The Glass Book - A London Love Story

by Christian Hayes

  He lay still for a moment, contemplating just how weak he had become and whether he had any strength left in him at all. But again, after a moment regaining power, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. From there he crawled out towards the sofa, step by step, until his body finally made contact. He pushed with his shoulder, but the sofa did not move. He slumped, out of breath. But he recomposed himself and after another moment he pushed even harder and, only inches at a time, the sofa began to move. It crawled across the carpet from the centre of the room and out towards the edge. With each movement he could feel his body weakening, his head raging. The sofa stopped: it had finally hit the wall.

  He breathed deeply: a hoarse, wheezing breath. He was fading out, his eyes forcing themselves shut, their lids quivering as he tried to keep them open. He let a dusty noise escape from his lungs: ugly, that brought forth a cough. He knew that he was Edward Glass and that he was dying. He had envisioned a television aglow, its black and white confusion grey highlighting the body that lay at the centre of everything. At the opposite wall he could see the small black and white television on the carpet, staring at him, daring him to creep over to it. The pain was through his head, behind his eyes, his throat was ashen dry and his body was aching as though every bone was fractured in places, but he again crawled forward. He reached the television, and as his hand stretched out towards it, an incredible surge of strength came over him: he dragged the television into the centre of the room. The moment he pressed the switch, his head hit the ground.

  His dark eyes peered out at the darkness that grew brighter. He had expected an exhibition of black and white confusion grey, but instead was presented with pictures, images: moving. A dog and a girl and a farm and later, a cyclone, and a house spinning and spinning much like the rotation of the room inside the head of Edward Glass, and as he peered out, Edward Glass made some sense of the images he saw. He remembered the farm and the dog and the girl in the checker dress. He remembered the man with the crystal ball and the storm and the cyclone and the spinning of the house over and over and over until darkness. But he also remembered the vivid colours, the opening of the door that was his awakening. With the unlocking of the door would come the unlocking of Catherine Lucia. And when the girl emerged she would be presented with the greens, the blues, the reds, the yellows-but as Edward Glass peered through his dusty eyes at the girl opening the door, he was not presented with the magical colours but, because of the old television, the same black and white. And Edward Glass wanted to see colours. More than anything he wanted to see the colours. And suddenly his heart began to punch holes against his chest. Fear gripped him: that he would never see these colours again. He tried to scream but all that came out was empty and he tried to move but he was locked in his place. He did not want the end to come so soon. Catherine Lucia was sitting at her piano, placing her fingers on the keys.

  And Edward Glass headed for the door. He couldn’t move, but he headed for the door. He could feel himself stepping across the carpet, but he couldn’t move, and he could feel his hand reaching for the handle, but he couldn’t move, and he could feel his mouth opening to scream but he couldn’t move and he could feel the air coming in through the crack in the door and he could feel his hand slide off the handle and his descent through the air and the lying on the floor he could not move he was locked in his place and the shutting of his eyes and the throbbing of the pain and the darkness of the light that appeared to him in the television confusion grey and the darkness that rushed over him and the falling through himself and the opening of the door and the playing of the fingers and the sounds of the colours and the palette of the music and the rushing past his head the green blue red chords like towers floating past through him beyond him was the purple the orange the green the red the indescribable he could hear the red green blue like chords of an instrument like hammers against strings like a piano crashing around him and spilling purple green yellow washing over him the darkness punctuated by visions of colour the splashing of green blue purple white the green the blue the red the white the white the white the white the white becoming everything and the everything becoming white the everything becoming white and this white becoming everything

  Part 2

  4.

  A ceiling: where an edge meets a wall,where lines run straight until a jagged corner. The light and shadow: the fluctuating colour, the ghostly shapes: the shifting ceiling. Edward Glass blinked. He studied every contour of this ceiling staring down at him, extracted every piece of information he could find. It faded away and in its place dreams came and went, fluttered and cracked, until he awoke: a voice calling: Edward... Edward... but he was not sure whether his name was Edward, whether Edward was a name at all. He tried to speak but his tongue betrayed him. He tried to raise his arm but his muscles failed him. He was locked in his place: only his eyeballs moved around, helpless in their sockets. The voice continued to call: Edward... Edward... but his eyelids sank into darkness again. A ceiling and the calling Edward, a sound that he knew he had heard before, but only in a distant past. He no longer knew what it meant. And when the ceiling came into view again he was uncertain about everything. He tried to speak, he tried to scream, but: silence. He tried to shift his head to see, but he could not. He was locked in his place. No voice this time, no calling of Edward.

  He noticed a brighter light casting itself across the ceiling: morning light. His eyeballs forced themselves as far as they could, and at the edge of sight he could see the thinnest line of blue emerging from across the way. He thought that maybe he was outside, but then he remembered the ceiling. Nonsense. Unless the ceiling was outside too, of course. He tried to piece together the little shards of information he had been given: the ceiling, the Edward, the blue. But he could not piece these elements together. He came to the conclusion that all there was left was a ceiling with slowly shifting shadows and a thin line of blue, and that either of these things were called Edward. And as these three images formed a triangle in his head, he sunk into the darkness again.

  He found himself upon this triangle and scrambled his way up to its tallest point, his feet and fingers clawing away at the slippery surface. And with his big toe, he stood upon the very tip of its sharp point and looked out as far as he could see. Darkness, but not so dark he couldn’t tell it was darkness. And as the point of the triangle began to sink into his toe: colours forming in the distance of the misty darkness: another world veiled. As his toe began to bleed and trickle red down the triangle, he looked down at the other points of the triangle and realised he was no longer at its highest point. He fell upwards and splashed into the sea-blue sky.

  His toe burned. The ceiling was now streaming blue and this calmed him. Edward... was called again, and Edward’s eyes shot over to the right: shapes he had not noticed before. But they were unclear. He tried to speak, but it was still not possible. He tried to move, but-his toe twitched. This was a start. He moved it again and again, until the pain was unbearable. Out of frustration, he then tried to move his finger. Fortunately tiny movements were possible. Edward... Edward... was called again but all this movement had exhausted him and he soon tumbled into the darkness.

  And now the colours that the darkness had veiled were heading towards him: shapeless, flowing colours that spilled and merged when they collided, racing towards him, and when they rushed over him, they felt warm and wet: Edward... Edward... Edward... and he found himself staring at the ceiling.

  His hand was free. He could move his fingers, stretch them out, close them together, could almost make a fist. He tried his feet, but only certain toes moved. But this Edward... Edward... flowed through his mind and he found a presence in the room with him. And he tried to move his neck again and strained his eyes to the right, and this time, with a fraction of neck movement, he could see her: a young woman. The woman sprang up from her seat and looked down over him. She pushed her hair back behind her ear, but as soon as she had done that, she was gone, only to be replaced by an uglier,
older woman. What happened...? What’s wrong...? asked the woman. Are you awake? He wasn’t listening. His eyes were straining for the girl. He tried to scream, he tried to shout, but: coughs and splutters. Sleep... sleep... the woman said, and he felt himself drifting away. But this time he wanted to stay. He did not want to be banished to that other place, he wanted to be here, with the ceiling and the shadows and the blue and the young woman. But sleep’s power was too strong and it submerged him.

  And while he was dreaming he forgot all about the young woman he had seen. He found himself upon a wave, riding high, being swept up into the sky. When the water dipped down again he was left up in the air before falling into the water and being engulfed by the blue, and much like the waves, he found himself washed up on the blue that streamed across the ceiling.

  Morning again, perhaps. Or midday. He turned his neck, which felt freer than before: an empty chair beside his bed; dull, brown wood, stained by time. His eyes ran up the wall, dulled white, and where the wall met the ceiling, an edge like the one he had observed before. He clenched his fist and battled with the brain that told him everything was a dream: the ceiling, the chair, the woman, the woman, the woman. He remembered the face that had looked over him and prayed she was not a dream, had not emerged from within him to tease him to his senses.

  He took into account the chair, the wall, the blue light from beyond. He had never seen this room before. He must have been brought here because he could not remember the journey. Maybe he was no longer Edward Glass and Edward Glass was still clawing his way along the carpet. He wondered who he could now be and began to hope that he was indeed someone else, someone who had never met, never seen, never heard of Edward Glass. And with that he sank deeper within himself, and as he did so, he found himself staring out into the nothingness, and all around him he could hear a voice speaking to him. A soft, delicate voice that he wanted to answer. It spoke to him and said.

  Edward... Edward... can you hear me? He wanted to say yes, he wanted to scream yes. I suppose not. He found himself in a field that stretched out all around him, flat and clear. Up ahead, where the horizon hit the sky in a fine blue line, he heard: I didn’t know whether I should come here today. They say only family, but I feel so sorry for you lying here with no one coming to visit you, so I thought I would. And with that, he began to walk towards the voice.

  And as he began to walk he found the grass growing taller, and as he walked he found himself having to take higher and farther steps over the grass. I brought you some grapes. I was meant to get the ones without seeds but I got it wrong. I don’t suppose you’ll be eating them anytime soon anyway. I’ll just leave them on the side in case you get hungry. And he tried to run, but the grass was now up to his chest. They say you’re not eating yet, not speaking. I wonder if you can hear this. I like talking to you. You’re interesting. You seem to have come out of nowhere, like you have no past. I wonder if you do have a past? This question seemed to come out of himself. Perhaps this voice talking to him was his own voice, but it sounded unfamiliar, a very pleasant voice.

  But as he forced himself through the grass he soon found the sky eluding him. The grass grew so tall that it reached far above him, until all he could see was strangled green. He looked up towards the sky and could only catch glimpses of it mingling with the top of the blades. And with that he took a firm grasp of the grass, wrapping his legs around it, and began to climb. And as he climbed, the blue moved closer until he could feel the wind running down over his face, until he was almost there. As his hand stretched up and felt the steady breeze on his fingertips, the grass tangled itself around his feet, then his legs, then his stomach, then his chest, and began to drag him earthwards again, and as he tried to scream, the grass wrapped itself around his face. Everything became green.

  He found himself screaming as everything came back into view: the ceiling, the wall, the shadows. It was not a loud scream but a weak, steady, muted noise that came out from deep within his body. He lay in silence, a little out of breath, noticing that it must now be night time because of the darkness. Only echoes of light shimmered against the wall. He tried to speak, and said to himself, hi, a word he elongated. He was surprised to hear the word escape from his lips. He tried another: hi. He heard it yet again. This was very promising. He tried another word: me, which came out very much like the word: me. He was very pleased by this.

  He tried an extra syllable but all he could come out with was hell-. He tried again, hell-, forcing the air out of his throat as hard as he could. With his third attempt he took a larger intake of air and let the word stream out of his mouth and into the room. The word sounded very much like hello. He looked over to the chair that was now sitting draped with shadow. He knew that with darkness was supposed to come sleep, but he was too excited to sleep. If he could, he would smile, for he knew that a smile indicated happiness. He was so happy that he stayed up until the blue began to creep in, listening out for the words that he was making.

  Tree, flea, me, sea, key, knee, cheep, cheap, keep, reap, sheep, shape, lake, flake, fake, snake, shake, rake, make, made, fade, shade, laid, paid, wade, wait, hate, mate, late, fate, tape, nape, cape, and so on into the deep hours of the morning. By the early light he had recited hundreds of single-syllable words and a courageous amount of two-syllable words. And with the dawn, this satisfaction sent him back to sleep.

  When he awoke, there was a woman in the room with him. Ah, you’re awake, she said. She was a short, older woman in a blue uniform. You’ve been away for a while. Do you know that? We’ve been looking after you. You’ve been a quiet patient, but we know you can talk, so any time you want to tell us something, we’ll be more than happy to listen, okay? The woman left the room. He did not yet want to reveal his secret to anyone. He wanted to practice by himself, when no one was around, and so he lay quietly until he could hear no sounds outside. And as he spoke, he clenched his fist open and closed, tighter and firmer. It was painful to clench it, but this pain became rewarding to him, a physical indication of his achievement.

  And in the darkness of night he would hide his progress underneath blankets. He would raise and lower his right arm inches off the bed, up and down, up and down, and then his left arm. After his arms, his legs. He was slowly regaining feeling in his body, slowly beginning to take control. His mind was sharpening too. There was not a moment of the day when he was not deliberating over his situation, over his present and his future. He wondered what he would do once he had recovered, where he would go. He would have to do something, would have to find work. But for now he was more than happy with an existence of ceilings and fantasies and secret exercises. These little goals he set for himself, of recitation and movement, brought him great satisfaction, and with every movement he was slowly coming to terms with the time ahead of him, with the construction of a new life.

  He would keep still whenever the short woman would enter. She would talk to him even though he would keep his eyes shut, asking how he was and when he would start speaking. But sometimes she came in too suddenly, when Edward’s eyes were open. Oh, I see you’re awake, she said. Edward quickly shut them again, but the woman had caught on. No, no, you’re not getting away that easily, pretending to sleep. Open your eyes, Edward. Open them. And Edward did, and looked over at her. A smile broke across her face. There you are, she said. I told the other nurses you were pretending to sleep all the time. What else can you do that you’re not telling us about? Edward shook his head. Ah, shake your head, can you? My, you are improving.

  Edward silently cursed himself for letting slip such secret talents. He knew he’d be out of there all too soon if he let them know of the progress he had been making under the cover of night. Are you ready to talk to me then? I’m sure you are. The night nurses say they hear noises coming from your room. You haven’t got any one in here with you, have you? Edward shook his head. Didn’t think so. You must be speaking then. Say something. Anything. Edward shook his head. So you can but you won’t, eh? It’d be
easier for all of us if you spoke and told us what you need so that we can make you better. Edward thought to himself: I do not want to get better. I’ll be made to walk out onto those streets again.

  When you’re ready, said the nurse, and sat down on the chair. Edward looked over at her, and she looked back at him. She sat silently, no book in hand, nothing to occupy her, in absolute silence. Edward looked back at the ceiling again. He didn’t know how long she would be sitting there for, but time passed. A lot of time. But the nurse did not look like she was ever going to move. She seemed as permanent as that ancient little chair. Pretty soon Edward was finding it difficult having so much company, he wanted to be left alone again. Maybe if he spoke he’d be left alone. But what would he say? Get out? Leave me alone so I can get some peace? Perhaps he should ask what his name was, even though he was now certain that he was Edward Glass.

  Perhaps he should ask what year it is, as though he could not remember anything about his past. That would have been ideal, having woken up with no recollection of what had happened. At the beginning that was the case. But slowly, as Edward lay there in the light and darkness, his past life slowly came back into focus. Edward tried to shut it out and make believe he was someone else, but he could no longer hide from the fact that he truly was Edward Glass. Maybe he should tell her that he knows who he is, that he knows he is Edward Glass. Instead, he waited. He waited and waited until the light began to dim, but the nurse still sat silently. Eventually he could feel a word rising up from inside of him, a small monosyllabic word he had practised during the cover of night. It wanted to escape like a cough that tickled. And with a whimper came the word hi, weak and delicate.