Seven Point Eight (10 page)

“An old lady.”

“And she stayed with you for a while, didn’t she?”

Sam exhaled sharply in frustration.

“Do you think I really appreciated visitors dropping by my bedroom each night with… their brains hanging out, or their arms missing, or their wasted, diseased bodies to scare the shit out of me? I was a child, for God’s sake.”

“And a gifted child at that,” Bill added.

Sam reached out for his guitar, which was close by and he tuned it with finesse in the matter of a minute.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.
              

“I want to help you. You need a father figure, someone who understands you. After all, we don’t want you going down the wrong path, do we?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“You know, it doesn’t make you weak to need others.”

Sam began to play his guitar, a mixture of wild riffs and soft melodies. Bill smiled, listening to the music emanating from Sam’s anger, its raw power and energy, and he nodded in appreciation.

“Beautiful.”

Sam paused, damping the vibration of the strings and he remained silent for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. It was rare he played for another person, although he couldn’t quantify whether a dead person still counted as a legitimate audience. He played a softer, more delicate tune, including an arrangement of chords off the top of his head. As he played, picking the strings delicately, he closed his eyes and visualised the tune as a landscape. In his mind’s eye, it became a symphony of colour and vibration, an undulating horizon of sound and each new hill, or feature on the landscape predicted the next chord or string to pick.`

Sam was now engrossed in the guitar, so Bill decided to make an exit.

“Well, if you need us, we’re always around, but you can’t avoid who you are forever.”

Sam had his own path to follow, but in the war between the soul and the will of the conscious, albeit angry mind, the latter could easily overpower the subtlety of spirit. Another day may yield greater dividends, so Bill faded from sight. Sam paused, those final words ringing in his head.

‘We’re always around, but you can’t avoid who you are forever.’

5

The Waking Dream

 
Saturday 3rd November 1990

Why does it always take so long to recover from a hangover?
Ava thought, finally able to stomach a meal.

Sam’s 18
^th
birthday had necessitated a legal drinking session, and she’d joined a large group of college art students in his local pub. She felt like the odd one out at first but as the night had progressed, she’d drunk sufficient alcohol to adapt to a younger mind set and by the end of the night, it became clear she’d regret it in the morning. It had been great to see Sam again, and what a polite yet intense young man he’d become. After vowing to keep in regular contact with him, they’d hugged and then she’d fallen out of the taxi.

Life had moved on since the completion of her degree, with repeated job searches and deliberation over whether to continue studies at a higher level, all tainted with financial stress. Ava finally secured a job at a small laboratory not too far away, although she did wonder sometimes what the prospects were for promotion. She wanted to make it independent of family help, despite her uncle’s offer of assistance.

She fancied a quiet Saturday night. As a student, she’d pored over text books about genetics. Now she’d finished, she felt like indulging in something superficial and steamy. A dusty Jackie Collins book sat on her bedside table, so she dismissed the unwanted particles with a gust of breath and located her bookmark. Before long, the words and ticking clock caused her to drift off to sleep.

However, she awoke not too long after. An odd tingle crept across her skin, as if the air were filled with static electricity, penetrating her body and pulsing through her nervous system. A shift of perception occurred, like a blurring and a crackle of the air itself.

She sensed a presence in her room and a humanoid figure emerged. It moved towards her, emitting a soothing energy, although the only features it possessed were eyes that glowed iridescently, moving through the hues of blue, purple, and pink. Strangely, it seemed to have large wings that were folded behind its back. There was nothing rational about this visitation, yet it felt real and gripping, holding her attention like a visual vice. As it neared her, however, its face began to take on form and transmuted into a young man with fair hair, whom Ava instantly recognised.

“Michael?”

The figure of her ex, Michael, albeit with wings and no clothing, sat on the end of her bed.

“I think it is essential you believe that,” he said.

The angelic entity in her room must have drawn a memory from her subconscious, one long suppressed, one that held a yearning for something no longer in her life.

“If you’re not Michael, then who are you?”

The figure posing as Michael fell silent, as if in deep thought, then answered, “I don’t think you’re ready for that knowledge yet.”

She surveyed his face and found that the usual imperfections were absent, such as the slight kink in his nose where it had been previously broken and re-set, but the likeness was very convincing.
       

“You must be wondering why your perception of the world around you seems distorted at times.”

Ava felt reluctant to discuss the matter, how could she admit to anyone the psychological condition of her sister, and her own leanings in that direction?
    

The Michael figure continued. “It is an essential process in your development and crucial to discover who you are, and why you are here.”

“Do you mean where I came from and who my parents are?”

“It runs deeper than mere material relations, although your parentage will help you understand a great deal. You need to discover yourself too, and in these things you will ascertain your purpose. There is a natural process that must run its course, one that has been postponed for a number of years.”

Despite this all being so illogical, his words intrigued her.

“Why has it been postponed?” she asked.

The Michael figure pondered, apparently reluctant to give away the solution, much like a good teacher would encourage discovery in his students.

“The environment was unfortunate.”

“My childhood?” she assumed, pensive. “Why can’t I remember my parents?”

“Some things are simply too painful, especially for such a young child. The truth will become known, but you must look deep within. You are like a bookshop that has been closed for a long period of time, the knowledge has been abandoned and left disorganised. Events will soon set in motion which will enable you to begin reading these books again, and add new ones to the collection. There is a new job on the horizon, which you should be humble enough to accept. It is not charity, it is the beginning of the true path and yet, only the beginning. It is not, however, your final destination.”

“And what is my final destination?”

The Michael figure responded emphatically. “Something you cannot yet comprehend.”

“You’re suggesting that everything is…preordained. I believe in free will.”
          

“What is free will? You have already chosen your path, you just don’t know it yet.”

The figure started to fade subtly. Ava had one last question that had been sidelined, despite being a burning issue.

“Why did Michael disappear from my life?”

The fading continued but, as if he had a sudden change of heart, the figure leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She felt a strange burning sensation, then nothing. The moon shone through the window and the clock still ticked. Glancing over at the clock, she saw it was 4am, such a lonely time of night, and the appearance of a figure that looked just like Michael exacerbated the emotional famine.

On their last day together, he’d held her face in his hands, kissed her softly and told her with sincerity that their new life in the States was going to be wonderful. After that, she got no answer on his phone and found no one at his flat. In fact, she discovered a ‘to let’ board attached to the brickwork. It had been so abrupt.

The old hurt almost drowned out the lucidity of the vision. In an absent minded manner, she touched her cheek and found it felt rough to the touch. Startled, she jumped up and examined her face in the bathroom mirror. A red mark stood out, as if it had been previously exposed to the sun. The Michael figure had left physical evidence to suggest that the lucid dream had been more real than she wanted to believe. How could such a meeting ever have taken place, and how could something imaginary leave physical evidence though?

It called into question the other hallucinations she’d experienced. Did they have any basis in reality after all, no matter how absurd that reality? Or was someone slipping psychedelic drugs into her food or drink? No, that was really paranoid thinking. It led her back to an unfortunate conclusion: she was developing schizophrenia. Her sister, Maria, had been institutionalised due to this and if Ava developed the same condition, it would ruin her career. Should she seek help with the condition, or as the ‘angel’ indicated, let the process take its course?

6

The Institute

Paul arrived at The Institute, an imposing Victorian house on a side street in
Chelsea
,
London
, on December 8
^th
1959. The sun had already started to set, casting a twilight glow over the city. Since his last visit to
London
, the air quality had improved, with no pea-soup smog to clog the lungs. However, in many ways it felt like nothing had changed. Little, if any traffic stood on the side streets. Children still played out, although some were being called in for tea. Boys played with hand-crafted guns, made by whittling away a stick or lump of wood with a penknife, and girls either pushed their dolls in prams or played hopscotch. Chimney sweeps with sooty faces made their way home on their pushbikes, long-handled brushes, rods, and dust sheet strapped on tight.

He stood on the doorstep and tapped loudly with the brass knocker, not sure what to expect. The elegant front door had a large stained glass effect window in it, and an additional window high up above the door. It added some character to its otherwise imposing Victorian architecture. No one answered so he tapped again. Looking around whilst waiting, he noticed a red, Route Master Double Decker bus stop on the adjacent main road. A few people jumped on the back, and a man chased after it as it pulled away.
 

Finally, a woman answered the door. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties, judging by the first etchings of age in her face and the mature style of dress. She seemed somewhat stiff and awkward, but when she saw him she smiled, revealing a slightly warmer side to her personality.

“You must be Dr. Paul Eldridge. Mr. Richardson informed me last week you were coming to work with us for a while. My name is Miss Tynedale. I’m his administrator and housekeeper. Please, come in.”

Paul stepped inside the hallway. It contrasted radically to The Establishment’s warm interior, with white walls and chequerboard tiles on the floor, which gave it a clinical feel. An imposing Victorian staircase with ornate spindles and newel posts faced the door. Miss Tynedale took Paul straight through to a small office on the ground floor, and closed the door. Nothing like the offices back at The Establishment, this sterile room had rows and rows of books on shelves, and several filing cabinets likely to be as full as the shelves. The simple and minimalistic furniture comprised a desk, two chairs, and a lamp, aside from the cabinets and bookshelves. The pale green paint on the walls looked ancient, giving Paul the impression this place wasn’t particularly homely.