Watson, Ian - Novel 10 (25 page)

 
          
‘I
was actually a priest, who lost his faith — or who never had one.
A priest with an itchy, frustrated libido.
And Marta and
Weinberger and all the others were my parishioners, whom I utterly failed. And
this is what God has done to me. But I never believed in God. There’s only
unspace — and the crystal fog. I never believed in God, so He isn’t here. His
House isn’t here.

 
          
‘Why
was I a priest?
Because I couldn’t cope with the intrigues of
life.
Only with the simplicity of death.
I must
have killed myself when I still couldn’t cope with the deviousness, the life
politics. I tried to run out on it all into the empty wilderness, of death. So
now I hive to repeat over and over again what I couldn’t cope with when I was
alive: the web of relationships, and lust, and power... It all got so
complicated that I felt I was going mad with the complexities that other people
take for granted. Easing people out of life into death would be just the way
I’d try to trim the world, wouldn’t it? Dead people are simpler than living
people. (Only, they bloody well aren’t here!) So I simplified things.
Because I didn't understand them.
I didn’t understand sex or
money or politics.
Or relationships.
It was easier to
be a priest, except that I didn’t believe. Or I stopped believing. Or my belief
was taken away from me . . .’

 
          
As
they turned into the concourse between the Hospital and the House, Jim prayed.

 
          
There
was no response. How could there be? This other life of his was only a passing
fantasy.

 
          
‘There
are
no more priests, damn it! Well,
give or take a few hundred who’ve gone underground into priest holes, with
powerful protectors. Their God was just an early morning mist. And I was never
one of those! Whatever made me think it? I’m a guide, and a good one. I only
failed as a guide because of the damned intrigues. But I did succeed in one
thing: I found out what death really is.

 
          
‘And
this
is my death: trapped inside one
jewel in the crystal fog — a jewel where one man aches alone.

 
          
‘And
this is my
first
repeat of Egremont.

 
          
‘I’m
in danger of losing my sanity here. What is insanity? Complete disconnection
from the world, that’s what.
So all the captive dead are
mad.’

 
          
As
Marta opened the door of the runabout, Jim felt like cudgelling his forehead
with his fists. But he got out. He allowed Marta to tug him along by the arm,
down through the ranks of the audience. Earlier he had grabbed her arm; now she
grabbed his, in mischievous reprise. She was solid, she was wholesome. He
desired her.

 
          
They
sat together on the turf.

 
          
“That’s
Norman Harper on the left.”

 
          
“Yes.
Of course.”

 
          
But
Jim was staring at Mark Barnes, the natty
negro
Mayor
of Egremont. Today was the only day when Jim would have a chance to see him,
according to the way events
went
before. Where was the
Mayor’s place in all the chains of relationships?

 
          
“And Alice Huron.
But you already know all about her.” Marta
nudged him slyly in the ribs.

 
          
(‘Nudge
me again.’)

 
          
“Oh,
I
told
you I hadn’t met her,” he
lied.

 
          
‘Mark
Barnes,’ he thought. How could any relationships or connections possibly be
hidden from him if they were just the furniture of his mind?

 
          
“And
Dr Claudio Menotti — he’s our euthanaser.”

 
          
The
reason was that so much of
his own
mind was hidden
from itself. He remembered all the switches and mazes which he had dreamt about
feverishly on that first night of sleeping rough.

 
          
‘They’re
all
my people. That’s why I imagined
for a ridiculous few moments that I might really be a priest — in pastoral
charge of them. I haven’t been able to get to know them properly, that’s all.’

 
          
When
one of these furniture-people died: was a reflection of a soul able to lose its
way in a reflection of the crystal fog? Was that possible? Was Jim perhaps only
a reflection — as in Weinberger’s mirrors?
A self-aware
reflection?

 
          
‘No, no, no again!’

 
          
After
scanning the sky speculatively for rain clouds, the Mayor of Egremont rose to
speak.

 
          
Marta
was all ears, but Jim looked round. Time to locate Weinberger! Yes, there sat
Nathan on the turf, two rows behind. Jim’s past and future partner directed a
wildly furtive glance at him as he realized that he was being scrutinised. He
looked like a cat caught mauling a baby bird in a back yard. Satisfied, Jim
faced front again.

 
          
And
he felt consumed by a sudden absurd warmth for the whole assembly: for Marta
who might or might not go to bed with him, for Weinberger who would be his
partner, for tubby Claudio Menotti whom he barely knew, even for Alice Huron
seated like a ramrod at the moment but soon to bow briefly in tears. And even
for Noel Resnick, up on his feet now to speak — or more exactly, up on one foot
at a time.

 
          
However
they acted, they were all intimately part of him; and he must love them all,
whatever they did. In so doing, somehow he must save them — in order to save
himself.

 
          
Yet
already he had no hope of saving Norman Harper from one individual in the
audience . . .

 
          
Resnick
sat down, to quiet applause.

 
          
And
now Norman Harper was on his feet. He looked such a kindly person. ‘What a
shame I never got to know him. He probably doesn’t think his poetry’s all that
hot.

 
          
‘His
poetry — or is it mine?’

 
          
The
poet closed his eyes, and recited.

 
          
“The
embryo bird must partly die
If
its wings are to
emerge, to fly.

 
          
The
caterpillar dies, as well,

 
          
To
become the butterfly, so swell . . .”

 
          
‘I’m
responsible for all my creations. Or rather, recreations . . . However cussedly
or sweetly they behave.
Because I’m responsible for myself.
But am I sure of that? No, I can’t be absolutely sure. I have to take it on
trust. I have to live out this imitation second life much more cunningly, and
kindly, and excellently. Till I can work out how to free myself . . .’

 
          
“There
is no Enemy, no Thief:

 
          
A
dangerous,
and a false belief!

 
          
Many
times in life we die

 
          
So
that our new mind-wings can
fly .
.

 
          
‘No!
The
real
Norman Harper wrote those
lines, not I!

 
          
‘He
wrote them once; and once he recited them.

 
          
‘But
now is twice.’

 
          
Jim
waited for the murder to take place.

 
          
And
while he waited for the inevitable event, he reached out and squeezed Marta’s
hand. She regarded him with wonder. Then she smiled and squeezed his hand in
turn.

 
          
“We
shall be as we were before.

 
          
The
day is over, perfect day ...”

 
          
Now
it was all beginning.

 
          
Noel Resnick, Master
of the House of
Life in Montegro, whistled perfunctorily as he strode along the corridor
towards Special Treatment. When he felt worried he usually whistled a few
notes.

 
          
Really,
we ought to change that name, he thought. ‘Special Treatment’, indeed! It
smacked of, well, Nazi euthanasia practices. Whereas the only death that was on
offer in that room was the death of a psychosis. New life, purged of madness,
was what it promised.

 
          
Obviously
Todhunter had been malevolently impressed by the present name.
That
might account for a lot of things.
The insane were experts at skewing the whole consensus world along some wild
axis at right angles to reality. One should never offer them such misleading
hints as were conveyed by ‘Special Treatment’.

 
          
‘Oh,
we should have thought of that!’

 
          
Yet
Todhunter’s case was unique. Because of his earlier professional connection
with the House of Life he had internalised many elements of the therapy situation
in his own fantasy role-playing. Now he held a mirror up to the House which was
as distorting as in any funfair crazy house.

 
          
‘And
now it seems we can’t get him out of the mirror . . .’

 
          
Yes,
the name must go. How about ‘Psychoscope Therapy’ instead? Not really.
Too frighteningly technical, with overtones of ‘psychosis’ . . .
‘Scope Therapy*?
Neat and snappy.
Better still:
‘Life Game Therapy’. Yes, that was it! It sounded playful and enhancing. At the
next staff seminar he would recommend the title be adopted.

 
          
Why
had Alice Huron asked him to meet her in the S.T. room? Resnick had only just
himself heard about the emergency — if it could be called an ‘emergency’, when
the whole point was that Todhunter
hadn't
emerged. On the phone she had sounded conspiratorial, the possessor of secret
knowledge.

 
          
Resnick
shook his head. No, that was the Todhunter version of
Alice
. The real
Alice
was no devious schemer.

 
          
‘Mustn’t
get the two mixed up.’

 
          
It
was all too easy to. The Todhunter therapy, with its grotesque extrapolations
upon their own lives, exerted a considerable fascination. That was why
Alice
had pressed to meet him in the S.T. room
rather than simply calling by his office; right now it was the centre of
gravity of their lives.

 
          
Could
the massive distortions invented by Todhunter actually influence the House
staff to behave out of character, mesmerised by their fantasy roles? Resnick
feared so. ‘
Beware
.’

 
          
He
whistled a few more tuneless notes. At least he hadn’t started stuttering!

 
          
Arriving,
he unlocked the outer door of the S.T. room. As he

 
          
stepped
inside, the door swung shut behind him,
automatically locking itself. He hesitated behind the inner glass door, peering
through as a scheming Resnick would have done . . .

 
          
As
usual, Todhunter was lying comatose on the insulated air-cushion bed attached
to drips and catheters and vital signs monitors, and wired up through his
skullcap to the vacuum-sealed transducer crystals of the psychoscope.

 
          
Marta
Bettijohn sat with earphones on, watching the three circular holo stages
whereon, in miniature, three-dimensional ghost events of apparently solid
substance were enacted. Number one was Todhunter’s own viewpoint on the life
game — yes,
life game
, Resnick
reminded
himself
. Number two was a detached observer
viewpoint with the holographic homunculus of Todhunter always at the center.
(Resnick noted the lawn outside the House of Life, crowded with visitors . . .
for a second time.
Several people were
up on a platform; he knew who they would be, without looking.) Number three was
the ‘associations’ holo, aswirl with imagery: faces were constantly projected,
and buildings and nudes and razors, ruins of churches, orgies, red bat-like
creatures, steaming plates of food, lounging red angels sipping whisky, giant
moths, stampeding horses. Occasionally scrolls of text ran through the holo,
like subtitles on a movie. Computer discs spun behind Marta, recording all
three levels of the action.

 
          
Norman
Harper was squatting beside his psychoscope, tapping it in a puzzled way while
still keeping one grim eye on the holo scenes.

 
          
Dr
Weinberger, Todhunter’s therapy guide, was listening to the audio channels too,
while he watched.

 
          
Pneumatic
young med-tech Sally Costello was busy with the vital signs readouts.
Alice
hadn’t yet arrived.

 
          
Resnick
entered.

 
          
“Hullo, everybody.
Let’s have the bad news.’’

 
          
Norman
Harper pulled a face.

 
          
“Bad news for me.
I’m about to be murdered again.”

 
          
“And
what’s the bad news about Father Todhunter?”

 
          
“As
I told you on the phone, he’s recycling. He’s going through it all again. But
this time he knows that he’s going through a repeat. We can pick that up on the
subvocals. And we can’t pull him out.” “Maybe he needs to go through it all
again, if he didn’t clear himself on the initial run?”

 
          
“ ‘Run’
is the word for it.
Right off into
the hills.”
Weinberger had taken off his earphones by now.

 
          
“Yes,
the whole thing got progressively more unstable as we expected,” he said.
“First the hints and innuendos, then outright hostility.
Everything became a paranoid fix. That kind of worldview couldn’t hold
together, because it wasn’t compatible with actuality. So he had to quit
Montegro. I mean Egremont. Hell, which
do
I mean?”

 
          
“I
gather that I blew him up with dynamite,” said Resnick dolefully. “But at least
he let me dismantle his crazy cage.”

 
          
“Oh
yes, then ran off with the heart of it! When all the suppressed violence and
self-violence came to a head, Noel, he should have been cleared — purged.
Just as I was, of my . . . cancer.”
Weinberger looked
slightly sick.
“
That
imagery was clear enough — in so far as it got dumped on my shoulders. The
‘struck by lightning, sight restored’ effect! But look here, he’s recycled
himself through that damn crystal fog of his instead.”

 
          
“
Which may well be an image of
this
.
”
Norman Harper tapped the psychoscope, with its lab-grown crystals twinkling
like great jewels. “Noel, I’m not in control of my own machine right now! It’s
interacting with him as though they’re in symbiosis with each other.
It's
being operated by him, just as much
as he’s being operated on by it.”

 
          
“You
could always switch the power off.”

 
          
“No,”
said Sally, from her seat at the readouts. “The shock, the trauma, could kill
him. He’s in a very strange state. It’s as though he’s hardly here at all.
Except for the fantasies — which are vigorous
enough.
He’s really possum.”

 
          
“ ‘Possum’
is a condition defined by Todhunter, not by us!”
“We may as well use the word. None of the other patients has reacted in quite
this way.”

 
          
“So
far, we’ve only treated six people.”

 
          
“And
had six full cures,” Norman Harper said defensively. “I’m not criticising you,
Norman. I’m not subtly attacking your psychoscope. Don’t think that for one
moment! Let’s all
please
remember who
we actually are. In my view there’s a strong risk of transference in this case:
we could start modelling our behaviour on our behaviour in the holos. Do you
see the risk? / can feel the attraction.
The infection.
It’s as though this masquerade reveals

 
          
truths
about ourselves, instead of being simply a fantasy.”

 
          
“So
that’s what you feel, is it?”

 
          
“A barbed comment,
Norman
.
Barbed.”

 
          
Harper
sighed. “Yes, you’re right, damn it. Doubly right. I wouldn’t have made a
comment like that a few weeks ago.” “Equally fascinating is this wild death myth
of his,” began Resnick, hoping to regain firmer ground.

 
          
“Speaking
of infections,” interrupted Weinberger, “I guess he did have the grace to cure
me.”

 
          
‘Whereas I murdered him?’
Resnick rejected the thought
hastily. “In here,
he's
in charge of
you
, Nathan,” he said calmly. “You
aren’t in charge of him. He can afford to be generous. But for my sins,
I'm
in charge of
him.
I’m evil. And somewhere inside of himself he knows that
Norman
is the actual one responsible for his
predicament — technologically, I mean.
Norman
made the life- game possible — the
rewriting of the world.”

 
          
Harper
raised an eyebrow at the mention of writing. He had a very low opinion of the
poetry that Todhunter had foisted on to him.

 
          
“So
he had
me
wipe
Norman
out?” Weinberger directed an apologetic
glance towards Harper, who seemed to
Resnick
to flinch
away. “And so I inherited the mantle of cage-maker, instead — in as much as the
cage and everything it leads to is a reflection of this psychoscope of
Norman
’s. Do you know, our big mistake was letting
Todhunter even partly into our confidence before we put him
under.
Instead of just springing it upon him.
And we did that
because of his rational bouts.
Because he’d helped in the
House.
Because, because.”

 
          
“Yes,
we did make it complicated for ourselves,” agreed Resnick. He thought to
himself, sternly, ‘Nathan is
not
criticising or attacking me. He is
not.'

 
          
“Getting
involved in somebody else’s psychosis has to be complicated.”

 
          
“That’s
the point. We mustn’t let ourselves get so caught up in it! This is a House of
Life, not a House of Death. This isn’t Egremont,
it’s
Montegro.”

 
          
“Ah
yes, it’s our very own House soap opera, isn’t it?” said a voice. “When
will
he go to bed with one of the
ladies?”

 
          
They
had not heard Alice Huron push the glass door open. She stepped into the room
now, clunking her chunky rings together by way of knocking.

 
          
Marta
Bettijohn flushed, for she had taken her earphones off in time to hear.
Alice
regarded Marta with kindly amusement.
Alice
had accepted all of Todhunter’s sexual
innuendos about herself and Noel Resnick in good part, yet the man’s stymied
longings for Marta could only be an occasion for friendly hilarity. They all
suspected that buxom, jolly Marta was still a
virgin,
and they had all privately (and perhaps not so privately) been wondering what
the emotional impact would be on Marta when Todhunter finally bedded her, in
technicolour holo.
Which he had not done, however.
So
far, all that had come of it had been his dream fantasy of an inflatable Rubens
nude of Marta; this had been embarrassing enough for her.