by Neil Cross
He knew what he was doing. His gaze fell tantalizingly on those who clearly longed to get on stage, then passed over them. They whooped and yelled and screamed. He teased with a playful, lingering glance those who clearly were terrified he might ask them to get up there with him. Eventually, he selected from the audience a slim man with a shaved head, in combat trousers and an indigo denim jacket. The second volunteer was slouching, ambling, dreadlocked to his waist.
Dryden asked for a round of applause. The audience obliged. Dryden positioned the two young men on stage. He asked their names. The bald man was called Tim. The man with the dreadlocks was called Diesel.
‘Diesel?’ said Dryden. ‘What kind of name is Diesel?’
Diesel was loose-necked and satisfied. He caught the eye of friends in the crowd and grinned.
Tim clicked his fingers nervously at his sides.
From the wings appeared two black-clad assistants. Each pushed a chromium trolley. Upon each trolley’s four shelves were components that might have belonged to a stereo system, wired together at the rear. On the top shelf was a laptop computer and a spaghetti of wiring. The assistants lined up the shelves behind the volunteers, then they returned from offstage with a moulded plastic chair and a towel each. They placed the towels in the chairs and the chairs before the trolleys.
Dryden invited Tim and Diesel to sit. A pale woman with an extravagant head of curly red hair took the stage. She too was dressed in black, and held a clipboard. She kneeled at Tim’s side and addressed him quietly and urgently. He nodded assent, took a biro from her hand and signed something on the clipboard. She repeated the procedure with Diesel.
Dryden said: ‘This is Dr Fiona Wright. She’s here to make sure I don’t go astray and turn the dial up to eleven, or anything stupid like that.’
The doctor looked up from Diesel’s side and smiled. Some in the crowd laughed, without quite knowing why.
Dryden went to one of the trolleys. He held the microphone like a television evangelist. He said: ‘This is called a Transcranial Magnetic Stimulator. And no, I’m not making that up. This is a genuine piece of kit. We’re paying through the nose to hire it. What it does is: it shoots a very precise, rapidly fluctuating magnetic field into a small patch of human brain tissue. Zap. The bit of brain that’s been stimulated kicks into life, allowing people like Dr Wright here to learn what its function is.
‘So, for instance—if I zapped your motor cortex, various muscles would contract, depending on exactly where I’d zapped you. You might have a little spasm in your little finger. Or your whole body might go into convulsion.
‘If I zapped a cluster of cells called the septum—it’s right in the middle of your brain,’ he tapped the crown of his head with the microphone,‘—you’d experience a burst of intense pleasure, like every orgasm you ever had, rolled into one and multiplied by your date of birth. Or so they tell me.’
More laughter from the audience. Diesel chuckled. Tim widened his eyes suggestively.
‘Now, now,’ said Dryden. ‘None of that. We’re here to a higher purpose.’
Tim made a disappointed pout. His eye sockets became shadows when he hung his head. The lights were dimming.
Now Dryden was half whispering into the microphone. ‘This hold-up is for the boys to sign a clearance form. They could’ve done it backstage, but I wanted you to see that no jiggery-pokery is taking place. I’ve never met Tim, have I Tim?’
‘No,’ said Tim.
‘Or Unleaded, here. Have I, Unleaded?’
‘Diesel,’ said Diesel.
‘Sorry, Swampy,’ said Dryden.
Laughter from the crowd. Diesel did a furtive wanker sign for the benefit of his mates.
‘Now,’ said Dryden. He tapped the side of his head, just above the ear, with the microphone. Amplified, the action had a percussive resonance. Dryden dropped his voice to a whisper. The grainy amplification made it insinuating and directionless, like the wind through sand.
‘This area of the brain,’ he said, ‘is called your temporal lobe. In a moment, these machines will fire a carefully calibrated burst of very intense magnetism into Tim and Swampy’s temporal lobes. It won’t take long, but we’re going to need your complete silence for a few minutes. Can you do that? Just for one minute.’
On stage, the two volunteers sat in a spotlight. An assistant bundled two towels into sausages and placed them over their shoulders. Then they moved the trolleys into position. On top of each trolley, alongside the laptop computers, were two paddles. Each was about the size of a ping-pong bat. The paddles were joined like headphones and linked by a wire to one of the system’s boxlike components. They were secured at both sides of each volunteer’s head. The assistants encouraged Tim and Diesel to relax.
The doctor referred briefly to the computer screens. Then she checked the paddles.
She looked at Dryden and said: ‘OK.’
Dryden looked at the audience.
‘Quiet, please.’
He waited until there was silence.
The doctor pressed a key on each laptop. The trolleys began to emit a low, ascending electrical hum.
It didn’t take long.
Tim barked a single laugh. His back went into spasm and he stiffened in the chair. His eyes rolled white. Spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. Tendons stood in relief on his neck. He laughed again, rapturously, as at a great relief. Then he shouted:
‘My God!’
He laughed again, exultantly. The laugh modulated into a joyful sob.
He began to weep. He held out his hands, as if beckoning something to him. He looked at the ceiling.
Meanwhile, Diesel shrieked and bucked in his chair. He howled something that was not a word. He opened his eyes and glared at the crowd. Then he stood and ripped the paddles from his head.
The doctor and both assistants rushed to him. He was led off stage.
After a long minute, the doctor returned for Tim. She removed the paddles from his head. He beamed in pious bewilderment and followed her away.
Dryden hit each keyboard again. The hum died away.
The lights came halfway up.
Dryden took the microphone. Heavy breathing through his mouth, amplified. He pinned the crowd with his eyes.
Then he broke the spell. His voice seemed too loud.
He said: ‘Don’t worry about Tim and Diesel. They’re all right. It happens sometimes.
‘What happened was, Tim’s temporal lobe was stimulated. So was Diesel’s. As a result, Tim had an experience of the presence of God that was in every way as genuine and as powerful as that experienced by Saul on the road to Damascus. Except Tim knows it happened because we flicked a switch and stimulated the belief centre in his brain. It’ll take him a while, but he’ll get over it.
‘As for Diesel, well. What can I say? It wasn’t God that Diesel met.’
He held his breath, but he couldn’t hold back the merriment. His cheeks swelled and he burst forth with a cackle. He clapped his hands. He took the microphone from the stand and walked the stage again.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what happened in this room tonight? What does it say about us? How does it relate to what brings us here?
‘I’ll tell you. It describes Dryden’s First Law: use the right tools in the right way, and people will believe anything you want them to.’
Holloway, Shepherd and Lenny had seen enough. They pushed through the crowd and the swinging fire doors, which were moist with condensed sweat and breath. They passed the lavatories and the coat check, the box office and the bored bouncers. They huddled on the corner of an arctic north London street. Taxis and minicabs breathed smoke into the dirty yellow darkness.
‘That can’t be legal,’ said Shepherd.
‘Like he’d care,’ said Lenny.
Holloway stamped his feet against the cold.
‘Well,�
� he said. ‘It might be bollocks, but it gave me the creeps.’
‘Kid’s stuff,’ said Lenny.
‘My arse,’ said Holloway.
‘Look,’ said Lenny. ‘He was probably using infrasound. It’s easily done. A frequency of 18 or 19 hertz will produce feelings of unease and anxiety. Even panic. It’s been the root cause of many a supposed haunting; busted electric fans, extractor fans, high winds in old window frames, resonating between 18 and 20 cycles per second. That sort of thing.
‘A tiger roars at about 18 hertz before attacking. It’s just at the edge of human hearing, so it’s stuff you don’t know you’re hearing: but you still respond to it as a threat. You get scared: feel like you’re being watched. Hunted. Funnily enough, the human eyeball has a resonant frequency of about 18 hertz: so infrasound can cause visual disturbance or hallucination as well. So people hear bad noises, and they see movement. From these clues, their mind creates a ghost. All clever enough, I suppose. But he’s just playing. He’s winding up those in the know.’
‘Either that,’ said Holloway. ‘Or he paid two unemployed actors to put on funny hats and jump around making funny noises.’
‘Fair point,’ said Lenny. ‘Whatever. Same difference.’
‘Hardly.’
They had been standing on the corner, opposite the traffic lights. It was Holloway who turned up his collar and walked towards Upper Street. Shepherd and Lenny followed. Their steaming breath combined in the darkness above their heads.
Shepherd sniffed the air. He thought he could smell a bonfire.
‘And who are those in the know?’ said Holloway.
‘People like me,’ said Lenny. There was a certain light in his eyes. ‘People who study this stuff
‘What stuff?’
‘Politics. Psychology. Parapsychology. Magic. Mind control.’
‘Right,’ said Holloway, somewhat dubiously.
‘Seriously,’ said Lenny. ‘That was as close to black magic as I ever want to come.’
‘Oh come on. It was Hammer House of Horror bollocks. He was like a stag-night hypnotist.’
They drew to a halt on the edge of the kerb. Lenny walked in excited circles. A nervous young couple, huddled in winter gear, crossed the road. A minicab beeped them. Lenny waved his hands as if ideas were crammed up and jamming behind his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘He was hypnotizing those people. All right, it was in the most basic way, but he was hypnotizing them. All those images. They meant nothing. They were just pictures he knew would appeal to young men with pretensions to nihilism. His target audience. They’ll leave that club believing that somehow Dryden has freed them—’
They waited a long time for him to continue.
‘He’s doing it all again,’ said Lenny. ‘He’s recruiting. Just to show us that he can.’
The Caliburn Hotel stood close to King’s Cross station, about half an hour’s cold, brisk walk from Highbury. Along Upper Street, the dark shop windows were arrayed with Christmas decorations. The bars were softly incandescent and crammed full of the fashionable young. Broken glass like cracked ice littered the paving stones outside the Angel. In the streets and squares behind King’s Cross, it was darker and colder, like an Arctic night. Prostitutes huddled together for warmth under streetlights. Cars slowed but did not stop.
Anticipating a promised urban renewal that had yet to occur, the Caliburn was a members-only establishment renovated from three derelict town houses. Its door was an anonymous portal in the street. It was necessary to announce their arrival through an intercom set in the wall. With an angry buzz of the latch, they were admitted into a long, plain corridor with a black slate floor and halogen lamps set flush to the ceiling.
Reception was on the first floor. They walked through whispering, smoked-glass doors into a stark, modernist lobby.
The receptionist stood behind an asymmetric desk. Lenny announced himself and notified the receptionist of his appointment with Mr Dryden.
The receptionist referred to an LCD screen, tapped something into a keyboard.
‘We’re a bit early,’ said Lenny.
The receptionist spoke without looking up.
‘That’s not a problem,’ he said. ‘Mr Dryden is expecting you in the bar. If you’d like to go through and wait?’
The bar was sumptuous and kitsch. Like a casino, it lacked windows. Perhaps in another incarnation it had been a gentlemen’s games room. Close to the bar itself were arranged several tables and chairs constructed from luscious, vaguely erotic curves and undulations. The walls were lined with heavy, velvet sofas. Although there was room to comfortably accommodate perhaps forty people, tonight the bar was almost empty. It contained a smattering of the Islington Curious. They huddled over wine glasses, talked in hushed monotones.
Holloway, Lenny and Shepherd set some organically shaped, red chairs round a low, kidney-shaped table. A young waiter came and took their order.
As he rolled a cigarette, Lenny’s hands shook.
Holloway met Shepherd’s eyes. Shepherd glanced away.
Lenny lit the cigarette with a book of Caliburn Hotel, London matches.
The waiter brought their drinks to the table. He set each one down on a little paper doily with a scalloped edge. He set down a crackle-glazed, white ceramic bowl of peanuts and a crackle-glazed, black ceramic bowl of Bombay mix. Then he tucked the tray under his arm and went back to continue his conversation with the Australian barman. The Australian’s accent but not his words carried across the muted room.
Holloway said: ‘What time is it?’
Lenny glanced at his watch.
‘Eleven. Just past.’
‘What if he’s early?’
‘He won’t be.’
‘But what if he is?’
Lenny crushed the half-smoked cigarette in the clean pewter ashtray. He massaged his forehead above the eyes.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, just—you know. Take your position.’
Holloway sipped his Coke. Musical tinkle of ice cubes.
‘It won’t take him long,’ he said, ‘to work out what you’re doing.’
‘Trust me,’ said Lenny. ‘It’ll play. He’s too interested in publicity to worry if we’re genuine or not. He’ll see what he wants to see: another opportunity to get himself in print. He’s as subject to Dryden’s First Law as the rest of us.’
Lenny made a sour face, as if the irony was acid in his stomach.
Holloway glanced again at the door.
‘And what if Lincoln shows?’
Lenny said: ‘For God’s sake, Will. Relax.’
Holloway stood. He drained his Coke. Set the empty glass on the table. A slice of limp, pale lemon in its base, over the shrapnel of ice. He was perfectly calm.
‘I’ll just—’ he said.
‘You do that,’ said Lenny. ‘Whatever.’
Holloway went to the bar. He ordered another Coke from the Australian barman. He was pleased to see the barman wore a scrubby goatee beard on his chin and that his blond hair was in a ponytail. He hoped he was having a good time in London. He paid cash; tipped heavily, more than the price of the Coke. The barman bounced the coin in his fist and closed his fingers round it.
‘Cheers, mate.’
Then Holloway seated himself in a far corner of the room, close to the fire doors in the corner. Somebody had left a newspaper on a nearby chair. He lifted and tried to read it. It was a Daily Telegraph.
He watched the door, in case someone entered who might be Henry Lincoln. He hoped he showed. There were questions to be asked that he had not discussed with Lenny.
He hoped he’d know him if he did arrive. He had only a mental image to go by. He toyed with the lock-knife in his pocket.
They had arranged to meet Dryden in the bar at 11.45. He was a little mor
e than half an hour late. When the doors opened, Holloway was shaking with caffeine and sugar.
Dryden pushed the doors aside. The Islington Curious broke off their discussions for a moment and looked up.
Dryden saw Lenny from the doorway. He waved, then took his gloves off. Fiona Wright, the doctor who’d appeared on stage, accompanied him to the table. She wore a camel-coloured, ankle-length cashmere coat.
‘Lenny, I take it,’ said Dryden. He extended his hand. His cheeks were red with cold.
Lenny stood and shook his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you. This is Fiona.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you.’
She unbuckled the coat, removed it, folded it over the crook of an elbow.
Dryden’s gaze fell on Shepherd. A grin split his face like an axe wound.
‘Mate,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
Shepherd made himself smile. He half stood in the awkward chair and extended his hand.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Dryden’s hand was strong and cold.
He seemed genuinely pleased to see Shepherd.
‘How are you getting on?’
He unwound his scarf and took off his overcoat.
‘Very well,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not so bad.’
‘You look well,’ said Dryden. ‘So. What brings you along tonight?’
Lenny interjected.
‘Mr Shepherd will also be contributing to the magazine.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Dryden. He grinned, and hung his folded coat over the back of the chair. ‘They got to you, too, did they?’
‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.
He had an odd feeling. He glanced at the door as if somebody had walked in. But there was nobody there.
Dryden pulled back a chair. Fiona Wright thanked him and sat, hanging her coat over the back of the seat and setting her handbag down on the floor. Then Dryden hiked his trouser legs and took a seat beside her. The red velvet, upholstered chair encased his head like a throne.
He leaned forward, looked over his shoulder and lifted a hand to summon the waiter. He ordered them a round of drinks. Same again for Lenny and Shepherd.