late.

Without warning another door creaked open. A grizzled head poked out with eight digits – chalk-white and dirty-nailed – gripping the doorframe.

‘Is she there? I know she is,’ Mr Shanklin said. ‘Tell ‘er I’m dead.’

Clement went reluctantly down the creaking staircase. When he had turned the corner he was presented with a bulk of a woman, haloed by light filtering through stained glass around the main front entrance.

‘Two birds with one stone,’ he heard. These words plummeted within him, joining his hopes of avoiding the landlady. The stone she had spoken of seemed to lodge in his windpipe. ‘Follow me if you please, deary,’ Mrs Froby continued and her weighty carcass jolted into movement.

Clement found a voice, a throaty version, not his voice at all, ‘Work today, I start a new chapter. Really must dash or won’t be able to consolidate the new dream. See you tonight on my joyful return. There’s no trouble about the—’

‘I know you’re shuffling about up there, Benjamin Shanklin,’ Mrs Froby called past him. ‘You can’t roost in your den forever or else you’ll simply fade away. Remember our arrangement.’ Anxious gasps from above but Clement considered it was his special imagination. ‘Come with me, you dowdy bird,’ the landlady said and then gave a short laugh.

Although he wanted to run out and fling himself down the street in a sprint, he found himself obeying without argument. He cursed — as well as trying to animate kites and use charms
to continue the work of materializing an unspoiled Bernadette, he should have tried another configuration to avoid this gross woman.

For a person who owned such a large building, it often surprised Mrs Froby’s guests that she lived in one of the smaller apartments. And it was made smaller still by an unconventional habit of stocking her rooms in duplicate. In her living room were two identical armchairs with horse-hair foaming from splits in the hide seats. Facing those were coffee tables, both littered with balls of newspaper and half-eaten chocolate bars. Grotesque jardinieres acted as sentries to portable television sets. A couple of clocks on the mantlepiece kept pace with each other and in one of the corners, a pair of radios stood. The surfaces of her sideboards were covered with papers and magazines, and both with a bamboo cage upon them, each housing a yellow-headed cockatiel. By chance, the cockatiel twins – Donimo and Beatrix – preened their pastel blue feathers at the same time, as if a mirror image of each other.

Clement gave a sweeping glance of suspicion to the televisions and radios.

Precise memory of a heated argument the day before began playing for him as clearly as if watching a film. Moment by moment, sentence by sentence, the inner reality was becoming more focused. This new mindroom began to overtake, becoming more real than anything about him…

Yesterday’s photographic memories made present were dismissed by a thick utterance. ‘Arthur!’ the landlady yelled. Her body slumped onto one of the scruffy chairs and she picked up a picture frame holding Arthur’s portrait from a coffee table. She gave a wheezing sigh. ‘Blowhorn’s still not home. Miss breakfast again if he’s not careful. Giddy goat, he can be.’

But surely, Mrs Froby, you are the giddy goat, Clement wanted to say. Would she never accept the fact her husband had ceased to exist in this dimension? His monochrome photograph – strangely shaped moustache, pinched cheeks and lazy, drooping eyelids – only that remained.