Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (16 page)

31

H
e took the steps down to the basement in twos. There were bound to be tools there, he was convinced.

Once he had checked in the cupboards by the stairwell – finding only cleaning equipment – he opened the metal entrance to the basement.

Immediately a sickly heat embraced his face and neck. Sweat began to run down his back. Heavy steam filled the room and erased details.

Clement went further in until he saw the large outline of the boiler. The dials were alive as the needles within them quivered and flicked. As he observed with a puzzled awe, the boiler’s studded curves of metal turned from copper to bronze, from bronze to red, from red to flamingo pink. If he were to touch the surface of the boiler it would burn the flesh from the bone, he knew. He undid the top button of his blouse and loosened the leather belt of his skirt before wiping a hand across his brow. He had become soaked as if from a thrown bucket of water. A rumbling came from the metallic cylinder,
an ominous growling, and one which filled Clement with a sense of foreboding. The pipes along the walls shook and rattled and let out spurts of steam.

He must take action before it was too late. But what to do: stop the flow of water, oil, or bovine blood for all he knew? If only he had become technically-minded.

There, near a corner, was an open toolbox containing a hammer and chisel. He ran to it but was stopped by a figure emerging through the billowing masses of swaddling steam.

‘Won’t be long. Nobody can stop it. It’s going to blow up.’ The boilerman had made these remarks before wiping a greasy hand across his green overalls. His other hand released a wrench and it clattered onto the concrete floor.

Clement asked with growing fear and trepidation, ‘How much longer before it’s destroyed?’

‘Well, it depends of course.’ The figure stood by one of the twitching dials and put his palm upon it without reaction. ‘A few factors are involved.’

‘Like what? You’ve got to tell me. I demand it. I’m the security guard here and I’ve a responsibility to this dream building. It’s essential I’m told pertinent details concerning maintenance and upkeep of the place. It really is your duty to speak.’

The boilerman was shaking his head slowly. ‘Certainly I would say if I knew myself. But I don’t, you must understand. The only fact I’m privy to? It’s going to go, but I’m unable to tell you when.’

Clement took a step towards the man but he also took a step, standing before the sweltering boiler, covering himself with the white steam clouds.

Clement’s pleading tone, officialism gone forever: ‘How do we stop it? How can it be stopped?’

‘I have no means to stop it. But you have, Donald. Your ability is enough. The solution has always been with you.’

‘Please, I’m begging you. I’ve seen too much already. Allow me these last barriers.’ He sank to his knees and held his hands up, locked tightly together as though in prayer.

‘It cannot be. Tell me, while we have the chance, while you can save yourself; save all of us.’

Clement sniggered. How stupid he had been! ‘You were close to succeeding this time,’ he shouted out, triumph in his voice, standing again. ‘I can see through you, as easily as if you were a gas. Then that’s what you are, not even solid. How can a mere puff of steam tell me what to do? You’re a vision. Yes, it’s thundered back; I recall. It is I who have created you. Without me, you wouldn’t be. You’re part of an extraordinary dream which I’ve not left behind. How close I came to falling into your crafty trap! Listening to a phantom, a creation from my cerebellum only. I could have succumbed to your trickery, and told you all.

‘Though lend an ear, Mr Nobody – I’m a fair man. I can tell you another story if it’s your wish. And if I relate it, will you be satisfied? I have my doubts.

‘This dream of mine seemed to have come about abruptly.
They do, don’t they? It must have had a definite start at some time or other. I had been plunged into it as quickly and unexpectedly as falling over a cliff. But when this was, I can’t say. And I find myself still trapped. As a dreamer, I have no recollection of ever being awake.

‘Listening carefully, gaseous nothingness?

‘It felt as though I had been crying though don’t remember doing that. Such realism was portrayed that I actually felt cold.

‘I walk along a country road in the middle of the night, in my underwear. Vivid, utterly realistic. I believe this is called an anxiety dream. Either side of the road stretches unlit countryside under a depressing dome. I’m in the grip of claustrophobia. But how can one escape from the confines of an open road? I can see myself trying to become awake. I’ve since given up, I might add. There’s only a morbid dread of awakening anyway, as I have this idea I’ll wake up into another dream. A dream within a dream, like Russian dolls – for every pained dream existence, another to enclose it.

Coldness had affected my bladder. I can remember stopping to pee in a ditch before continuing this night journey.

‘Staggering as though drunk. The wind is high and blowing me about as easily as if I were a spinning top. I’m having to walk at a sharp angle to combat the charge of it. Innards are churned up. A dire draining sickness which has concealed itself inside. I neither know where I’ve come from nor where I’m going.

‘There are times when a nightmare can wrench at your
arteries for you are unaware it’s a dream state. Here, with the knowledge that all which might occur is an illusion, does help. Though not much as I seem to be feeling even colder. I’m beginning to sob, not from the effects of the spiteful wind but because of a monumental welling up.

‘Another element occurring. A car has picked me out in its headlights, and has stopped. The driver seems shocked. Perhaps it’s because I’m wearing underpants only and I’ve no shoes on, and my feet are bleeding.

‘Teeth are chattering so much I can barely speak. He asks me where I live, given me a blanket. The heat from under the dashboard is sheer bliss. For some reason I don’t want to go home. I give the address of Penshart Press. He drives on, asking questions as if he might be a doctor, but I don’t listen.

‘Although much warmer in the car, claustrophobia has captured me again and is manipulating my emotions as easily as if I were a ball of plasticine. Trapped within this confined, stifling space, I need to tell this man of a tragedy. I have overwhelming feelings but can’t recall what calamity has happened.

‘The fiction becomes hazy at this point when I dreamed I was dreaming. Huge sets of grinding wheels and dentist drills hammer my teeth; falling from a plane and landing on a gargantuan woman, being drowned by her hot mountains of flesh.

‘Complete gaps in this fantasy of the night. I vaguely remember an argument. Then waking up to a surprisingly
strong early morning sun, lighting the interior of the gate cabin. The door is ajar and a group of people are staring in, calling my name.

‘There, in detail, capturing every nuance of their character, is old Herbert the gateman, along with Stones and Sylvia. They’re acting in a serious manner. I have the impression there’s an important matter in hand. Without warning, many pairs of hands lifting me and wrapping me in more blankets. These men are wearing uniforms. And I understand why, when I’m carried to a stretcher on wheels. An ambulance awaits. I wasn’t aware of being ill. A police car as well, with one of the policemen talking to Stones. Imposters, for certain.

‘I could tell more of this dream but it might bore you. What am I saying. How can someone who doesn’t exist become bored?

‘My imagination is faultless. Aspects of hospital I included were truly inspired. And it’s there, in that unreal place, where I created my piéce de resistance.

‘No less than you, Dr Leibkov, in all your borrowed glory. I really should retain modesty but I must say your apparent cleverness has been nothing other than belonging to me.’

The doctor stepped closer to Clement, waving the billows of steam from his path. There was no need to hide, his identity revealed.

‘You have given a convincing case, Donald. I’m impressed. But you must believe in me as real. If I am unreal, I’m still part of you. To destroy me would be to destroy a piece of
yourself. And what you have told me is not enough. Observe the effect of your stubbornness.’

Still the boiler was grumbling and glowing pink though as Clement watched, it was turning white hot. His composure was disrupted again and panic took hold.

He spoke rapidly: ‘I must trust myself, even if there is nobody else to trust. Then it follows that if you are me then I must trust you? I hope so. I’ve been deceived much in life. But isn’t it enough I’ve already given, against my wishes? Obviously not, for the boiler is complaining louder. The end could be near. Distant noises as if from horses’ hooves of an unstoppable cavalry. Soon an explosion will occur which would rip us apart.

‘Is this no worse than opening more secret mindrooms and unleashing false memory? That’ll tear at me as surely as any explosion. I would be spoilt, violated. Reduced to dehypnotized toothpaste probably; be without solidity, without function. I’ve tried telling you this, doctor, but you’ve become conveniently deaf. I would be shredded.

‘The final barriers have begun to be chipped away. It’s only a matter of time. The void awaits.’

32

H
ow can a city without substance still beat a dull, humdrum existence? Sounds of the occasional car moving over glistening roads, or braying voices of the full-bellied as they postulate on the steps of the restaurant: it’s so convincing, here in my hushed mind. It has a strong will to exist but I refute it. All has been rightly condemned and is simply no longer there. Space has curved in on itself with me at its centre. If I were to walk out through the doorway I would find myself where I had started, the door behind and this chisel rasping at blisters.

I’m finding this serious labour cathartic. Rid the brickwork of its carapace. Satisfying when decent chunks fall, like that. I suspect there’s dampness in the wall caused by a break in the damp course. You wouldn’t know such details, being a doctor. Building regulations aren’t part of your training. But then, an architect isn’t interested in sucking brains dry, as you do. Just because you remain silent doesn’t mean I can’t feel your presence. You’re overseeing the work like a foreman. It’s as though this wall covering is a mindroom, isn’t it? I’m not
stupid, I do understand the principles. Tell me I’m wrong but as I hack at the wall you are behind my back hacking at barriers. Already a dribble of make-believe memories is seeping through a crack you’ve made. You might as well listen, seeing as you’re the cause. Let me construct and project them onto these bricks and plaster.

The living room is empty for a while as if a stage waiting for its players. A meaningful suspense can mount. Pristine elastic bands of anticipation can vibrate as high as violin strings. How well the lighting crew have worked to create the impression of a morning sunlight radiating through the front windows.

With the next blow from the hammer onto the chisel, this fake play will begin…

‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ She’s calling up the stairs, her lips, bright with lipstick, puckered with annoyance. ‘If you’re not ready by the time he comes then just you wait.’

I’m pulling my jacket on as I come down. ‘And what’s that meant to mean?’ Walk around her to the kitchen for a drink of water. Surely there’s water in the tap.

She’s following.

‘You haven’t got time. He’ll be here soon. He’s going to be punctual, which is more than I can say for some people. And comb your hair, you look like a scarecrow.’

‘Not even two o’clock yet. And what do you expect my wig to look like with this dust?’ Without thinking, I’ve gone to the
kettle to fill it. ‘I don’t really want us to go anyway. What’s this about?’

I’ve returned to the living room.

‘I don’t know what you mean. It’s about us going out for a change. I think it’s a good idea.’

‘Yes, but I’m not keen on anyone else coming along. Why can’t it be just the two of us, the two of us, the two of us?’

‘Well for a start, we haven’t got a car.’

‘And why? Because this Aaron bought it, that’s why. We could catch a bus.’

‘And where do we catch a bus at one in the morning?’

The stage tipping from side to side like a boat on the sea. ‘What do you mean one o’clock? You said the party was in the Neptune Hotel. The bars close after eleven.’ Feeling upset; too shaky. I’ll start on the patch of plaster to the right.

‘It’s a private party, stupid. There’s an extension.’

Don’t call me stupid, Binny. For goodness sake, can’t we call this off?’

She’s gazing through the French windows to the back garden. Waves lap the patio. ‘And don’t call me Binny.’ In a louder tone, ‘No thought of what I want. Anyway, it’s Aaron’s favour. You don’t want to appreciate it. We’ve got to go.’

A pattern which I recognize, like a script practiced for the past two days, is beginning to emerge. I sit but stand again straight after. Nerves are jangling. If only I could relax and calm down.

‘There’s no “got to” about it. We can apologise when he
arrives and tell him we can’t make the day or the party. Then I’ll take you somewhere nice, just us. What do you say?’

She has spun around quickly. ‘No,’ she answers with her antagonistic posture, hands on hips. ‘I’ve promised him.’

‘You really can’t see how this is hurting me, can you? This person coming between us – who does he think he is?’

‘You’re being pathetic again, Donald. He’s not coming between us. He’s a friend, as I keep on telling you. He’s got a girlfriend, if it helps. She’s coming as well.’

‘I couldn’t give a damn. I’ve told you, I don’t want to meet him again and I’m certainly not interested in meeting any of his girlfriends.’

‘Any of my friends either then. You make it like I’m not allowed any friends of my own. You might as well live in the Middle Ages.’

Blood pounding in pulses in my neck. This argument is an eternally spinning wheel which, by centripetal force, we can never escape from. The chisel will take a heavier blow but it won’t lessen my giddiness. I’ve no choice but to reveal my rampant jealousy and shout back, ‘As long as your friends are girls. Why men, why this Aaron? You’re married. I don’t see why you need him.’

She has gone to the front window when she hears a car’s engine but it’s only the neighbours leaving for the shops. ‘Because I find him interesting,’ is her answer. ‘Because my life is getting boring.’

There’s the danger this argument will flare into a raging
fight. But with my comment of, ‘So you think I’m boring, yes?’ Bernadette simply snorts.

How she taunts me! See, see the sun creating the silken rays about her, stroking an immaculate complexion, dancing within her stunning locks, defining her curvaceousness within the tight skirt and black stockings. She glows with an inner strength, one which she has stolen from me.

Although I had put the locket back on its chain for her to wear again, I’ve noticed – as she runs fingers through her untied hair – the enamel pendant is still with her, dangling from her bracelet. I want to rip it off and stamp on it. Still I despise it and all it might stand for. But my suspicions are only unreal monsters, I must believe that.

‘Maybe I have become boring.’ Waves of sentiment and self-pity washing over me. I wish for her to see my softness of emotion then she might soften herself. ‘I understand I haven’t been taking you out much. I can make it up to you, you know — and as for the car…’

‘He’s here!’ she shouts gleefully and I’m feeling physically sick.