“So you would describe them as a kind of, er . . . journey. Is that correct, Mr. Sinclair?” the doctor inquired.
“Yes . . . more or less.” Clayton fidgeted impatiently in the uncomfortable leather armchair, unable to find a position that made him feel more relaxed. He decided to cross his legs and lean forward slightly, fixing his gaze a few feet beyond his shoes. “I don’t really know how to explain it. You see, the fact is, I know my body isn’t there—even when I am completely unconscious I know that I’m not completely there—and yet somehow I don’t feel I am dreaming either, and when I wake up I don’t even remember it as a dream . . . It is as if that place really existed and I am able to travel there with my mind—or my soul.” He shrugged, despairing at how all this must sound. “Does what I’m saying appear stupid to you, Doctor?”
Doctor Higgins smiled reassuringly. “If I devoted myself to treating stupid people I would have a full practice, and I would be a wealthy man.”
Clayton gazed at him in silence for a few seconds but decided it was best not to tell him that, to judge by the nurse’s excessive precautions, Dr. Higgins did have a full practice, and by his watch, his ring, and his flamboyant spectacles, all evidently solid gold, he was indeed a wealthy man.
“So tell me, Mr. Sinclair, this place you dream of, is it always the same?”
“Yes.”
“Describe it to me,” the doctor said, removing his spectacles and placing them on top of one of the piles of books on his desk, where they perched like an eagle on a rock.
“Well . . . it’s not easy.”
“Please try.”
Clayton heaved a sigh.
“It is a strange yet familiar country,” he said at last. “In my . . . dreams, I arrive in a place that could be anywhere in the English countryside. In fact, I could be in one of those serene meadows with babbling brooks that Keats described, or at least that’s how it feels when I am there. But at the same time, everything is different. It is as if someone had taken everything around me, placed it in a dice cup, and shaken it before throwing it over the world again. That place would be what came out. There everything is . . . all mixed-up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . . people aren’t just people, or perhaps they are, people like you and me, but they are also something else. It is as if they had animals inside them, or maybe it is the other way round: they are animals with human souls . . . Sometimes I see them in their animal guise, and the next moment I find myself contemplating a woman, a man, or a child. The whole of Nature is mixed-up, merged: the creatures in that place are both animals and humans, and possibly plants too. There are bat-men, fish-women, butterfly-children, but also moss-babies and old people who are snow . . . Only when I’m there, none of that surprises me. Everything flows harmoniously and naturally; I never think it could be otherwise. I myself am many things, a different thing each journey: sometimes an animal, or wind, or rain . . . When I am wind, I like to blow on her haunches, rippling her coat, and she runs over the hill, turns, and passes through me; sometimes I am the dew on the grass, and I soak her fur when she lies down on me; other times I run with her; she is swift and I can only outrun her when I am a wolf too . . . and sometimes we talk and drink tea in her elegant drawing room, and she picks a piece of fruit from my arm and bites into it joyously, for I am a tree, and sometimes a bird soaring in the sky, and she howls with rage because she can’t reach me—”
“You always dream about the same place, yet all your dreams are different,” the doctor broke in.
“Yes,” Clayton replied, both irritated and unsettled by the interruption. “I always go to the same place, and I always encounter the same, er . . . person.”
“A woman?”
Clayton hesitated for a moment.
“She isn’t exactly a woman. I already told you that the definitions we use here are impossible to apply there. Let’s say she is . . . feminine.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully and stroked his goatee, a smile flickering on his lips.
“But each journey is very different from the others,” Clayton went on, trying to change the subject.
“That’s odd,” mused the doctor. “Recurring dreams usually present few variations . . .”
“I already told you they aren’t like dreams.”
“Yes, so you did.” The doctor gave his goatee a few gentle tugs, like an actor making sure his false beard is firmly stuck on. Then he glanced down at his notes. “You also told me they started approximately six months ago.”
“That’s right.”
“And that nothing like this has ever happened to you before.”
“No.”
“Are you positive you never suffered from any childhood episodes of sleepwalking, or other disorders such as insomnia or nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“And please try to remember: Have you at any other time in your life experienced any of the following symptoms: migraines, phonophobia, or digestive disorders . . .”
Clayton shook his head.
“. . . apathy, fatigue, depression, loss of appetite . . .”
“Well, lately there are days when I feel tired and have no appetite—”
“No, no! I’m only interested in the period leading up to six months ago, before you started having these . . . dreams.”
“Not as far as I can remember.”
“Hallucinations, mania, dizziness . . .”
“No.”
“. . . sexual dysfunction?”
“I fear I have led a rather dull life up until now.”
Doctor Higgins nodded and, giving his beard a rest, put on his spectacles before absentmindedly scribbling a few lines in his notebook.
“And what exactly happened to you six months ago, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked without looking up.
Clayton stifled his surprise.
“I beg your pardon, Doctor? I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
The doctor glanced at him over the rims of his gold spectacles.
“Clearly something must have happened to you. The sudden onset of this symptomatology with no previous history can’t have come out of nowhere, don’t you agree? Try to think back. It could have been something you considered trivial at the time: a slight blow to the head or some other seemingly harmless incident. Perhaps during a trip you ate some rotten food; blood infections can produce strange symptoms. Or was it something of a sentimental nature, a trauma that affected you deeply . . . ?”
Clayton pretended to straighten the cuffs of his jacket to gain time. For some stupid reason it hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to speak to Dr. Higgins about what had happened at Blackmoor, even though he knew (he had always known, without any need to express it in words) that everything had started there. Something of a sentimental nature? Yes, you might say so . . .
“Seven months ago, something happened that . . . ,” he began, “that affected me deeply. But that is all I can tell you. It is a professional matter of the strictest confidence that I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Of the strictest confidence?” The doctor glanced at his notes again. “I see you are a . . . locksmith by profession, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Er . . . yes, that’s right.”
“And you lost your hand . . .”
“Due to that confidential matter that I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
“I understand,” the doctor said, leaning back in the chair as he observed Clayton patiently. “But, Mr. Sinclair, you must understand that I cannot help you unless—”
“Please, that’s enough!” Clayton cried. His sudden outburst caused the doctor to look offended, and the inspector instantly regretted having raised his voice. What would he do if the man threw him out of his consulting room and refused to treat him? He didn’t think he had the courage to find another doctor and submit himself to a similar interrogation. And so he took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly, but the words poured out in torrents. “Forgive me, Doctor, b
ut I don’t need more questions. What I need are answers. I told you I am not at liberty to discuss what happened to me. You will have to find out what is wrong with me without that information. Consider it a challenge, like a criminal investigation where there are only a few clues and the rest depends on your imagination. It isn’t so difficult; in my work I . . . well, many of the locks I have to open are like that, believe me.” The doctor regarded him in silence, as though considering his appeal. “Are there no other tests you can give me? Blood tests, for example? Prescribe whatever you want. I’m willing to try anything, I assure you. I’ll be your guinea pig if you like. Feel free, I don’t care . . .” Clayton ran his trembling hand over his face and then looked straight at the doctor. “Do whatever you want. But I need this to stop . . . I beg you.”
Doctor Higgins continued to contemplate him for a few moments more, then stood up and went over to the cabinet on the opposite wall. While he was rummaging about in it he said: “Roll up your shirtsleeve, please, Mr. Sinclair. I’m going to take a blood sample, and then I’ll test it for several things: creatinine, potassium, chlorine, sodium . . . and a few other things besides. I’ll also do a red blood cell count.” The doctor spun round with a grin, brandishing a syringe, which Clayton thought looked enormous. “Who knows, maybe we’ll discover something interesting.”
8
INSPECTOR CORNELIUS CLAYTON CAUTIOUSLY turned up the collar of his coat, peering with a complete lack of caution around either side of the doorway, then plunged into the gentle jaws of the fog slinking along Taviton Street. But we are not going to follow him. Instead, we shall leave him to disappear among the crowded Bloomsbury streets while we remain in front of number 10, mesmerized by the soft golden glow of the X above the door, which, as on pirate maps, seems to mark the spot where we should dig for treasure. Moments later, our patience is unexpectedly rewarded, as Dr. Higgins hurries out of the house. Yes, despite having a full consulting room, he abandons his patients to their fate and dives into the freezing fog, taking the opposite direction to Clayton, which leads me to conclude that the reason why he has suddenly absconded is not precisely in order to trail the inspector. Where can he be heading in such a hurry? Let us follow him.
After crossing a couple of streets, doing his best to imitate the sprightly gait of a young colt, Dr. Clive Higgins hailed a carriage on Gower Street, gave the driver the address of the Albemarle Club, and slumped into his seat with an exasperated groan. Once inside, he unbuttoned his overcoat, tore off his gloves and scarf, and removed his hat. Fanning himself with the latter, he watched the carriage skirting Soho via Oxford Street while he continued to gasp for air, as though he were crossing a scorching desert instead of traversing London on an inclement October day. However, shortly before arriving at his destination, he put everything back on, assumed a placid air, and stepped out of the carriage. He proceeded to mount the steps to the Albemarle Club with the briskness of someone whose overriding desire is for a warm fire and a glass of brandy.
Once inside, having shed his warm clothes again, and pretending to shiver as he handed the damp garments to a solicitous attendant, he made his way with the same jaunty walk toward a table beside a large window, greeting with peremptory nods any members he passed. At the table, which stood next to the only unlit fire in the room, four gentlemen reclined comfortably in leather armchairs, smoking and chatting congenially among themselves. However, when they spotted Dr. Higgins walking toward them across the vast room, the four of them stopped conversing and watched him approach in expectant silence.
“Good day, gentlemen,” the doctor said gruffly as he took a seat among them and gestured impatiently to the nearest waiter.
“You’re late, Higgins,” one of the men chided, smiling.
“My dear Angier, perhaps we are all too late,” the doctor grunted, giving his goatee a few desperate tugs.
“Come, come, Higgins, what’s eating you?” another of the gentlemen retorted in a mollifying voice, which you will recognize if you have been paying attention, for it was none other than Doctor Theodore Ramsey, the eminent physician so fond of cracking his knuckles. “We thought you might bring good tidings.”
Higgins snatched the glass of brandy from the waiter’s tray before the man had time to place it on the table and greedily swallowed almost half of it, closing his eyes as he did so. Then he gave a sigh.
“Forgive me, my friends. Please accept my apologies, Angier. I’m at my wit’s end. My cooling system has been on the blink all morning,” he declared, pulling impatiently at his beard as if to prove it. “I’ve been insufferably hot for hours.”
The others gave him concerned looks.
“How ghastly! And you haven’t been able to repair it?” asked Angier, fiddling with his right earlobe, visibly alarmed.
“I haven’t had time. As you guessed, Ramsey, I bring tidings. I’m not sure yet if they are good or not, but I wanted to pass them on without delay. In any case, I expect I can hold out until this afternoon, and I think I have the means to fix the problem in my laboratory . . . I just wish it wasn’t so damnably hot!”
“Don’t grumble, Higgins. You’re lucky it’s the beginning of winter, the coldest season in their year. Imagine if this had happened during that inferno they call summer,” remarked a third gentleman, who every now and then crossed his eyes in a most peculiar fashion as he spoke. “And things could be worse. For example, you could be having trouble with the neuronal circuitry that allows us to suppress the anxiety of randomness.”
“You’re right, Melford,” Ramsey agreed vehemently, cracking his knuckles one by one. “The anxiety of randomness . . . A truly terrifying thing.”
“Quite so. But a malfunction in the cooling system is still an absolute nuisance. It happened to me last summer,” Angier added, flicking his earlobe gently, “and I had to beg them to send me a new mechanism as soon as—”
“Inferno? Did I hear you say ‘inferno,’ Melford?” the fourth gentleman, who had so far remained silent, interrupted in a soft voice.
He was a stout fellow with bushy grey whiskers that curled up like a bull’s horns, and he wore a plain dark suit livened up by a florid waistcoat. The other men looked at him in surprise.
“I . . . ,” stammered Melford.
“Inferno? Surely you aren’t serious, any of you . . . You grumble about the climate? It is so obvious you haven’t been to the Other Side recently! Have you forgotten what it is like there?” The fourth gentleman observed his companions one by one, his impressive whiskers quivering with rage, causing all of them, more or less swiftly, to lower their eyes contritely. “The minor discomforts we have to put up with here,” the man went on in a lecturing tone, “pale in comparison. I say this as someone who has just come back from there. From the place where we have no choice but to suffer the insufferable.” Satisfied with his admonishment, he settled back in his chair, relaxing slightly his harsh expression. “Gentlemen, I beg you not to trivialize such matters. On the Other Side, the Dark Time has begun. And they need us. Desperately.”
The five of them fell silent for a few moments, eyes vacant as they became lost in thought.
“How are things back there, Kramer?” Ramsey ventured at last.
“It is getting colder all the time,” the other man replied. “And there is no light now.”
They all groaned quietly.
“Perhaps Higgins was right when he said just now that we arrived here too late.” Melford squinted. “Perhaps nothing we do here has any meaning now.”
“There is still some hope. Recent calculations give us ten years,” said Kramer.
“By all the dead suns!” Angier gasped. “Ten years? I hardly think that is long enough.”
“Calm down, Angier. You know very well that period refers to their extinction, not ours,” said Kramer, gesturing with a nod at their surroundings. “Our torment could last a few more decades, but they don’t have that long. And they are our only escape route. We have ten years to prevent their destructio
n. Otherwise, we will be doomed as well.”
“And what do recent studies show about the possibility of opening other doors?” asked Melford.
“Nothing promising,” Kramer replied ruefully. “I fear that won’t be possible. Not in our current situation. This world is the only chance we have of saving ourselves.”
“But they have only ten years left . . . ,” muttered Angier.
Kramer raised his arms suddenly, like an odalisque sprinkling rose petals.
“These are rough calculations, gentlemen, although there is little margin for error,” he said. “We have ten years, possibly a bit longer, to find a way of preventing the epidemic ravaging this world. If we fail, an apocalypse of devastating proportions will be unleashed. And we on the Other Side, like a drowning man whose fingers slip fatally from the flotsam to which he is clinging, will plunge forever into eternal darkness and oblivion.”
They all remained silent and cast their eyes around the room. The Albemarle Club, founded in 1874, was one of the most prestigious and popular clubs in London. At that time of day, however, there were only a few clusters of armchairs dotted about, forming small islands, and a handful of gentlemen smoking their solitary pipes, absentmindedly cupping a brandy glass, or reading a newspaper with an air of boredom, content to have escaped from their suffocating homes for a few hours.
“Look at them . . . ,” muttered Melford, with a sudden flash of animosity. “They haven’t the slightest idea how sick their world is, or that it is nearing its end. On the contrary: they think they are in the middle of something. They think they are different from everything before and everything after. They think they are speeding toward some destination on one of their swift trains. They study, contemplate, marvel at one another. And yet they see nothing. They don’t see that the end is coming, nor do they suspect that all possible trains will soon collide into a morass of eternal darkness, nothingness, chaos.”
The Map of Chaos Page 16