Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (8 page)

I’ll switch off, just watch his lips open and close, fish-like; see his hand gesticulate before going back to his pipe as though the charred wooden bowl needs touches of reassurance. Notice his pate shining as if glazed with varnish, reflecting the lemon glare of the cafeteria lights. Becoming silent after a while, waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, I understand,’ I reply. This seems to satisfy him.

We sip our beverages. Clammy and airless in here. Dejected waitresses wander aimlessly between the benches and tables, scooping up paper plates or crackling cellophane. There’s the occasional clatter of crockery and hiss of fat from the hot plates.

Doctor, let me describe: the cafeteria is lined with full-length windows on two sides though the sun prefers to shun the interior. The bright deck of the pier with its railings and the glittering band of sea form a mural over the large transparent panes. And it’s only the intermittent sight of a tourist strolling by or one of the pennants giving a limp wave which destroys the deception. A gull screeches, sounding like a hideous laugh.
A match flares as Harold prepares to light his pipe. I can feel him looking at me still.

‘I’m not one to pry, as well you know, Donald. But if you have problems then speak out. We can’t have standards falling, can we?’

‘Thank you, Harold, though nothing that can’t be sorted.’

‘I’ll be brutally honest; you seem a bit of a dreamer. Bernadette is unsure of herself. I would ask you become a little stronger. Show her the way.’

‘But I think I do.’

‘Give her the confidence she lacks.’ He’s pausing to comply with his smoker’s cough.

That gives me the opportunity to interrupt. ‘Time we met the girls.’

The octopus machine over in the funfair is paddling into movement. ‘Precisely.’

‘I don’t see what you mean.’

‘Up and down, round and around, that’s precisely the reason why I don’t want to go on it. I’d spew.’

‘Donald, be quiet. I don’t think we want to hear.’ I have just noticed freckles on Bernadette’s nose.

‘It’ll splatter everywhere,’ answers Marianne.

‘Really sis, you’re as bad as him.’

We’re walking hand in hand past the Ferris wheel. Marianne and Harold follow us ten paces behind. They’ve stopped by another souvenir shop window at the display of
conch shells, lighthouse ashtrays, lumps of quartz or polished pebbles, sugar sticks and peppermint pigs.

Din of funfair activity. The drone of fairground motors is camouflaged by music crackling from speakers. Over there, those bumper cars zipping around their neutral course, each one skewered with a pole ending with a flexed strip of metal, rattling and showering sparks from the grid above. A dry odour of oily graphite lingers, strong enough to vanquish the smell of doughnuts, hamburgers and the hotdogs. More frenetic noises and lights from the amusement arcades.

‘You’ve done it. I didn’t know you could shoot.’

‘Binny, what do you mean? Expert I am. Actually it’s quite easy.’

‘I guess that. But easy for you? Not very good with your hands, are you? Admit it. When it comes down to practical things you’re slow on the uptake.’

‘Really don’t know what you’re on about. It’s just a daft duck shoot.’ Her bluff attitude is annoying me.

Marianne and her father have caught up.

‘You two arguing?’ Marianne in a playful mood.

I’ll replace the rifle to the counter. The security chain rattles and sweeps the spare pellets to the slats, already strewn with cigarette butts and cartons. Under our feet, the sea moving forever.

‘No argument, just saying. You know Donald. He has trouble wiring a plug, let alone shooting metal ducks.’

There’s happy laughter coming from the beach where a Punch and Judy show stands with its back to the waves, trapped by clusters of delighted onlookers and striped deckchairs. Why stripes? They don’t have to be. I find it a detestable pattern.

At the entrance of the arcade with its crazy flashing lights, the bleach-faced sailor dummy balancing on the barrel of rum within its glass box. That inane inebriated humour about its lips, those vacuous eyes, hands like paddles held to its belly.

‘I’ve run out of change.’

A moment later and Marianne has put a silver coin into the slot. Immediately the peculiar figure begins to jiggle and wobble on the barrel, giving its insane laughter to its amused audience.

I’ll place it at the end of the pier, where the white chalet used to stand.

‘Anyone want seafood?’ Harold asks.

I’ll sprinkle the small pot of cockles with pepper and douse them in vinegar. On the stall, a dead crab in its bed of ice, holding its pincers up like castanets. Eels writhe in a tangle in their tub next to piles of whiskered shrimps. Bernadette and Marianne prod at whelks with their plastic forks. A seagull is standing on the roof of the arcade watching us. Harold has his back to the dancing lights of the arcade machines.

You see how cheerful we are, doctor! A quality mindroom on the pier, filled with positive waves.

‘Who’s coming on the ghost train with me?’

Marianne grinning. ‘I will.’

13

A
s we thud through these rubber doors in our small open ride, the squalling funfair awash in sunshine is lost, replaced with blackness and dank coldness. Stale, but I find it refreshing after the sun washing my face with sweat. Now we’re bathed in phosphorescent lights. And from one of the alcoves at the side, a skeleton descends close to shrieking girls in the ride behind. Marianne is laughing. A moan of a comically ghoulish nature emanates from around this tunnel. My face is brushed with slippery lengths of string hanging down from amongst the severed anatomical pieces swinging above. A headless phantom floats in front of the first ride before disappearing into a blood-spattered wall. Other alcoves light up, showing horror maquettes or glowing spiders.

Marianne exclaiming above the grinding wheels and the sound effects: ‘This is fun.’

A door is swinging open and a figure bound in bandages lurches out. Marianne shrinks into her seat as he lumbers towards her but our clanking ride judders past the monster in
the neon-lit tunnel with an accompaniment of slicing axes.

We’ve turned another corner into a small area, lit only by a single red bulb. The rides have stopped. With the compliment of a hacking, evil laugh, an eight-foot giant has stepped out. The floor is covered with boulders made of balsa wood. There’s rubber snakes squirming, and dismembered lumps of polystyrene flesh.

A hush as wolves cease their howling. We must listen to this giant. The urgent whispers from the other passengers are fading as a bellowing emits from between the giant’s cracked lips.

‘Welcome to my new world where anything is possible.’ He has straggling lengths of hair and a beard, and round, penetrating eyes. He sways in his boots as if on a train. His face though, I’ve recognized it. He’s the old man of the sea. Sure enough there’s a crate – poking out from behind one of those slashed curtains covering a wardrobe – containing pint bottles of brown ale, catching this torrid red light which stains us all. ‘Applaud the battle of Evermore by the mountains of madness. If you wish to view the treasures of Atlantis then come with me. See them swaddled in their caverns of splendour with stalactites of precious metals and stalagmites of diamond. Join a band of gypsies with their caravan of camels. Or maybe burrow into the earth – more than nine feet underground – to sink past layers of history. Through magma chambers roaring with rivers of lava until we reach the sepulchre core. Perhaps your desire is to discover mysteries of
the universe: astronomy domine. Only I have been granted the revered task of showing the chosen ones such cosmic marvels. We shall travel across to the other side via unimaginably vast tracts of negative reality, transfused by galaxies and nebulae. Pass Jupiter and Saturn, Neptune, Titan, frightening stars, steering around howling meteor storms. Acknowledge solar systems, recognize crucial planetary orbits; voyage beyond the most distant constellation. There you will see a black hole extending far out to the left and right, the great divide. You must understand, Mrs Froby is correct in what she implies: infinity is not a number but a state. We shall plunge into this ungraspable, timeless nothingness, this space oddity. And there will be the secrets incarcerated within giant edifices, like fortresses, like barriers. Each different, reflecting a little of what they contain. Some are able to dazzle you with their intense brightness. Others are as smooth as milk – unscalable, impregnable. While still more are alive with locket-shaped fans which must always be in constant movement, teasing you by showing glimpses between their agitation. Then there are those which have been armoured with fortified metals. And these barriers have to be broken into for them to expose arcane labyrinths of wonderment. There is no other way. Raze them to the ground, annihilate them to uncover truths which lay dormant inside.’

I have leapt out of the ghost train ride. Marianne, swirling concern on your pert face I can understand.

‘You must get out, all of you, away from this mockery, this
sham. You’re an impostor, a charlatan!’ Already the linked rides have rattled off, leaving me and the giant only. I’ll expose this scoundrel who pretends to offer enlightenment.

I’m correct in my assumptions. No gentle giant here. Close up I see that the high boots are short stilts. He’s unstrapping them and kicked one of the rocks. Sure enough this is not a cleverly painted piece of balsa wood but real rock. A snake hisses and its spiked tongue flickers before slithering into shadow. I daren’t inspect the flesh.

His face – the visage of an intrepid sailor – even this is a lie. I’ll pull down the mask, rip it away to expose your real identity, as if I didn’t already know.

There you are, hiding behind your disguise. You must understand, Dr Leibkov, it’s a difficult undertaking to fool me. You might as well be in a glass house. As if you could show me a saucerful of secrets! I already have inklings of what they are. I can penetrate through the mere external steel covering of the replacements. I’ve the ability to look at sounds, to explain and explore their solidifying shapes. I can manipulate time within multiple dimensions. You must appreciate how honoured I am to have been bestowed such astonishing abilities. They will hold me in good stead for cryptic enigmas which I’ll eventually uncover by myself. The patterns this train makes, for instance. Can you interpret them? I have my doubts. But still you’ve the gall to say you can help.

Although I detect – sometimes – there’s something wrong. But the problem’s elusive. I’m led into mental dead ends. I feel
like a turkey with its innards scraped out, all of me frozen and wrapped in a tight, airless prison of cling film. I can see about but can’t seem to communicate through this all-encompassing mantle. Am I making sense, doctor? It frightens me sometimes. There’s a hateful barrier between us as though we’ve placed a sheet of glass there looking like a train window.

‘You’re making sense, Donald. You are lucid again, able to tell me your worries. That is good. It’s at times like this when you are able to vocalise your condition in a coherent manner. You must appreciate – and take courage – eventually you will be as you are today, all of the time. It will be as though a curtain has been taken away. Your mind will be cleansed of its muddy thoughts.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Muddy thoughts. Though some of them have barbs; or they can burn as if with a caustic substance — getting a bit far-fetched again, aren’t I? What I mean is, those mindrooms seeming not part of me, created despite myself, they can hurt.’

‘Perhaps in not knowing.’

‘Fabled loss of yesterday’s dreams?’

‘Can you think of any of those hurtful mindrooms, Donald?’

‘Doctor, don’t make me do that. I can’t, I won’t.’

‘Soon you will be able to. We will sort your concerns together. It’s going to be a long haul up a steep hill but it will be done.’

‘Or through a train tunnel.’

‘As you wish. The light at the end is imperceptible at the moment but will be there soon, rest assured. I will remind you again: if you have any troubles, you are at liberty to ring me day or night. Don’t bottle it until the next session.’

‘You are a wise man, doctor. I have complete faith in your judgement.’

‘Excellent. In that case, you must heed my words. These mental barriers are particularly strong. We must try to break them down to ascertain what hides behind. That must be confronted. There are those who are as sensitive, fragile plants, too easily crushed. I suspect you are one of these people, Donald. Because of a natural sensitivity we will take the process slowly and with care.’

‘Sort of undiluted mindroom filmics, isn’t it, Dr Leibkov?’

‘Yes, harsh memories which you must eventually face. Now, Donald, I wish to ask you a question. I’m interested, that’s all. Why do you call me Dr Leibkov?’

Gently down the stream…

‘Are you trying to frighten me? You are – you’re my doctor.’

‘Calm yourself. I am Dr Smythe. My real name which you have called me up until yesterday. Does changing my name have something to do with your cocoon experiments?’

‘Rather surprised the government should clamp down in this way, allowing you only verbal weapons to attack the general public. In league with you, aren’t they, for funded gadgets to pump me full of bad waves. Though with the way I’m feeling at the moment, I believe you’ve somehow managed
already. Drilled with a computer web, did you, to give me your treatment? You think you can unwrap me as easily as a parcel. That’s what you do, I know. No use denying it. Buzzing boxes as well, with needles and long prodding poles. Because everybody knows you can treat us as though we were animals in a slaughter house, herded into this pen. Those dressed for work: reading, sleeping, talking contentedly, unaware of their true destination. Have we not hurtled passed two stations already without stopping?

‘Am I the only one to perceive the truth? We must systemize our linkages before it’s too late.

‘All real people must be told. Every action overlaps. If one element isn’t there, like depriving a clock of its fly wheel, how can you expect it to run? From the smallest eyebrow twitch to the largest sets of activities in a lifetime, everything is equal.

‘Things affect all other things in a complicated away. If elements in space and time are bonded so strongly, if by changing one small event influences so much, then why couldn’t this be controlled for one’s own purpose? Like removing pebbles from a garden. By the placement of elastic bands of eternity. By time dilation, squeezing and stretching seconds and minutes for particular usages. Simple causes produce complicated effects. Like an uncountable series of binary switches clicking off and on round the globe, one action affecting the next into another action, and so on. What type of rings radiate?

Sorcerers transmuted metals – lead to gold – or banished
evil and disease by the same principles of element timing and juxtaposition. Though these enlightened ones were swept aside as deluded. Yet these practitioners were the scientists of their time.

‘So now you’ve discovered the cocoon experiment is not totally mine. It’s a modern extension of the work by those who have gone before.’

‘Would you like me to be honest, Donald?’

‘Of course. Anything else would be futile, surely?’

‘Yes it would. You mind is disturbed; you have admitted already. We are attempting to unclutter, take away thoughts which don’t belong, those which can only lead to confusion and distress. I find your theories interesting and imaginative but more importantly, they are misguided. You feel you need such ideas despite them being destructive. Tell me, Donald, what do you hope to achieve with these experiments?’

‘Why do my questions always beg another from you? Are you a government spy? If I can’t trust you then who can I trust? You’re no better than the mechanoid kid with his crackling music player and mushy sandwiches. Or those machines pretending ladies stuttering in whispers, no doubt discussing me.

The electronic android tapping the end of its umbrella, it has a familiar rhythm to it. Morse code. Craftily passing on a message.

‘What – dashes, dots – do – you – more dots, dashes – hope, to, achieve – dots and dashes – from – your – dots bloody
dashes – experiments. You never give up, do you? Your sort have snoopers everywhere, a treacherous network under control.

‘If you really must know, I’m on the way to discover the exact configuration. This’ll create the enchanting mouth to kiss, face to caress, soft hair to stroke. The woman who is indestructible, able to resist flames, whose perfection was compromised but who can be repaired. The special someone to love again in a future perfect mindroom. My Bernadette.’