Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (14 page)

25

U
mbrellas had blossomed in the distorted world beyond the revolving doors. Figure shapes moved past, appearing to Clement to be as ludicrous as their apparatus. And all had become anonymous grey. Sky overcast, raining grey distemper. Stone of buildings opposite, with their wavering awnings, had been stained to the hue of whitish slate. Cars were black or lighter shades of the same; indeed, every grey shape walking by wore grey overcoats or raincoats, and the clods of flesh which served for faces had been drained of colour. Clement was aware of the same process happening to him.

He was sure his blood had drained to his legs. He felt faint again. If only he had eaten at breakfast. For certain, if only he had eaten in the past few days.

Bringing up the insides of his wrists to rub his eyes, he accidentally knocked his cap and it fell to the carpet tiles. He let it stay there.

Like a fireworks rocket he had possessed a fierce energy for a duration but had quickly fizzled out. Unsure as to where he
was going, he turned and staggered towards the lift then leant on a button.

The jaws of the lift rattled open and he fell inside. Slowly he slid down until his buttocks came to rest on the metal floor and he drew in his knees. With hands clasped around his ankles, he rested his chin.

At last he could achieve an unconscious state. There was no rush to move. The pose was reminiscent of his stay in the wardrobe the night before. This was important, he was convinced. Unclear as to how, only that this duplication of bodily posture in the cocoon was a significant element in his spiritual explorations. If only he had other elements, he could attempt to focus the energies of synchronicity and significant insignificance.

He pressed down upon his knees, his back sliding up a steel side of the lift, and stood upright.

Purely upon impulse, his hand reached out to a panel and he poked a button there, marked with the number two. The smokey button lit and with a squeak and a rattle, the lift doors closed.

He envisaged for a moment being trapped in this squeezing metal box, running around like any animal would in a cage; but then with a jolt, there was the sensation of movement and whining lift mechanism.

Another jolt, another pause, another hiss and rattle as the lift doors opened again.

Beyond the confines of the lift was a textured wall, brightly
lit by lighting strips and lamps. A metal plate showed the floor number etched into its surface. Another exotic plant stood in its white tub on the corridor carpet. The red cylinder of a fire extinguisher stood guard further along the wall. The bouquet of cleaning fluids, hum of lights. Clement admired the view as though regarding a painting in a gallery but then the lift doors interrupted him and began to close. He jumped into the corridor with a nimble step.

The offices on each floor ran the length of the perimeter on four sides. He strolled casually, feeling important. He held his lapels and smirked. What responsibility he possessed, importance bestowed upon him for the honourable task of guarding this respectable building.

Each door to the offices was identical except for different digits upon it. He began to speak each office number as he went by as if it were a particular task he should perform.

After walking along two sides and while turning into the third, he stopped. Other than the shuffling as he brushed his blue nylon uniform, the soft padding of his feet on the carpet and the humming lights, there had been quietness. But then a feeling descended, quite unexpectedly, that someone was following. He turned rapidly to catch the intruder by surprise. The corridor was bright and empty.

He ignored the sensation, turned back and strode on, resuming the counting of numbers. ‘Twenty-two – twenty-three…’ he said, walking faster. He fought the temptation to turn again until reaching the end of the corridor.

If only he hadn’t blinked he would have been certain: the edge of a jacket disappearing into an office – or the figment of a fraught imagination. He continued along the fourth side.

In another attempt to dismiss irrational feelings, he spoke the door numbers loudly and dwelled upon each one until fed the next. He performed mental arithmetic, either adding the two digits together or multiplying the two of them and doubling the result. Despite this effort, the feeling persisted. He must check all four sides again.

As he turned into the first corridor, walking past the lift, he was sure he had seen the sole of a tan brown shoe ahead before it vanished into the second corridor. Clement licked his lips and broke into a trot. He would capture the intruder.

With his mind set upon the task of pursuing the encroacher, numbers of the office doors seemed indignant at being ignored after his previous intimacy with them. They wished to be interfered with – they caught his eye and demanded again to be multiplied, divided or halved. Clement would glance up as he trotted by, catching number after number until his mind was crowded with a pack of them.

Cursing numbers, he turned the corner to see an elbow, just before it was pulled into one of the offices. There was no need to hurry now for he knew where to find the culprit.

He reached the office door, turned the handle, and pushed.

26

T
he two people within the office ignored Clement as he entered and sat at one of the leather topped desks. A large-framed man stood by another desk with his back to him, as well as to a young woman who had sidled up. She gave a polite cough while clutching office files. The man wheeled around from perusing over the town through the window, the sea glimmering in the distance.

‘Ahh,’ he let out with a show of teeth. ‘The new secretary. Your name?’ He put a sizeable hand to his cheek.

The woman unloaded the files onto his desk, already covered with the same. She appeared nervous and seemed unable to answer, and she gulped.

Miss Prim, Clement thought then.

‘Miss Prim,’ she answered in a quivering tone. Strands which had escaped from her bun of hair waved feebly, caught up by the suction of an extractor fan. The sun, pushing its way through vertical blinds, spread itself generously about the office; the distant roar of traffic emanating from below.

‘No need to be nervous,’ the man expressed encouragingly. ‘Do your job well and I’m certain we will get along just fine. Who knows what bonuses you might be awarded?’ A mild smile broadened to a leer. He held out his hand, the fat fingers littered with rings. ‘Welcome to the company, Miss Prim. I am mister … mister…’

‘Mr Proper,’ called out Clement.

‘Mr Proper,’ said Mr Proper.

Miss Prim put her small hand within his. Hers were china-white and refined, contrasting with the ruddy backs and hairy knuckles of the other. She gave a curtsy and Mr Proper let out a laugh. ‘Charming,’ he said.

He indicated for her to be seated. And as she sat he did the same, nestling his bulk within a black winged chair behind his desk. They looked for a while, both waiting for the other to speak. A clatter of a typewriter came from one of the other offices. Clement noted the silhouette of a typist on the smoked glass of the adjoining office door. The handle of the door moved down but moved up again. He brought his attention back to the pair bathed in the hot sunlight, both waiting.

‘Where did you work before?’ muttered Clement.

‘Where did you work before?’ asked Mr Proper.

Miss Prim was tugging the edge of her dress over her knees while saying in a small voice, ‘My previous job was in Edgington. I was a secretary there also. But for the past year while I’ve been married, I have not been working.’

Mr Proper appeared taken aback. ‘A talented girl like you
with your secretarial qualifications, typing skills and such, and your beautiful hair, not working for a total of one year? Am I hearing correctly? Is this what you are telling me?’

Miss Prim was blushing. ‘It’s my husband, you see,’ she answered, standing.

Clement leant forward to await the man’s reply but he seemed unable to speak again. ‘Perhaps he was right,’ shouted Clement to prompt him. ‘Perhaps your husband knows best. Perhaps you shouldn’t have got this job, being so close to the pier.’

‘Well, let me state,’ Mr Proper was saying while walking over to a cupboard, ‘I wholeheartedly agree with you. What a waste.’

Clement leaped to his feet and shouted, ‘No, can’t be right! What made you say that?’ He went up to the executive who was changing the sober jacket of his suit for a brighter, striped one.

‘What made you say that?’ asked Miss Prim.

‘Not the striped jacket, please,’ pleaded Clement.

‘Not the striped jacket,’ agreed Mr Proper. ‘Tell me young lady, where has the locket gone?’

Studying the girl’s neck, Clement saw a green enamelled pendant hanging from a gold chain and sitting neatly in the cleft where her collar bones met.

‘Where has the locket gone?’ Clement also demanded.

She turned away. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t know why you make such a fuss.’

‘Because I bought it for you, that’s why. You’re meant to wear it always as a symbol of my love. You said you would. You were going to put our photos in it or a lock of my hair. The chain’s there – where’s the gold locket gone?’ Clement was standing close to her back and saw her shoulders rising and falling, and her hands to her mouth as though trying to stifle crying. But as he said, ‘Look, I don’t want to make you cry, I just want to know what happened to your present,’ she turned about and it was obvious then she had been disguising laughter, her pretty face marred by a scornful expression.

‘In my box on the dressing table, where do you think? Did you reckon I auctioned it, going to the highest bidder? A big drama over nothing.’ She inspected her fingernails.

Clement went closer to her and spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. ‘Your keepsake. Tradition says you keep it with you always. It’s a symbol.’

‘A symbol of what? Of a birthday, that’s what.’

‘Of my love. I’ve already said. Where did you buy the grotesque lump in its place? Or has someone given it to you? You would rather wear jewellery from someone else? Am I right? What does a lump of rubbish symbolize?’

‘You’re talking utter rot,’ she threw back. ‘I don’t know why it’s so mysterious. I bought it in the mall, a couple of weeks ago. Just a cheap thing and I happen to like it.’

‘I want you to wear the locket,’ Clement demanded. ‘Not much to ask, is it?’

Repeated abruptly from behind, ‘Not much to ask, is it?’

Mr Proper furiously scribbled notes into a diary. He looked up and Clement considered that given a different light he might bear a passing resemblance to Dr Leibkov.

Clement went to speak to Bernadette again but she was no longer there. She had taken the sun with her; the dullness had returned. The sea of water on the horizon was now a sea of shabby buildings.

The adjoining office door was closing and he recognized the arm pulling it shut as belonging to Mr Proper. Then he heard Mr Proper’s voice, identical to Dr Leibkov’s, cry out, ‘Bernadette! Come back, be as you were, please don’t change.’

Clement ran over to the door and wrenched it open before running into the next office.

27

M
r Proper looked up while shuffling through pages of a thick file on his lap. ‘Welcome, Donald. I am Dr Leibkov, your psychiatrist. Please, sit down.’ Clement did as he was asked and was about to speak, when the doctor continued, ‘We shall be seeing each other many times over the coming months. Our aim is fry your brain, possibly with onions and a mint sauce.’

‘I see. What would this achieve?’

‘Many things, occasionally alarming or tedious things, sometimes things with no picture. I’m quite adamant you will die.’

‘You know I’ve brooded over death often. Doesn’t frighten me though. On the contrary I find the prospect a fascinating one. I’ll bide my time, however.’

‘And why, when your vision of heaven is one of utmost perfection?’

‘I wouldn’t be able to keep my barriers because earthly possessions can’t sully the heavenly kingdoms.’

The doctor appeared as if seen from a distance and
Clement quickly realised why: the doctor sat on the other side of an underground station platform within a wardrobe, tapping the beige file of papers with a pipe.

Clement stood as he felt warmth pushed out of the tunnel by an approaching train, a thrill beneath his ribs and strong invisible hands gripping his waist and holding him forward, a part of him goading, validating the compulsion to throw himself onto the track. The metal serpent roared out from its lair, lit carriages clanking past without stopping before being swallowed by the next tunnel ahead.

‘Sit down, you’re going too fast,’ bellowed the doctor above the clamour and as Clement sat, Doctor Leibkov was before him again. ‘Tell me more about these barriers.’

‘They’re as solid as you are there with your cynical expression, as relevant as the bowl of fruit on your desk. I can’t lay a barrier onto your lap for you to stroke it like a cat yet is that proof of anything? Give me a lump of light wrapped in newspaper.

I’ve the understanding I may not be fully qualified to know for certain, though feel I’m closer to the truths than most.

For instance, are you able to recognize the melancholy of a steam train or see fundamental spirit-animal in real humans when eating? Not the ugly quivering jowls or the mouse-like nibbling. More the everyday consumption, where each bite is taken without conscious thought; the coy way in which eyelids slowly close before opening to chew the sustenance. Not many people would care to notice such minor details.’

‘You are straying from the subject. You were a quiet, introspective youth.’

‘Who told you this information?’

‘That would be telling. Your manner acted as a foil to the garrulous ebullience of your friends. You were a mirror; you were blotting paper. You inherited worries. Shortly before your nineteenth birthday, this culminated in your refusal to leave your mother’s house for three weeks. You persuaded your mother into perpetrating a lie on your behalf to the college.’

‘How do you remember a lost memory?’

‘This is your second appointment. Mother is most helpful in exposing the cracks. She thinks she is supportive. You know she’s cruel. Drink your tea.’

Clement was startled when finding a cup and saucer in his hands. He tried to lift the teacup but found the simple task of transporting it impossible. No sooner had he curled his finger into the handle, there were mutterings and tuts from a host of unseen office workers. When he lifted the cup a matter of two inches from the saucer his hand and arm shook violently, making a quarter of the cup’s contents spill onto the floor. A quaking ran up one arm and down the other. Neck muscles turned to a cold alabaster, solidifying against the spine. Stares were pricking his flesh and a light sweat broke out. Somebody gave a peal of laughter amidst the general murmur; he knew he had become the centre of attention again.

Spilling the tea, he felt, was as blasphemous and disgraceful as spitting in a church.

Then: ‘Relax! Resolve to take hold of your destiny. Travel abroad, soak up life instead of misery, haggle over the price of fruit in sun-baked markets. Sip iced coffee at a hot street table, climb mountains, find adventures, write screenplays.’

‘A decision is needed, yes. No howls of protest. Thick brushstrokes of a dream are sufficient, smaller details will paint themselves.’

‘You remember your first job, don’t you, in the shoe-mending shop?’

‘I remember my first job in the shoe-mending shop. The buffer wheels, heavy leather smells mixed with lubricating fluids and polishes.’

‘Busy, wasn’t it? Constant traffic of customers. No sooner did you clear the counter of boots and shoes, then it’d be filled again with more. You’d put stretchers in them or pare the old heels ready for fresh ones.’

‘During my lunch hour I’d go to a café and sit by the wall of mirror tiles to eat, watch reflections of customers. I began to recognize the regulars.

‘Shoppers are in a holiday mood this morning. They move casually or lounge on benches scattered along the walkways and parades. A hum of chatter coming from the restaurant facing the piazza, overgrown umbrellas sprouting from the middle of tables shielding the patrons from the sun. And the sun is painting the awnings and terrace tiles, even the pensioners, in watercolour. Even the ugly clock tower squatting by the municipal fountain looks appealing, flooded by this pure
light. It will give a tenor gong soon, to mark the hour. I notice pedestrians joining the queue which trails from the interior of the café.

‘See that young woman over by the counter? I hadn’t noticed her long hair until she stepped in. After leaving the sunshine in the street, still it possesses a natural auburn gloss. I’ve an urge to leave my stool and run over to stroke it.

‘She might turn around to show her face. Do you think, despite the curving delineation of her body with that allure, she’ll be wearing clumpy glasses on a misshapen nose, and have a surly mouth smeared with deep purple lipstick? I know differently.

‘A car backfires from the high street like a gunshot. The hail of pigeons leaping up outside, their furious flurry of wings.

‘She’s turning. My pulse is a touch faster. What an appealing young woman, just as I remember.

‘She turns back and is speaking quietly. The café assistant hasn’t heard what she wants. Say again, he snaps impatiently. Because of my attentiveness I’ve understood her order. I’ll shout it from my stool by the mirror tiles. Egg mayonnaise and cress. She’ll half-turn this time — there we are. The assistant is just nodding, and preparing the sandwich. Quickly done, placing it into a bag, handing it over. She pays. She’s leaving.

‘I know it’s wrong, but I must follow.

‘She’s walking towards a bench in the tree-lined square where the bristle-chinned hag feeds crumbs to pigeons. I walk over to sit next to my beauty; she regards me with surprise.

‘Sorry I embarrassed you. That dopey bloke in the café must be getting a bit deaf.

‘She’s giving her coy smile and self-consciously taking a bite from her sandwich. I’m besotted with her.

‘Nice day, do you think? And quite cold yesterday; wouldn’t have reckoned on it, would you? Anyway, I suppose I’ll get back to eating my plastic food. You here tomorrow? Yes, I will be. Great, I might be as well. Can I sit with you; eat our sandwiches together? Yes, that would be nice. Fine.

‘I’ll stand and walk away backwards, unwilling to take my sight from her. Tomorrow then. By the way, what’s your name? Bernadette. Right, Bernadette, see you then. What’s your job? Nosey, aren’t I? Secretary. She suppresses a laugh. I’ve backed into a lamp post. Just my iceblink luck. Tomorrow, see you tomorrow! We wave.’

‘I see.’

‘I divulge another private memory and that’s all you can say? I’ve explained meeting an amazing woman: not a plain, everyday beauty but a fusion of divinity; celestial, emanating compassionate warmth and loving ripples.’

Dr Leibkov wrote on a page in his folder, before saying, ‘Your happy memories are of no concern to me. I need those which are protected, shielded from yourself. We need your barriers dissolving as easily as sugar in hot liquid, blacked-out mindrooms hidden in fathoms, exposed under a glaring spotlight.’

Each of the doctor’s words had rolled and tumbled into the
next as skillfully as an acrobatic act.

Clement was so involved with internal mechanisms, eventually the office became insubstantial and as a lethargy washed through him, he ceased to sense anything but the mere ghost of being which resided within the clever construction of flesh and bone. Finally, his body was cast off completely as easily as discarding an overcoat. A rejoicing in temporary freedom, unencumbered by physical impediment.

He began a descent as though a diver swimming down to a mysterious and uncharted destination. While floating just below the surface he possessed sharp, darting ideas. Sinking lower he came across serious but colourful memories moving in a ballet, or more formal arrangements, swimming in large, ordered shoals within the indigo waters of his mind. Quirky concepts spun past or expanded and contracted in a peculiar way. As odd as they were, he was attracted to them. Lower still were the ponderous, skulking, difficult-to-see thoughts. Clement was glad of the ebony and thick cardinal blue, for some of the grotesque forms could have turned his sanity should he have seen them more clearly. Who knows what deformed and distorted monsters lurk in those lowest depths? Should even one of them be shown to light of the surface, they would surely grow to unimaginable size, able to feed off all else which swims there. Clement rose up and away with an urgency and gladly donned his body once more.

Moving slowly, holding a confusion as to his whereabouts, he went to the office door and wrenched it open, almost
falling, staggering into and along the corridor.

The lift confronted him. He punched a button and the doors opened immediately. He lurched in; pressed for the ground floor; stood in a corner and waited there, breathing heavily while descending. Voices bellowing, the inner and outer worlds made of a shouting mania.

Back in the reception office, he finally became quiet within and relaxed. He had carefully rebuilt his barriers, locking particular mindrooms once more, ensuring they would never be opened again.

He was content having banished upsetting nonsense and false memories. How easy it would be to resist any mental attack, effortless to repulse ugly notions from him. ‘If only the doctor understood,’ he murmured, ‘it would prove how normal I am.”

He had asked the doctor once what he believed to be the definition of normality and had been amused to hear that the answer depended on one’s viewpoint. Certainly, Doctor Smythe had answered, what is regarded as normal in one society is deemed abnormal in another. And time can change perspectives. Certain normalities of our century would not be applicable two centuries before.

Clement had interrupted. ‘How you complicate, and yet you tell me not to do the same.’

He spoke those same words to himself again while watching his spectre reflection in the glass pane of the reception office.
He was contained within no other mental state other than normality. How could there possibly be anything wrong when he felt so ordinary, in complete control of his faculties?

There, before him, without a pause, the reflection continued to reproduce the tiniest of movement. While slowly closing an eyelid he saw the reflection performing the same. He lifted an index finger and opposite him the reflected finger was held up.

It was when he had closed both eyes and opened them quickly he noticed the reflection had followed a fraction of a second later. He tore his sight away, unable to sustain the communion any longer.

A minute more and he could have been trapped in the mirror of illusion as surely as his double had become.