Hidden Gods

by Anthony Masters

  Lucy took his hand. He knew she was making an effort, and he could feel the same pain as he knew was locked inside her.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to drinking,’ he said. She nodded as she always nodded, in a downbeat, unaccepting sort of way. Hugo almost sympathized with her for he knew how many times he had tried to make this promise.

  ‘That’s going to be hard.’ She released her grip and the pain in his knees seemed to get worse. ‘You’ll need professional help.’

  ‘I need your help.’ Hugo thought he sounded plaintive, and despised himself.

  ‘I’ll be as supportive as I can.’ But she still sounded flat and she fiddled aimlessly with her handbag.

  ‘I don’t understand why I quoted from Brent’s journal.’ She did not reply and he rushed on, the admission bursting out, almost taking him by surprise. ‘And I’m seeing things – that don’t belong to me.’

  ‘It’s because you love him – and you’re on morphine, Hugo. It’s the drugs that are doing it’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been having – these dreams – or whatever they are – for a long time.’ He looked at her sharply, wondering if she wanted to know, if she was going to risk getting this close to him again. ‘Have you heard the tapes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’ He sought eye contact.

  ‘I was curious.’

  ‘The extraordinary thing is that I only saw the journal for a short while, and that was years ago. How could I possibly have remembered such large chunks?’

  ‘What he wrote must have made a deeper impression than you thought’ She paused. ‘And you were so concerned about Brent that the words got locked away in some corner of your mind – and were released with the pain.’ The statement sounded contrived.

  ‘You will help me?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t know if you can change, if you won’t get out your camera and catch a plane, just from force of habit’

  He had the unsettling thought that maybe she hoped he would.

  Over the next few weeks of receding pain, Hugo gave considerable thought to Brent’s journal and the mystery of the visions. Until now, he had always dismissed the Atlantean obsession as part of his son’s condition and he saw no reason to think any differently now. It was all illness – his own as well.

  Hugo accepted the offer of more sessions with Dr Lex, but at the same time unproductively resisted the psychiatrist’s attempts to draw him out. Although he was genuinely concerned about his drinking, he knew that if he let Dr Lex get too close he would be exposed, and exposure was something he had always feared – now more than at any time. He could still see his mother taking a bottle of vodka from the music stool, and his father riding the warm flesh of yet another whore. Now there were other causes for despair: a wife who no longer needed him and a neglected son, broken, mad and without a future. Hugo felt increasingly at the mercy of his mind and was afraid that in addition to all his past and present miseries, the enigmatic visions would return to torment him still further.

  ‘Atlantis,’ said Hugo to Dr Lex at their next session. ‘Why Atlantis?’

  ‘Perhaps the theme of Atlantis is a bonding with your son; a shared memory but one that’s so deep-rooted you can’t remember anything about it,’ he replied. There was a long silence. ‘Did you tell Brent stories when he was a child?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I wasn’t much good at that sort of thing, ‘said Hugo.

  ‘Your wife’s department?’ His voice was expressionless, factual, trying not to spread the ripple of guilt.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was Brent ever trying to tell you stories?’

  ‘There was something – but I can hardly remember.’ Hugo was cautious, wondering if it was safe to make an admission.

  ‘Try.’ Dr Lex sounded encouraging for the first time.

  ‘Once – when he was about six – I remember him standing in the bathroom, looking into a long mirror while I was dressing. He said, “I’ve seen you before, Daddy,” and I replied, “Well – you see me every day,” and he said, “We were together, weren’t we, Daddy? Not with Mummy. Just us. Just us and the other lady.” Of course I asked him where we were meant to be and he said, “In the pyramid, of course.” I just laughed – at the time. Later on I asked him who “the other lady” was, but he wasn’t giving any more away. Not after I’d laughed at him.’

  ‘Any other references?’ He was still encouraging.

  ‘Not till later.’

  ‘That was the first.’

  ‘As far as I remember.’

  ‘When did you lose touch with him?’ asked Dr Lex.

  ‘We lost touch when he went to Marlborough. What did J.M. Barrie say? Something like “there’s no life after twelve”?’

  ‘That depends on whether we have abandoned our childhoods or not,’ he murmured. There was a slight regret in his voice.

  Hugo paused, wondering how much more he could admit. He felt a surge of panic. ‘It was wonderful when he was a child. I was working on a local paper and freelancing for the Sunday Times. It was the end of the ‘sixties and I actually used to believe my work was fun.’

  ‘Did you have fun with Brent?’ But he was not in any way condemning.

  Slightly nonplussed, Hugo continued. ‘We had a dinghy and we used to sail around the Cornish coast. It wasn’t a soft touch,’ he added defensively. ‘The tides are treacherous and the seas heavy. But I knew what I was doing; we all knew what we were doing. There was a small island called Tiderace we used to land on and we made it our own.’ He paused, seeing the place in his mind’s eye for the first time in years. ‘Just a lump of rock, really, with birds and windswept foliage, but it was a paradise to us. We sailed and swam and built fires and beachcombed. Very difficult to land on – even for the locals – but we managed quite well after a few spills.’

  ‘I don’t get a very clear picture of Lucy in all this,’ interrupted Lex. ‘She seems hazy – half formed.’

  Hugo felt under attack again. ‘She was – is – a fine person, far more generous and willing than I am. She’s honest – likes to look everything in the face. Is that less hazy?’

  Dr Lex said nothing. He blinked slightly and waited for Hugo to continue.

  ‘The idyll was unbroken until I reached Barrie’s deadline. Perhaps it was we who grew up – Lucy and I,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Did you really grow up?’

  ‘You mean I’m immature, that I deserted them – ‘

  Again, Dr Lex didn’t reply.

  ‘When I got my first assignment for Time Magazine one summer, Tiderace didn’t happen. And then another summer went by.’

  ‘Did you have regrets?’

  ‘I didn’t think – I was too caught up. I remember Brent writing to me that second year,’ he admitted. ‘I can recall every word of his letter.

  ‘“We went out to Tiderace,”’ he recited uneasily, ‘“but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t find the pyramid. I’ve been reading about Atlantis though. Love, Brent.” It worried me a lot – always has – but I didn’t take it seriously enough or do anything much about it. I suppose I was afraid that he was becoming a fantasist, thought he was too much alone and becoming dangerously introspective but wouldn’t allow myself to think about it more profoundly. I told him to make friends. Sent him to Marlborough. I mean – he was bright enough. And then he went on to Oxford.’

  ‘What were the first obvious signs of his illness?’ Again the gentle encouragement.

  ‘Lucy noticed most of them. But I do remember coming home when Brent was about to go up for his last year. He was still a loner, never had any friends home for the vac, still spent God knows how much time on Tiderace. Anyway, we were having a cup of tea in the kitchen and he – Brent asked me if I believed in space portals.’ Hugo was much more in his stride now, with the focus on his son rather than himself. ‘I said I didn’t understand and then he began to explain something about going into a pyramid in Egypt, and meeting a priest who was har
nessing the energy of the sun. Brent said that he needed to ask them to forgive him – but he wouldn’t tell me who they were. I have to say his manner carried total conviction and he was talking quite naturally, as if he’d been on a field trip. He wasn’t intense or feverish and he made his crazy statements seem almost normal, rational.’ Hugo dredged more from his memory, surprised at his own recall. He had not thought about all this in years. Then he wondered if he had thought about it at all. ‘He said he’d travelled down to a secret room where the walls were painted with pictures that somehow showed the regeneration of the mind. I can hear his voice now. “There is to be a change in the earth’s frequency and the opening of a portal.” I just stared at him; couldn’t think of a word to say. I discussed what he’d said with Lucy and she told me he’d been speaking like this for a long time. We both came to the conclusion Brent needed help fast. Then I went off on an assignment – and Lucy spoke to our GP. It was downhill all the way after that – for all of us.’

  Dr Lex nodded. A sunbeam was pouring through the half open window and motes of dust danced in its rays. For a moment, Hugo thought he saw Brent’s image reflected in its translucence, and knew that he must still be feverish. It would take some time, he thought hopefully, but with rest and treatment – surely he would get back to his normal self. Whatever that was.

  3

  Island Visions

  Cornwall

  Brent Fitzroy leant back in his chair in the day-room and closed his eyes. Hetty Kingham asked, Ts it difficult to remember?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was thin and sometimes hard to hear – not exactly a whisper, more like a sound in another room: just audible but not entirely meant for her. But for who, she wondered. Over the last few days, ever since Brent had so deliberately burnt his hands, he had dictated to her.

  Hetty was pleased because the job kept her in practice for the higher forms of dictation she had spent her life receiving – from God, the Virgin Mary, the disciples, and, in particular, St Paul. But she also received transmissions from more lowly figures such as Dr Crippen, and Gilles de Rais, Hitler, Mussolini and Goebbels. Should her dictation be interrupted, Hetty would react violently and, recently, when a nurse had brought her milky and over-sugared tea during a session with the Venus de Milo, Hetty had driven the plastic cup up the woman’s backside, causing considerable anal damage. In fact she was a very disturbed and unpredictable patient who had been in St Clouds for over twenty years. If busily occupied she was stable, but without clients her instability often condemned her to padded isolation.

  Hetty was always content for her contacts to take their time, but as Brent was her first live client for many years she did not quite know how long she would have to wait. She sat patiently enough, though, her polka dot dress hitched to the thigh and her shorthand pad placed on a plump ivory knee.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Brent.

  Hetty nodded demurely.

  But he still did not begin, and closed his eyes again. To counter her slight impatience, Hetty discreetly glanced at the slightly built young man. Well – he was good looking with his shock of washed-out fair hair and long pallid face. He had been more animated when he first arrived on the unit and would enthral her with tales of classical myth, pyramids and priests, space portals and galactic beams, changing earth frequencies and reincarnation. Nicknamed by the staff ‘the new age prophet’, Brent enthusiastically poured out his obsession, talking for hours on end, until most patients went out of their way to avoid him.

  But Hetty remained faithful, never bored, always eager to hear more. Brent excited her sexually as well as mentally, and she thought about his body as much as his visions. Over the last year, however, he had become much more withdrawn and had lost a considerable amount of weight. Hetty had noticed sadly that he hardly ever spoke about the pyramid, and would only write in his journal, but now he needed her again. Because of his hands. They were encased in clear plastic and she could see the spoilt flesh. Hetty felt a trickle of perspiration on her forehead and more under her dress.

  Without warning, Brent began to dictate. ‘The pyramid, a survivor of the Great Flood, was placed at the centre of the earth as a living model of man’s destiny to a higher evolution.’ He spoke at great speed and without expression. ‘Once man can centre his solar and magnetic energy and align this energy with the pyramid, he can be synthesised into new forms of light to go beyond our solar system to other star systems in the universe.’ He paused and closed his eyes, as if willing himself to see more. ‘They’re blocking,’ he muttered.

  ‘You can’t see?’

  ‘Not clearly. Someone’s standing in the way. I can’t see the light. It’s my fault. I should have managed to preserve Atlantis – when I was Thoth.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ A wave of fear swept through Hetty, for Brent looked murderous and there was a dribble of saliva coming from the corner of his mouth. ‘Who’s there?’ she repeated.

  ‘I think it’s my father.’ He paused. ‘Someone’s with him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘No. Someone else.’

  ‘Here comes the tea trolley,’ said Hetty irritably.

  ‘Fuck the tea trolley,’ said Brent.

  The nurse approached them warily, knowing that neither liked to be disturbed at their tasks, fully appreciative of their capacity for violence. The notebook fell on to the dingy lino as Hetty tried to ward off the encroaching trolley and the nurse picked it up with a quick apology. Not much hope of reading that back, she thought. It was just a continuous flow of straight lines.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ said Hugo as Lucy drove them to the hospital. He shifted his position painfully and uncomfortably in the back of the car.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘During my absences, was there anyone else?’ She did not reply immediately. ‘I need time, Hugo. So do you. Don’t let’s rush anything.’

  ‘So you won’t give me a straight answer.’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  Hugo tried to suppress his resentment. She was certainly making it as difficult as possible, he thought angrily.

  ‘I wouldn’t rack your conscience too much; Brent would have been ill anyway – whether you were here or not.’ She sounded as if she had started out wanting to be comforting but her bitterness had got in the way. What was more, Hugo sensed that Lucy meant the opposite of what she had just said.

  ‘Let’s take him to Tiderace,’ he said on impulse.

  Again she did not reply.

  ‘Lucy – ‘

  ‘That’s absurd.’ She was angry, contemptuous, now.

  ‘They all say, never go back. But suppose we did?’

  ‘Brent can’t go in a boat’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘He’s seriously ill.’ She spoke slowly, as if to an idiot.

  ‘Why don’t we give it a try?’ Hugo persisted.

  ‘Hugo – this is just – ‘

  ‘Why don’t we give it a try?’ he repeated.

  ‘Because St Clouds would never agree.’

  The male nurse touched Brent gently on the shoulder. He was lying on his bed in a spacious room. The french windows opened on to a verdant lawn, and although there was a motorway in the distance the sound of traffic could hardly be heard.

  ‘Your parents are here.’ He didn’t move.

  Lucy had told Hugo that Brent had gone downhill. Nevertheless, Hugo was not prepared for what he saw, and had considerable difficulty in not gasping aloud with a mixture of revulsion and shock.

  Brent’s pallor, the scratches on his face, his burnt hands, his whole wasted appearance made him look like a victim. Something’s sucking him dry, was Hugo’s first thought. Or was it someone?

  Brent stared up at him blankly, his mouth, eyes and nose encrusted with slime. Hugo glanced across at Lucy but she seemed completely unmoved. She’s used to all this, he thought. But why the hell doesn’t she insist they clean him up? H
ow could they leave him in a state like this?

  ‘Could I be alone with him?’ asked Hugo. ‘Just to give me a chance of getting through.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucy, briskly co-operative. She looked exhausted. ‘I’ll go and get a cup of the particularly brutal tea they serve in the lounge.’

  With equal tact, the male nurse departed with her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.’ Hugo reached out for his son’s wrist, finding the skin cold and greasy to the touch. A smell of sweat seemed to pervade Brent’s body. He did not stir, lying there on his back like a sick child, his cloudy eyes on the stuccoed ceiling.

  I’ve been having dreams – dreams like yours. Or should I call them visions? They seem to tie up with your journal.’

  ‘Burnt hands.’ The voice was indistinct.

  ‘How did that happen?’ Of course he knew.

  ‘Burnt them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t remember.’

  ‘Couldn’t remember what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was it important?’

  ‘It’s a life. A life, isn’t it?’

  Hugo did not understand what he meant but at least they were talking. Somehow he had to keep it going just in case he got lucky. Professionally he was so persuasive. Yet here it was different. He felt threatened.

  ‘Whose life?’

  ‘Lots of them.’

  ‘Are they good?’

  ‘They’re hard.’

  ‘Why are you writing your journal?’

  ‘For Thoth.’

  ‘Thoth. Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘He’s me.’

  ‘I see.’ Of course his son was insane. There could be no logic – but there might be clues. ‘Do you think about me?’

  ‘Who?’ Brent’s voice was slightly slurred now and his eyes kept closing. What kind of medication was he on? Or was he trying to shut him out?

  ‘Your father. Hugo. Me.’

  ‘Hermes.’

  ‘Who?’

  Brent yawned. ‘Tired.’