Dreams of Origami (12 page)

‘So, what did he want? Have they found out anything?’

‘No, nothing’s happened, and if it’s left up to him nothing’s going to happen. He went on and on about wasting police time. That was the least I was accused of. If Matthew exists—if I ever
had
a husband—then he obviously went of his own free will. Perhaps I even helped him on his way.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He thinks I had something to do with…that I…And he as good as accused me of causing Charlie Abercrombie’s death.’

‘But that’s insane.’

‘Yes, I think that’s it. He
is
insane. But whatever’s wrong with him, he’s not looking for Matthew.’

‘What’s all this?’ Lacey goes over to the kitchen table, which is stacked with box files and papers.

‘Matthew didn’t leave here alone. Someone or something had to
have taken him. I’m making lists of all his customers and business contacts. I’ll start by ringing anyone who might have been in the area, then work through the others. Then I’ll go through his address book, all his old work colleagues, school friends. I’ll contact everyone he’s ever known if I have to. Someone knows where he is. If the police aren’t going to look for him, then I will.’

Lacey pulls the band from her hair and shakes it loose. ‘How can I help?’

‘What else has happened? Have other people gone missing like this?’

‘No, I’ve already been down that road. At least, nothing’s happened recently, and I’ve got Audrey doing some historical detective work. However, there does seem to be a lot going on around here lately, accidents and petty crime.’ Lacey looks at her watch. ‘Damn, it’s Saturday. Because there’s no paper on Sundays, the
Herald
office will be locked this evening. But I should be able to get in there tomorrow morning. I’ll run through the computer files, see what else I can find.’

Gideon is deciding in which corner of the tiny room to place his only armchair. Perhaps opposite the window. From there he can get a diagonal view of the schoolhouse. His computer is up and running, a box of food on the kitchen counter, and a hastily stuffed suitcase spilling out onto the camp bed upstairs. He’s probably forgotten half of what he needs. No matter, he can always make a quick dash back into town in the morning.

In different circumstances he would be enjoying this tiny house, the ceiling barely a few inches above him.
How does Drew manage?
he wonders.
He must be constantly banging his head on the beams.
Of course, people were shorter in the days when these cottages were built, and working people didn’t need space. Their children played outside in all weathers, if they had a chance to play at all. Even some domestic tasks, like washing and cooking, were done outdoors. They
came inside to eat and sleep and then went back to work.

There is a loud rap on the front door and the muffled sound of raised voices. He finds Lacey on the doorstep, her back to him, watching the drama being acted out across the road. The detached cottage is where all the noise is coming from. Shouting—a woman’s voice, screaming in anger—a man’s voice answering, loud, grinding. There’s the abrupt slamming of a car door and a white vehicle shoots backwards into the road, lights flashing. Tyres screech and wheels spin as the car accelerates past, and they catch a glimpse of a man’s face in profile, his jaw clenched and hair every which way.

‘Your neighbours, Mr and Mrs Tiverton,’ says Lacey. ‘We could go over and introduce ourselves, but I don’t think this is a good time.’

There’s the final statement of a front door slamming, but by now the car is nearly at the end of the road.

‘It’ll keep. Are they always like that?’

‘Whenever I’ve seen them, yes.’ Lacey laughs. ‘Welcome to the peace and quiet of the countryside. You know, it didn’t used to be like this, not when I first met Drew. I used to look forward to weekends out here. Anyway, are you getting sorted? Anything I can do to help?’

‘Yes, sorry, do come in. Have a chair. The chair.’

‘Wow, you
have
shifted quickly. But why? It’s a bit drastic, isn’t it, moving in here?’

Gideon is unsure how to explain it to her. How much can he tell? Not about Cassandra, nor the photograph. ‘Whatever’s going on here is speeding up. I can feel it building, like steam in a pressure cooker.’

She looks at him, puzzled. ‘You don’t think Mr Abercrombie’s death had anything to do with it, do you?’

‘Not directly, but I think the reason he was in the garden may have. I’m wondering what else has been going on around here.’

‘That’s what Triss and I were just talking about.’

‘By the way, I went over to see her as soon as the police car left,’ says Gideon. ‘Did she tell you about Fletcher’s behaviour?’

‘Yes. Is he losing the plot or what?’

‘Well, whatever’s wrong with the man, it seems to have had a positive effect on Triss. I doubt if she’ll find anything, but at least the
search is keeping her occupied.’

‘I told her I’d go into the office in the morning and trawl through the data files, see what else turns up. There may be a pattern.’

‘Now that does sound like a good idea. Look for any changes, not just crime-related items. Any increase in activity may be significant.’

‘Right, will do.’ Lacey looks uncomfortable. ‘By the way, I’m sorry about Drew. I mean, his attitude to your work. He’s very open-minded about most things; even if he doesn’t go along with it, he’s usually pretty laid-back. But he seems to have a blind spot around this supernatural stuff.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to negative responses. Often there’s a reason for it, perhaps something he’s experienced in the past. Don’t be too hard on him.’

‘If you say so.’ Lacey shrugs. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner? I did ask Triss, but apparently Audrey’s said she’ll take a tray over.’

‘Thanks, that’s kind of you, but I think I’d better get myself organized here.’ He hopes that doesn’t sound impolite. He needs to be alone, to think, to meditate. He needs to talk to Cassandra.

After escorting Lacey the few paces to Drew’s home, Gideon is about to return to his own front door when his attention is alerted by a high-pitched squeaking. A wheelbarrow appears around the corner of Drew’s cottage. At first he doesn’t recognize the man pushing it. Earlier, he’d been dressed in leathers and a helmet; now, it’s torn jeans and a T-shirt smeared with a rainbow of stains.

‘Tom, isn’t it? I’m Gideon Wakefield. I’ve just moved in next door.’

‘Really? Oh, that’s great.’

‘It’s only temporary, the house is still for sale. But I expect we’ll be seeing something of each other, being so close.’

‘These places are awesome, aren’t they? So small, more like a row of rabbit hutches. But, like, real history.’ He lets go of the barrow and wipes his hand down his shirt before offering it. Gideon returns the shake, feeling a firm grip accompanied by an electrical zap that leaps up his arm. Tom appears not to have noticed, but Gideon is surprised by the overload of energy the man is carrying. Tom has the round,
smooth face of a child, clear blue eyes, his hair thick and fair. There are rings in his ears and chains around his neck. He is still talking. ‘Still, mine’s rent-free, courtesy of my aunt. Or it will be until I finish my course in another two years.’

‘Drew said you’re an artist.’

‘Student, at the moment anyway. But one day…the Barbican, the National Gallery, the world? Right now, I’ll settle for some work on this place.’

‘Bit of home decorating?’ Gideon looks at the wheelbarrow which is loaded with paint tins, old ones by the look of them, the lids rusty, sides running with dribbles of paint in an assortment of colours.

‘Murals. Drew’s given me his old leftovers of emulsion. There’re all these clean, plaster walls staring back at me. I did try hanging some canvasses. But no, hell, those walls are crying out for paint. Have you ever been to Florence? And what about the Sistine Chapel?’

‘Well, yes, I have—’

‘Now those guys, they knew how to paint a wall. Angels, that’s what this place needs. Adam and God’s hand and angels.’

‘That would be interesting—’

‘Hey, could you give me a lift up the step?’ Tom pushes the wheelbarrow to his door with Gideon running after him, then helping to manipulate it inside and straight across the carpeted floor.

‘Thanks. Gideon, is it? Cool name. We’ll have a beer later. Enjoy your new home.’ Tom turns his attention to the paint tins. Gideon has obviously been dismissed.

Evening settles over Gainsborough Street, the wind whips up again, and the temperature begins to drop. The house being empty and cold, Gideon shivers and finds something warmer to wear. From his one armchair, he can see through the window and beyond the houses to a distant line of trees. He watches the sky change through red to gold and purple as the sun goes down. Now the first stars are glinting, although the horizon is still pale, and the trees are a broken black line that joins
the earth to the sky.

But it is the old schoolhouse and the air around it that interests him. He is focusing his eyes, or rather unfocusing them, upon the aura of the building, the energy above the roof, flowing around the old weather vane and the bell housing. Nothing remarkable about the colour, but the air itself seems to be pulsating. It is only the slightest of movements, barely defined, but sufficient to make it seem as if the building is alive. What’s more, it seems to be synchronized with that humming, of which he has again become acutely aware. During part of the afternoon it moved into the background, unregistered, like the ticking of the old clock in the Caxtons’ kitchen. Yet it is there, and constant. Is that what called Charles Abercrombie into the garden? And was it that sound that took Matthew Caxton—where? Drew and Lacey don’t seem to be affected by it, so far as he can tell. But it could be having an effect on Fletcher. Something’s definitely wrong with the man, beyond being a nasty piece of work.

Later, shifting to get comfortable on the camp bed, Gideon is conscious of people on either side of him: Drew and Lacey together, and Tom, like himself, alone. And, although the ancient walls are thick, he can hear the muffled sounds of Tom working, late—very late—into the night.

What is going on with Tom? A manic phase, the price of artistic creativity, or is he high on something? Perhaps a little of both, either of which would make him vulnerable. Gideon suspects Tom can also hear the sound. But is he aware of what he’s tuned into? More likely the energy field—for that’s what it is—has latched onto him without him realizing what is happening.

Gideon looks around, trying to see through the darkness of the room. These little cottages, all in a row, have only bricks and plaster between them. His bed is up against the wall that separates him from Tom. The stillness of the night magnifies each sound, gentle scrapings and shuffling. Gideon tries to look further, pushing his thoughts outward
as if he is passing through the wall, seeing himself enter the brightly lit room next door. Tom is squatting down, Gideon sees the curve of his back, the knobbled inches of spine where his T-shirt has pulled out from his jeans. He is pouring paint from can to can, mixing, stirring, wiping his brush on a piece of rag.

Gideon tries to look at the walls, seeing random splashes of green and brown paint that make little sense. Perhaps the work is at too early a stage, although the blend of colours looks oddly familiar. But he also is aware of the limitations of this form of mental projection. It is too subject to personal distortion; it is useful as a guide, an indicator only, and the details are not to be taken too literally. Perhaps more important is how he feels, the atmosphere in the room and his own reaction to what he is seeing. And that is not good.

There are beads of sweat on Tom’s forehead. He takes a swig from a can of lager. Gideon wonders how long it is since he’s taken a break and had something to eat. He feels the urge to call out to Tom, to warn him. But of what? And how could he go banging on the door at this time of night? To say what?
Can you hear that sound, Tom?

Instead he shifts his body, pulling his attention back to his own side of the wall, the bricks and plaster between them and his own need for rest.

Dreams are events which one experiences and which, while arising from one’s subconscious, may have a profound impact on one’s psychological condition. Granted, dreams do not take place in the external, physical world, but can we therefore say that dreams are not real?

Visions, impressions, psychic experiences—if they are subsequently found to be associations with external events, are they then real or unreal?

And what about imagination? All physical acts and achievements arise out of someone’s imagination, whether it be splitting the atom or making a cup of tea. How can one therefore claim that what one imagines is not real?

And while we are on the subject—what is reality anyway?

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

H
E LIES AWAKE THINKING
he’ll never be able to sleep in this tiny room on this strange contraption of a bed. Eventually, Gideon’s mind is caught between thoughts and sinks into a pool of darkness. When he rises to the surface, he finds himself sitting at a small table on an open hillside. Vines are draped in long rows, running down the slopes. As the
ground levels out, fields the colour of gingerbread flow and billow to a line of smoky mountains. After so many years this terrain is familiar to him, although it does not resemble any country he has visited, or indeed seen in any photograph. This is Cassandra’s country, a land of quiet lakes and deep, flowing rivers, the soil rich but strangely light in texture, and nothing growing high, even the trees are not much taller than a man. Even so, the earth is apparently fertile; the vegetation is rich and vigorous in growth, and cast with a blue tint, including the tiny-leafed plant growing everywhere like grass—even that carries a tinge of lavender. Distance colours everything pale grey and purple. Gideon has never seen an animal, yet birds are everywhere, unusually large and tame. At least, they appear to take no notice of his presence, or hers.

Cassandra emerges through a curtain of greenery, some variety of trailing plant bearing large, gourd-like fruits. She sits opposite him at the table. He intends to ask her about the landscape, but, as with many questions, he forgets as soon as she speaks.

‘You have done well, Gideon. You’ve placed yourself at the centre, it couldn’t be better.’

‘But the centre of what?’

‘What did you sense there?’

‘It’s an energy field, isn’t it? Only there’s something wrong with it.’

‘Yes, it is the energy field, the aether that binds matter into existence. And, yes, there is something wrong with it.’

‘And that’s why we’re here—why you’re here. So what is happening?’

‘You will find out soon enough. It’s important that you come to the answer yourself, otherwise you will not believe completely. You already know, of course; you have always known. But you are blocking your own knowledge, putting up mental barriers.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because this is big. Big and dangerous. And we are all afraid.’ A sheet of paper appears in her hand. ‘Now, there is work to be done.’

Gideon sighs, exasperated. All right. He knows he will get nothing
more from her until he co-operates with the lesson. She folds a bird, a dove. He has seen it a hundred times, has made it himself with his hands and with his mind. She unfolds the sheet, smoothing it against the tabletop.

‘Now, where is the bird? Think, Gideon, think.’

He studies the paper. White. Flat. No, it isn’t—there are now faint lines running across the surface. ‘The forces that shaped the bird, the creases you made, they have permanently changed the paper.’ He looks up at her. Is this the answer she is waiting for? Could it be this simple? He hesitates, then continues. ‘The creasing has distorted the structure of the material. Even though the bird is unfolded, the lines that formed it can never be completely erased. The paper can never be returned to its previous state.’

‘So where is the bird, Gideon?’

‘It’s still there. It’s in the paper.’

Cassandra leans back. For a moment she closes her eyes, then she looks at him, a smile lighting her face from within. ‘I think we’re nearly there. And only just in time.’

Suddenly he is thrust into wakefulness, violently hurled back to his bed by an explosion of sound. Before he has a chance to orientate his thoughts, it comes again, filling his head, filling the room. A third time and he is out of bed, and by the fourth he’s moving to the window, then reaching for his dressing gown.

Lacey’s reactions are slower. She has been floating in a half-dream state, her mind too active to be fully asleep, her body too comfortable to be truly awake. It takes several of the sounds to drag her to her feet.

‘What the hell is that? Drew! Drew, wake up, for God’s sake. What’s going on?’

‘What’s a madder?’ Drew emerges from the duvet like a bewildered hamster, eyes crinkled shut, nose twitching. ‘Wa’s ‘at noise?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you.’ Lacey is at the window, fumbling with
the catch. As the sash flies up, the sound crashes into the room again. ‘It’s that bloody bell. The one on the schoolhouse. Drew, get up!’

‘Why me?’

‘Because Triss might be in trouble, and I’m not going over there on my own.’ She scoops his jeans off the floor and throws them at him, then scrambles for her own clothes. They are both wrestling with T-shirts as they tumble down the stairs. The door is thrown open and early-morning air hits them, along with the steady tolling of the bell, booming out across misty fields.

Gideon is already over the road. As he reaches the schoolhouse gate, the front door flies open and Triss runs out. ‘I tried to stop it, but the rope’s not moving. It’s only the bell.’

‘The rope’s inside?’

‘Yes, in the schoolroom. I mean the workshop.’

Lacey and Drew join them. ‘Are you all right, Triss? What happened?’

‘I don’t know. It just started up, all on its own. I don’t know how to make it stop.’

All four of them step back into the road and look up at the tower above the workshop, where the old school bell is swinging violently to and fro.

Gideon turns to Drew. ‘Let’s have a look inside. Lacey, you stay here with Triss.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Triss clutches her dressing gown around her. ‘It must have woken everyone for miles.’ They look up and down the road. Bill Henderson is standing on his doorstep. He holds his hands wide, questioning. Lacey waves back, a signal to say they are all right. The Tivertons are by their gate, involved in an animated conversation.
Probably too busy blaming each other to find out what’s going on,
thinks Lacey.

Across the road, Audrey is leaning out from her window. ‘What’s happening? Is anyone hurt?’

‘No, everyone’s fine. Drew and Gideon are trying to make it stop.’

The two men emerge from the house, Drew shaking his head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. The rope’s not moving, it’s still wound around
its peg. We tried tugging on it, but it had no effect.’

‘Didn’t you say this had happened before?’ asks Lacey. ‘You said the joist might have moved or something.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft—listen to it! Does that sound like shifting joists?’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’

The noise stops as abruptly as it started. Everyone stares at the bell, the sound still echoing through their heads. Gideon and Drew go back inside to see what’s happening to the rope, but nothing has changed.

‘What time is it?’ asks Drew.

Gideon glances at his watch. ‘Six o’clock.’

‘Oh, bugger this. I’m going back to bed.’ Drew turns and slouches back to his own front door, Lacey close behind him.

Gradually everyone withdraws into their own homes. Everyone except Tom, who didn’t come out when the noise started, or even when people began to gather in the road. However, his downstairs light has been on all this time. Gideon can see him now, through the window. Tom seems not to have heard the bell, or at least he’s showed no curiosity in it. He’s too busy painting. He must have been at it all night.

Lacey never did get back to sleep, but she enjoyed returning to the warmth of their bed, the smooth curve of Drew’s spine and his gentle snore rising through the mat of tangled curls. Now it’s two hours later and the morning has started all over again. Sunday breakfast time, the local radio station is playing tunes from the ‘seventies, newspapers are spread over the sofa, and the smell of coffee and toast fills the kitchen.

Lacey gives up struggling with the marmalade jar and hands it to Drew. ‘I still don’t understand how it could ring if no one was pulling the rope.’

‘That’s assuming the rope is actually attached to the bell.’ Drew twists the lid off in one easy movement and hands the jar back. ‘All
we saw was a rope going up through a hole in the ceiling.’

‘Well, how else could it have rung?’

‘Some sort of clockwork device, maybe.’ Drew shrugs. ‘Or an electric motor attached to a timer to make it look like it stopped by itself. Any number of ways it could be done. I think I’ll go over later and take a look in the loft.’

‘You don’t seriously think someone rigged it on purpose, do you?’

‘Well, do you seriously think it rang by itself?’

‘No, but…Shush, there’s a local news bulletin. Turn the radio up, will you?’

‘Don’t try to change the subject.’ Drew turns the sound up anyway.

‘…in a field south of Covington. The privately owned aircraft had just taken off from Marshall’s airport and was heading for Manchester. The pilot and co-pilot suffered slight injuries and were taken to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. They are expected to be discharged later today.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Lacey dashes into the living room, searching her handbag for her mobile phone. ‘An air crash. Near here.’ She punches in a number. ‘Jack?…Yes, sorry, I know it’s early, but—…Sure. This plane crash near Covington, what time was it?…Who would be covering it?…And is he still out there?…I might give him a call… Right, thanks Jack.’

‘You’re not thinking there’s any connection, surely?’ Drew carries her coffee through from the kitchen.

‘It happened this morning. Yes, I know it’s probably a coincidence, but…’ She’s already punching in more numbers, waiting for a reply. ‘Grant picked up the story and went out there to get some shots. Then he went to the hospital to see if he could get an interview with the pilot. Hello? Grant?’

Drew sighs and shakes his head. ‘So much for Sunday. I think I’ll have a shower.’

He’s towelling off when Lacey comes back through the kitchen, notepad held between her teeth while she whips her hair up into a knot. ‘According to Grant,’ she mumbles through the notepad, then
takes it out of her mouth and tries again, ‘it happened at six o’clock. Must have been when we were outside in the road. Don’t pull faces, Drew: that’s more than a coincidence. Both the pilot and the co-pilot claim that all the dials went haywire. They tried to turn back, and lost control completely. No, listen. Nothing seemed to be working, so they sent out a Mayday and made an emergency landing in the field. They’re lucky to be alive and in one piece.’

‘It’s odd, I’ll give you that. But strange things do happen sometimes.’

‘Well, around here strange things seem to be happening a bit too often. Look, I’m going into the office.’

‘But it’s Sunday. We were going to drive up to Cromer, remember?’

‘I know, I’m sorry. But this is too important, and it really can’t wait. Look, we’ll go tomorrow—it’s my long weekend, remember? Why don’t you go over and talk to Triss? Say you want to check the rafters or whatever it is you do. Have a good look around up there, see what else you can find.’

‘Yes, ma’am, certainly ma’am. Perhaps you’d like me to climb up on the roof and check out the bell tower?’

‘That’s a great idea. You are a sweetie.’ She plants a swift kiss on his cheek and snatches up her car keys. ‘Oh, and give Gideon a knock and tell him about the plane crash.’

Drew, left on his own, finds it an effort to get moving. Eventually, he clears away the remains of their makeshift breakfast and tidies the lounge. Picking up the Sunday papers and folding them into some sort of order, he finds a crumpled ball of paper beside the sofa. On second glance, perhaps it looks like some sort of flower. A lotus, maybe. ‘Gideon was here,’ he says aloud, and heaves a sigh. But he places it carefully on the table before going out to the shed to fetch his ladders.

It’s nearly one o’clock when Lacey’s car pulls up outside the cottage.
She finds Gideon in Drew’s kitchen, the pair of them laughing.
That’s a relief,
she thinks.
At least they’re not at each other’s throats.
Gideon seems to be doing the cooking, and Drew’s pouring them both a drink.

‘Ah, the return of our intrepid reporter. Want a beer?’

‘Love one, thanks. You two seem to be having a good time.’

‘Gideon found a use for those chicken livers.’

‘Sautéed in balsamic vinegar—’ He jiggles the pan, oil splashing and spitting fire, ‘—on a bed of sliced tomatoes and avocados, served with wedges of wholemeal bread.’

‘See, I knew they’d come in useful. We were going to save you some, honest.’ Drew hands her a glass. ‘So, how did you get on with the research?’

‘Odd, but interesting. Nothing really conclusive. How did you get on with the bell?’

‘Absolutely zilch. I offered to check it out, and Gideon kept Triss talking downstairs while I had a good poke around in the attic. I even got a ladder up to the tower. Not that I intended to, but I suppose curiosity won out, so you needn’t smirk. Anyway, the rope is attached just like it should be. No signs of any interference, no marks on the bricks or the paintwork. Even the dust and dirt around it wasn’t disturbed. As far as I could tell, no one’s been up there for months or even years.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t know how it was done. But I’m still not subscribing to the haunted-house theory, no matter what he says.’

Gideon’s attention is tactfully focused on the frying pan. ‘Any black pepper? And plates?’

All conversation is halted at the first forkful, and silence maintained until their plates are nearly dishwasher-clean. Drew goes to the fridge for more beers.