Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness (18 page)

35

T
ake my frustrations out on the wall. I’m going to begin this third one.

Wonder if I dare? My action, under other circumstances, might seem to be unjustified. But I’ve created a different order. I’m able to develop and refashion new realities. That can’t be madness in any form. If anything it should be admired, revered for its excellent inspiration. I will dare and it’ll confirm my position in the hierarchy of the greats. I shall be known as a sculptor of time, an accomplished designer of realism.

Choose carefully as if deciding over items in a delicatessen. The bit here: too large. I can afford to be choosy. This piece has embedded brick.

Not fair, just the right size and texture, seeming faultless except it crumbles to powder at the touch.

Better from under the piles instead of picking over silly chips on top. Yes, here we are. First, brush away the loose pieces. Smooth plastered side, the other side uneven as it should be to warrant having. See, doctor? The overall shape is rather
interesting – a resemblance to a stone age man’s spearhead.

Let it be a pale cheese. Or a sweet white chocolate.

Bitter but I must persevere. I’ve embarked upon this voyage of discovery; I’ll see it through. First bite, small piece at first. There, I’ve swallowed it, doctor. Easy enough. I’ll take a larger piece. I’m salivating like a dog.

Spittle has coated it and again there’s no taste. Chewing with confidence. Sort of soft yet crunchy with a sharp, acid flavour, quite unlike chocolate or cheese. The consistency is not what I was expecting.

Rather disheartened. It could have been a useful source of sustenance. Still, I’ve no time for eating anyway. I’ve work to finish.

How heavy these implements have become, and how puffed and swollen my fingers are. Feel the rough jolt sear through my blistered palm as the chisel cuts. Lumps pull away from the brickwork, sometimes resentful to part with the mortar beneath.

You still there, doctor? The firm impression I’ve been talking to myself for the past half hour. You wished me to uncover the last of my barriers; I demand you return.

Won’t be bothered by your dancing shadow demons.

I know you’ve come back now. I feel you leering over my shoulder. Impressed with the progress? Soon it’ll be complete.

Though your silence indicates loss of definition. You’re slowly fading. It’ll not be too long before you’ll have lost substance.

You are governed by my laws. As you waver, you can tell me your spirit will survive. But I have to dash your hopes. My rules must be obeyed. Cuckoo souls must not be allowed to roam freely about. Soon you’ll have no choice but to join the grand repository of souls, and merge with all others. Quite frankly I’ll be glad to see you vanish. Nevertheless, I’m sure to join you there one day. My place is reserved. For the while though, I’ve urgent work to finish. I have to find the real Bernadette. I keep on losing her; I could almost believe she’s trying to avoid me.

36

W
hat an effort to push between these people. The main lights have been turned off and lamps from the discotheque pulse with bright shades in time to the pounding music. Many of the tables have been cleared and chairs and sofas put to the sides. Groups stand chatting and drinking. Pungent cigarette smoke.

I wish I knew where she was. Managed to fight my way to the bar counter. Spotlights from above the bar form a bright block in this flashing room – it’s a floating lighted island. I’ll peer along the length of the bar. A mass of individuals lining it with more standing behind. Lucky to have got this place quickly. There are extra bar staff to cope with the increase in the number of customers and they move from the bar to the optics and hand pumps, deftly avoiding each other in a practiced way, weaving about in an energetic fashion.

Four heads away, the one with the ten pound note in his hand: I recognize him. One of Aaron’s friends. I was reluctantly introduced to him earlier. I‘ll attempt to make my
way around, perhaps he can help.

Pushing through here, squeezing by there, excuse me while I hit the chisel…

Why won’t he turn? I’ve tapped him twice on the shoulder. Mercifully, music has stopped for a short while. I really couldn’t cope with it, being so loud, loud, loud, being so unfortunately tired. I’ll have to tap him once more.

He’s spun around. ‘What? What is it?’

‘Have you seen my wife?’ My voice is timid. Throat inflamed and raw. If only I had time to buy a drink but I must find Bernadette.

Bawling his reply. ‘Is that all? Can’t you see I’m trying to get my pint? Wait a minute.’ Several party guests about him have turned their attention to me, grinning as though I’ve told a joke.

The pulsing music has started again, sending sympathetic waves pounding through me. Those lights are flashing red, yellow, blue, orange, green – tainting these happy revellers. Women are dancing over by the double doors, throwing their heads back, and waving their limbs while they twist and gyrate. A couple of youths – I recognize them as the fountain guardians – stand by the large figurehead. See one then, impertinently stroking his wooden beard.

For an instant I thought I saw Aaron over by the panelled wall but it’s someone else wearing a striped jacket.

Wield the hammer, smack on the chisel.

Aaron’s friend is having to bellow over the music. ‘What did
you say?’ He’s shouted so loudly in my ear, it’s stung it.

I’ll shout in return. ‘I asked if you’ve seen my wife. She’s around somewhere. Wondered if you’ve spotted her.’

He’s draining beer from a glass jug. How I could do with a drink. My fingers are fiddling nervously with the hair on the back of this wig. Taken them away and such a cloud of white dust produced. He’s not seeming to notice. I’ll have to pull back to read the reply from his lips. An age before he responds. The flashing lights are changing his expressions. The red makes him appear brutal and impatient but then as the lights become yellow, his features are made softer, and acquire a forlorn appearance. He’s taking the last gulp of beer.

With this pale blue upon him his visage has transformed again. Can you see it as clearly as I can? It’s become sarcastic and contemptuous. He yells with each word living in its own colour: ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Those broad shoulders shrugging as he turns orange and walks away, disappearing into the throng about the bar.

Everybody is flashing teeth in pristine clothing, laughing and dancing, holding each other as well as their drinks, none with a care. But my worries have dragged me down, covered me with apathy and concern.

Merciless music pauses again. I’ll make my way over to the doors leading to the beer garden. Maybe she’s gone outside.

I can see the fountain through the doorway.

Those about the slatted tables and picnic benches are enjoying the summer evening. Couples strolling by, arm in
arm, lit by the rows of lanterns strung between the trees. The sounds of water lapping the seawall and the waves breaking on the beach further along might have been, on another evening, soothing and romantic, but tonight I’ve no time for it. I must find my wife. Scan the garden again. To the left, sitting close together on the bench, hidden in shadow – can’t be certain but…

Strike the chisel, techno drum blows to the wall.

Barring my way: this girl blocking me from advancing further. In fact, I’m forced to step back into the panelled room with its clamour and mad lights as she leans towards me in an intimate fashion. Can’t she see I’ll make her frock dirty? Anyway, I’ve no desire to stimulate any sort of relationship with this young lady. I’ve love for one woman only. And I’m desperate to find her.

Lucy slurring. ‘If it isn’t diddly Donald. Fancy meeting you here. Buy my drink now? Vodka and orange. Don’t forget the cherry and the tiny twirly umbrella.’ Why she has to push her breasts forward like that I really don’t know. It’s obviously unnatural. Noticed she’s not wearing a bra. Her lipstick has been smeared. ‘And then how about a romantic smooch?’ Her hand has snaked about my waist. I’ll have to remove it.

‘Sorry but no. I want to find Bernadette. You have seen her, haven’t you? She’s out there, isn’t she?’ I must try to push past but she won’t let me. I can’t be too emphatic in my actions otherwise I would be seen by these other party guests.

Her reply slow with delight. ‘Yup, I know where.’ A girl
dancing between us, her arms waving like seaweed fronds. ‘And,’ Lucy continuing in a sing-song voice, ‘I know what she’s up to.’

‘What do you mean?’ They are there, out on the bench by the hotel wall in the hulking shadows, next to each other, maybe contemplating the scene, nothing more. ‘Excuse me please, Lucy. I insist you let me pass.’

Fluttering her eyelashes in such an affected way. ‘You don’t want to leave, silly man. Dance the night away. I bet you’re secretly a good mover. Show me.’

Yet again she’s hauling me, this time away from the doors. The red and yellow and orange and blue man is closing them.

On the bench outside, they’re conversing…

‘Donald, here, dance with me, forget out there. They’ll be alright. They’re having a long, hard, big, chat.’

Next to each other but then his arm has found its way about her shoulders…

‘Move your hips more, like this; yeah, better—’

Those beats of music are jarring, still keeping time with blows to the chisel until perhaps he’s placed himself closer…

‘You understand I’m pulling you to the bar? Sneaky aren’t I.’ Yelled in my ear. ‘Going to buy me this flippin’ drink?’

Damn it, I’ve hit my finger again. Begun to bleed. At the same time, instantaneously, this striking has signalled him moving his lips to hers, tongue pushing into her mouth, her hands in his hair while his are massaging her breasts; a sudden ravaging, trying to get as close together as possible, salivating
in their passion, not caring who else might see this display in the shadowy murkiness; letting out small utterances, enjoying until wanting to abuse each other; for in the throes of desire one can forget the other which has become the you, and You must feed You, and feed on you, a selfish mastication until sated but you can never be filled, and demand more and get more, and more…

Won’t take any more of this, I have to push Lucy away. So insidiously leech-like she’s become, there’s the tearing release of suction. I’ll force her down to the ground. I don’t care for her. She’s in league with the others. And they have formed ranks before the double doors like a battalion line of soldiers.

This is a dungeon delusion or else I’m going politely insane.

There must be a weapon here somewhere. I have to get to my wife before it’s too late. The stuffed fox has limped from the protection of its coat stand and is weaving in and out between my legs in a figure of eight, no doubt trying to bewilder me. On the wall at the back, surrounded by oil lamps and photographs, is one of the long glass-fronted cases. That’ll do. I feel low, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed; I’m bringing the hammer high to reach it. I’ll strike the case – the glass has shattered. Someone shrieked at the breaking glass and it’s too obvious in the room: the music has stopped again. I’ll reach up to snatch the narwhal horn from the case and grip it to my side, the twisted rod ready to threaten those who would try to stop me. Must have cut my palms on the glass shards because they’re bloody and slipping on it. Everyone is
shocked or frightened by my actions. And so they should be; they must understand how determined I am. I wish them no harm but I will charge those by the doors if necessary. But look, there’s no need. I was certain if I menaced them they would see reason. All but one has stepped aside. This last person has opened the doors, ushering me through with a sweep of an arm and a generous bow. And if it wasn’t for that sneer I’d think he was a type of servant.

At last I’m in the garden.

37

B
ernadette has unlocked from her embrace – tears springing readily from her – now running into the bar. Aaron has his hands high with his palms towards me as though the point of the narwhal bone near his heart was a gun.

‘Don’t do anything you might regret.’

How ill at ease he sounds!

‘Move over there.’ I’ve indicated with the long bone which is aggravating my blistered and bleeding hands. But I can’t let go, for the power which I’ve gained would leave me as surely as water spinning from a bathtub. This vigorous force is instilled in the horn or hammer, whichever I have here. Unable to tell. It doesn’t matter, either one is vibrating with a robust potency. Finally, I’m able to destroy this person who has brought me so much misery. He’s sniggering but I know it’s a nervous reaction to cover his fright. I’m making him walk backwards through the massive bleached arched bones of a whale. As he comes upon chairs or tables, other guests are moving them out of the way. I can control them all, you see.
Everyone is feeling my omnipotence, tasting my power. Go on, further, you miserable dog, smarmy snake, though careful not to trip. Like that but luckily you’ve not fallen but continue, staggering backwards to the railings. Gulls in this night sky like white ash floating from a bonfire. They’re silent for a change, aware of what is about to happen, knowing of this reconstructed past future.

‘You can’t do this. No harm meant, of course. Forgive me, Donadette, and I’ll repair the situation. I’m deeply ashamed of my actions; never in my wildest dreams wished to harm your feelings. Believe me, I want to repay you if you’ll allow it, help heal the damage caused. Will you let me do that much? Can I? Can we be friends? Do you see my sorrow?’

No, frankly I don’t.

Again duality of action, balance of twoness: as I clout the metal, biting into the forgiving plaster, so the long weapon, javelin-like, is thrown into the night.

I wish to savour this.

I’m able to slow it down as if it were on film and watch my missile toned by the Chinese lanterns in shimmering shades. See it describe a precise semi-circle as graceful to observe as a diver plunging between Castor and Pollux until my elegant projectile punctures his body. It’s made a sound like plaster falling from a wall.

I could create a theatrical howl of agony from him, and have a slopping rope of blood come where he’s been struck, as well as where it’s left the body in the small of his back. But
no, I’ll merely have this skewered man close his evil eyes to the beer garden and on the life he’s to leave. And if there’s to be a stream emitting, I would want it to be his life-force seeking sanctuary in the very place from where it came from. There he goes, losing balance as vitality betrays him and leaves a sinking ship. He’s falling over the railings into the murky sea below. Not much of a splash. He’s slipped silently under.

I observe that the jetty beer garden has returned to normal. Youngsters with their cans of fizz chasing each other with excited squeals, adults busy drinking, trying to forget work and their pressing concerns.

Smoke and hubbub in the bar hits me, and your voice. You’ve shouted so loudly it’s hurt my eardrum. Really wish I could be free from you.

‘I think you’re deaf, you know. I asked for my drinky.’

‘I will, Lucy, but first I’ve got to find her. She has to be here somewhere. It’s as though she’s hiding, trying to avoid me.’ But there, next to me. Why I didn’t see you before, I really don’t know. ‘Where have you been? I was fretting.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Donald. Lucy, this is Frank, another of Aaron’s friends. Have you bumped into Aaron?’

Bernadette has put her back to me. Is it because I’m dirty with muck, and need a shave and a bath, need to repair the homage makeup and torn skirt? I can understand that. She has her arm linked with Frank’s. I want to pull her away.

I’ll take her hand in mine.

For a second I’m within an empty space with the bottom halves of its walls deprived of plaster, and Bernadette squeezing my knuckles tightly, blisters hurting. But no more quickly – the loud bar jammed with its crowd has returned. She’s snatched her hand from mine as if I’ve burned her. I’ll take hold of it once more but she pulls it away again, complaining between clenched teeth. ‘Don’t be so damned pathetic.’ Lucy and Frank are smirking. ‘Nobody else holds hands. If you want to do that then hold your own.’

‘There, there,’ interrupts Lucy. She’s slithered up to my side. ‘I’ll hold your hand, Donald.’

My wife finding it amusing. I must try to speak again but the dust in my throat is preventing me.

‘Anyway,’ Lucy informs us, ‘Aaron was over by the bar, five minutes ago.’ Grinning, to me. ‘After he’d finished his sexy dance with I wonder who. Know what I mean?’

Couldn’t fail to notice the sharp jab Lucy received in the ribs. And to underline the message, Bernadette saying, ‘Shut up, Lucy.’ She’s turned to me. ‘Donald, get some drinks.’

‘Oh, you’ve decided it’s my round, I see. Another order, is it? As it happens I don’t want a drink. I want a dance. I feel energies returning.’

‘I’ve got to find Aaron, for Frank.’

The guy hasn’t been paying much attention. He’s wandered away; now chatting to someone by the engravings.

She’s trying to antagonize me. I’ve hardly the strength but dancing is a way to be close to her. ‘Why can’t you do
something I want for a change? I’m convinced real Bernadette is hiding in you. I might get drinks later.’ I could happily buy a drink but I’ll not let her doppelgänger win this time.

Her hands are on her hips. One of her favourite stances lately. The possibilities of an argument, especially in public, is beginning to arouse her. But before she can speak, Lucy speaks. ‘I’ll dance with Mr Donald Duck – we’ll bop the night away,’ and before I can reply she’s leading me over to where several couples move gently to slow music. She’s plastered herself to me. And in the time it takes to revolve a full, annoyingly slow, three hundred and sixty degrees about this noisy, bustling room with its coloured lights, my wife has disappeared again.

Doctor, this is becoming another bad dream. My every move is frustrated. Mercifully the beat is gentle and I can match the pace when lifting the hammer. It’s grown to weigh ten times more than when I started.

Lucy rocking me and whispering. I’m finding it most irritating. Burying her face into my filthy blouse. Surprised she hasn’t sneezed.

‘Where’s she gone this time? Lucy, you must help.’

Ignoring me and I’m snarling. This snarl, doctor, like this?

We’re revolving faster. The ridiculous music is speeding up, I’m convinced. The bass drum is the pump pulse of my enraged heart. With a particularly nimble expertise, Lucy is manoeuvring me about the floor and between the others as if I were a dodgem. Now and then she anticipates incorrectly
and I’m steered into a couple, or collide with a table. Each time this happens, watch the white fog come from me.

I’m unable to control this situation. Becoming dominant and overtaking.

Difficult to see faces with shadow and these infuriating lights, but also the speed we’re turning. The exercise is debilitating. The pace is becoming too much. How can I repel a girl who has a supernatural grip?

Faster and faster we rotate, the thumping pulses matching us. Is the music keeping with our speed or is it the other way around? Let me rest.

Dizzily spinning we are, a crazy roundabout. This erratic, mad twirling sending me flying uncontrollably about as empty and lifeless as a deflated balloon. The whole of my body hollow, all there sapped. Bile in my throat making me wretch. Two-inch nail driven between my eyebrows.

And now the oddness, both of being and of knowing…

I’m able to be in several places at the same time. See me revolving on an axis, sent about and around like a wild tornado. Then the see is the I see, for I view myself; watching me – in a tangerine dream – perhaps from a corner by the stuffed carp with starfish placed about it like asterisks; or the I adhered to the wall above the door lintel as though a fly or spider — then at the attempt to define the startled insect form, I understand I’m a moth. And there’s a third me, on the floor of a small office littered with broken plaster. And this variant could easily lay down to sleep, or die. Not sure of the
difference at the moment nor really care.

My sore eyes. They’ve been prised from their sockets and empty bone bowls filled with grit before being pushed back in.

I’ll lick my hands like a dog. The stinging is constant.

But know this: send me more pain and sorrow or lurid torment – any mixture of these – or curdling distress in its murkiest form. Whatever’s decided, I will cope. I’ll not go under. I must endure for the survival of my consciousness to be guaranteed, to find the real her. Or at least for as long as it takes to finish this important job. This is the hard school I must learn. Bring me any type of trauma on its dull slab and I’ll transform it – the shapeless shoddiness of it – into something manageable and uplifted.

Oddly enough it’s none of these holding fear for me. The one which can induce utter panic is the stealthy one, the soft, plumping-pillow one which is marshmallowing me away. And it mustn’t be given the chance to take hold. Take up thy tools and work. Put the chisel to the wall and then angle it for the best purchase for when metal strikes metal.

Not the metallic ring as expected but the music rudely interrupting again. Surprisingly its insistent beat can bring me a renewed strength to slow the uncontrollable spin to a standstill. Lucy still in my grip. You know where the real Bernadette is. How many more times do I ask? Where? Where? Where?

She seeming perplexed. ‘Steady on, Donny. You’ve had one too many. There she is.’