John was relieved. There was too much to worry about today than to deal with another memory problem.
‘Your memory’s fine to answer questions about the building if Pete doesn’t get here?’ Mann asked, as if reading John’s mind.
The chairs and the window seemed to change without changing, as if escaping the relativity of comparison, whereby everything else might have changed too, so as not to make it reasonable to assume that they had changed. They might have grown ten times in size or ten times as small, whilst everything else, including John’s own body, had done just the same to disguise their change. Soon, everything would begin to spiral, and John would be sucked in towards the black hole that formed at the centre.
Seized by fear, John tried to gain control of the situation: ‘Of course, I told you yesterday that my memory is fine. I only want Pete to be here because I’m still suffering a little from the concussion, and I might not necessarily want to answer a lot of questions. The doctor told me to rest.’
Mann grinned and tapped John on the back with a powerful hand.
The room still seemed inexplicably odd, but at least it hadn’t begun to spiral.
There was a knock at the door, followed by an opening. A thin man with black hair and slightly hunched shoulders walked in and looked at both John and Mann with a smile. It was Detective Murphy who wore the same navy-blue suit as the other day outside the hospital.
‘You found us alright then,’ Mann said.
‘The blond lad at the desk directed me.’
They all sat down in the armchairs where, between the chairs, there was a coffee table with a jug of water, a teapot, glasses and cups. A small chandelier hung above, and equestrian paintings hung nearby on the wall.
‘We have almost an hour before the reporter turns up, so what should Gowan say in this interview?’ Mann said to Murphy, whilst they made drinks. ‘And is there anything he shouldn’t say?’
For the next few minutes, the men discussed the interview, confirming exactly what John should and shouldn’t say about the circumstances leading up to his fall, and how he should say it. He needed to sound certain, deliberate and utterly convinced of what had happened to him, even if he couldn’t remember the fall, itself.
Half an hour later, Mann received a telephone call from the receptionist who told him the reporter had arrived, and Mann told him to escort the reporter to Wilkinson’s room. Only one reporter was allowed by Zenith, and he represented Blanworth Express, the local newspaper.
When he walked in, he wore a grey suit, a brown tie, a white shirt – none of which were pressed – and carried a multi-coloured rucksack. His hair was wavy brown and his skin, ghostly white.
Mann shook his hand: ‘Hello, I’m Captain Mann, Vice President of Zenith. We spoke on the phone, I believe?’
‘Yes, I’m Palmer for Blanworth Express.’
‘Gowan,’ John said, shaking his hand.
The reporter looked keenly at him.
‘Detective Murphy,’ the policeman said. ‘Good to finally meet you in person.’
‘Likewise,’ the reporter said.
As they sat, he put a pocket-sized notebook on his lap and a silver digital recording device, the size of his hand, on the table: ‘You don’t mind me using this, do you?’
‘No, that’s not a problem,’ Mann said.
He pressed a button on the device and looked at John: ‘On the night of the 7th of November, can you tell me why you decided to go to the Zenith site?’
John prepared himself a moment before speaking: ‘It was the last night before construction began, and I wanted to go to the site to think about the future. I had nothing to do, as such. I just wanted to prepare mentally for the next day and walk around the site.’
‘Were you on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell anybody you would be there at that time?’
Since waking in hospital, nobody had told John that they knew he was there at that time: ‘No. It was a last-minute decision to go.’
‘So, where were you when you decided to go to the Zenith site?’
‘At home.’
‘Where’s home?’
John pointed at the recording device: ‘I’d rather not broadcast where I live, even though it’s easy for people to find out.’
Palmer nodded and glanced down at his notepad: ‘That’s okay. Just a rough idea would be fine.’
‘In the countryside between Blanworth and Toxon.’
‘And how did you get to the site?’
‘By car.’
‘Did you notice anybody following you whilst you drove to Blanworth?’
‘No.’
‘Once you got to Blanworth, where did you park?’
‘In Princegate shopping centre car park. Then I walked through the shopping centre and into City Square. I walked through the Square, passing the tramp on his bench, walked up the side road of the Zenith site and onto the site.’
‘And you didn’t see anybody following you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anybody there, waiting for you?’
‘Nope.’
Palmer paused and remained staring at John, like a ghost with his deathly white complexion: ‘Then what happened?’
‘I unlocked the gate and walked around the site for a minute. Then I can’t remember anymore.’
‘So you can’t remember how you got that big mark on your forehead?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And then what do you remember?’
‘Waking up in hospital.’
‘What did the doctor say about your injury?’
‘He told me I had concussion and that he believed I had had a fall. The injury was caused by my head hitting the ground.’
‘But how did you fall?’
‘I must have tripped over something. There’s a lot of rubble about.’
Palmer stared at John a moment, then turned to Murphy: ‘On the phone, you said you would check CCTV evidence for anybody following Mr Gowan.’
‘Which I have done and, other than the tramp – information I believe I gave you on the phone – nobody followed John. There is no CCTV in the side road so, in theory, somebody could have come from the other direction, but the tramp, who followed John a few seconds after John had passed him in the Square – as shown by CCTV footage in the Square – saw nobody leave the site, and John remembers seeing nobody as he approached the site entrance before he went in.’
‘Could someone have been there, waiting for him on the site?’
‘As John said, the site itself was locked so, if they were on the site, they would have had to have climbed over the eight-foot-high hoarding. John, however, remembers seeing nobody as he walked onto the site.’ He sighed. ‘Of course, we can speculate theories, but we, the police, have found no evidence to suggest otherwise.’
Palmer dropped his gaze to the floor, resignedly. Unfortunately for him today, whatever his sensationalist need for John to have been hit by someone – the implication of a Muslim, especially – there would be no such gratification.
‘It appears doubtful that anybody hit Mr Gowan then,’ he said.
A wave of purity surged through the room, cleansing its contents of any malevolent appearance. The objects seemed clear, distinct and friendly. The Queen Anne chairs appeared comfortable; the equestrian pictures seemed lively and joyful, and the darkening world outside made the inside feel cosy and habitable.
John was very pleased, feeling more united with this future world and closer to his true self as the architect of the Zenith building, safe from the threat of being transported away to a place of darkness. He had come here to satisfy Zenith and the police, and he had done it, fulfilling his responsibilities as architect of the Zenith building. He now had to continue acting and behaving as his true self, concealing his problems and uniting with this future world. Perhaps soon, all his problems would go away, and memories from the amnesiac period would return. It was true that Mann and Pete had
their suspicions about John’s amnesia, but if he could just continue convincingly into this evening, then maybe tonight or tomorrow his problems would go away: his memories would return and he would become the architect of the Zenith building unto himself. The alternative truth, the parallel world where he did not design the building, would disappear completely.
The reporter poured himself a drink of water: ‘Can we talk a little about the building then? How has construction been so far? Is everything on schedule?’
Pete still wasn’t here to save John from these questions: ‘I’m not sure I can do any more questions – now that the important ones are out of the way. My doctor told me not to work for a few days after the concussion, and I shouldn’t really be here.’
‘Oh, of course,’ the reporter said.
‘Everything is going well,’ Mann said. ‘We’re digging the foundations at the moment. We had hoped Pete Williams the partner in John’s firm would be here, but he’s detained at the site. He’s been there since John had his accident.’
The reporter nodded: ‘I don’t want to ask anything that might cause Mr Gowan undue stress. It’s just that a couple of days ago, in the Blanworth Express, I wrote an article entitled “The Freedom Building”. It said…’ He looked down at his notes.
‘“… The new Zenith building, which has adopted the unofficial moniker “The Freedom Building”, is seen by many, including politicians, councillors and members of the press, as the face of freedom, not only because it defiantly rises from the ashes of the previous building which was destroyed by terrorists, but because its design, its sheer innovative quality appears free.”
‘Did you intend to make it appear free, Mr Gowan?’
John began to feel nauseous and remembered seeing the newspaper article, entitled “The Freedom Building”, in his hospital bed, although he didn’t read all of it and hadn’t read that part: ‘I think I’ll let people make up their own minds as to whether it appears free.’
‘But you must have known that this building would be viewed as a political symbol of freedom, as much as anything else, and, therefore, designed it with that in mind, didn’t you?’
The easy answer would be to agree, but then he would have to qualify it with an explanation, based on the building’s actual appearance. The sickness rose from his stomach to the base of his neck. Without knowing what to say, he blurted an evasive reply: ‘It’s a bit of an American idea, isn’t it? We’re not “Land of the Free”.’
Mann looked at John with concern.
John tried to calm himself and integrate with the conversation: ‘Although we are a free country, and America is our closest ally.’
He felt the sickness well in his throat and tried to be more professional so that he did not contradict anything he might have said publicly during the amnesiac period: ‘I just don’t feel, at the moment, I want to be telling other people how to see the building. If you think it appears free, then great. But others might think it looks like something else.’
‘But surely you can tell us the idea you had for designing the building?’ Palmer said.
Luminescent blotches began to appear in front of John’s eyes in addition to the sickness which was spreading into his mouth. He felt very dizzy and not far from falling from his chair: ‘I think I don’t feel well enough to be answering questions about the building. I’m terribly sorry.’
The reporter stared at him incredulously for a moment, then turned to Mann: ‘In a previous interview with the Blanworth Express, you said you chose Mr Gowan’s building because it appeared free so, now that the building has adopted the unofficial moniker “The Freedom Building”, propounded by reporters such as me, you must be pleased?
‘Of course.’
‘So I’ll put the question to you: did you choose Mr Gowan’s design for political reasons?’
Mann lowered his bushy eyebrows: ‘Could you explain what you mean by “political”?’
‘Well, the previous building was destroyed by terrorists who reacted to Wilkinson Junior’s derogatory comments about Muslims, as he put it, wanting to reclaim land from the Israelis. A new building that artistically expresses the notion of freedom would seem to suggest, at the very least, the freedom to express opinion without fear of retribution.’
‘Would you give me just a moment, please?’ Mann said as he got up, walked to the other side of the room behind Wilkinson’s great desk and called somebody on his mobile phone.
Palmer glanced at John with a look of bemusement, then span a pencil expertly around his fingers. John began to feel better as the attention was no longer on him, although the room and the reporter did appear somewhat strange. Indecipherable murmurings came from Mann on the other side of the room, shortly followed by his return.
‘I’m sorry about that. I hope you won’t put this little interlude in your article. It would make us look unprofessional!’ Mann grinned.
‘Not if you have something to say,’ Palmer said, smiling back.
Mann paused and thought carefully: ‘Firstly, Wilkinson Junior’s comments that provoked the terrorist attack were a mistake and did not reflect the ethos of Zenith. He has apologised profusely on several occasions and is profoundly sorry. Secondly, we, nevertheless, believe in the freedom to express opinion without fear of retribution. Thirdly, we believe in freedom in terms of democracy, the rule of law and capitalism – all of which are important to a business like ours. So, in answer to your question, we did choose Mr Gowan’s design for political reasons, because we saw all these qualities reflected in its artistic freedom.’
Palmer smiled, nodded and turned to John: ‘So, if you’re feeling a little better, could you tell me what you were thinking when you managed to conceive the kljh kjjh 87y…’
John watched Palmer’s mouth move and tried to listen, but immediately realised he could not understand what he was saying. He had to be talking about the design, itself. He stopped trying to listen and waited for the reporter’s mouth to stop moving.
The room, nevertheless, continued to feel strange: slanted, perhaps, as if the floor had risen one end and the walls tilted in odd directions. The effect was not static but mobile, like being on board a ship. Words exiting the reporter’s mouth travelled sideways through space and seeped into different objects, reverberating them accordingly: a ‘shhh’ from the ornate picture frame, a ‘grrr’ from the coffee table and a ‘ckkkllleee’ from the chandelier above.
John felt a dark, insidious force from the room, dizzying his head and inviting him to forget the reason it was happening. He knew it was beginning to suck him in, despite no darkness yet visibly appearing, and he battled to keep himself in control. The tilted walls began to collapse inwards, pressing upon the space of the sitting men. He felt imprisoned but, within the maelstrom of blurred words, one word was understandable and brought a kind of scorching fire to the air: ‘freedom.’
The room became worse, more active, and he and the men seemed to begin moving around the coffee table. John held tightly onto the chair, hoping that what he was feeling couldn’t possibly be real, but his senses were, nevertheless, utterly convinced that he was moving towards a great force – a dark truth underlying the fabric of this room. Battling hard to remain in control, he tried to appear normal to the others, as if nothing was happening, but he didn’t know how much longer he could continue. Perhaps it would be best if he fell onto the floor to show he hadn’t yet fully recovered, but then what would happen to him? Would Mann see that answering questions about the building was an impossibility for him? Would he disappear from this world forever?
A blurry figure walked into the room. John felt the sensation of being on a ride at an amusement park whilst trying to spot a friend in the crowd, but the person was wearing something like a colourful suit, and he realised it must be Pete. Pete’s presence would not help, though, because the questions the reporter was asking were reserved specifically for the architect. It was John who had designed the building and, therefore, only he could explain why
he had designed it in a particular way. Pete sat down in the empty chair and greeted the others. His low, nasal voice pierced the spinning room.
John wondered how he could possibly continue in this world, even if he survived this interview. How could he pretend to be the designer of the building over the next few days, weeks and months? Indeed, did he want to? Maybe the alternative, whatever it might be, was better? As he asked himself the question, a terrifying darkness began to appear in the centre of the coffee table. The table wasn’t simply black as a result of fading light. The darkness was an entity in itself, a revealed truth, as if the reason underlying the reality of everything in the room, the world and John’s existence had opened up. Its elemental force was vigorously pulling him towards it as the room’s lines and colours began to encircle it.
‘Are you okay, Gowan?’ Mann’s high-pitched, resonant voice asked – somewhere.
John desperately tried to nod.
‘You seem confused,’ Mann said. ‘You really don’t have to answer the question. You’ve already told him you don’t want to. It’s obvious you don’t look well.’
‘I can answer some of the questions now. That’s why I’m here,’ Pete’s low-pitched, nasal voice said, consolingly.
‘But you didn’t design the building, Mr Williams,’ the reporter said, ‘so you couldn’t answer this particular question.’
Both Pete and Mann suspected that John had amnesia, although to what extent John didn’t know. Soon too, so might everybody else. To allow Pete to take over would only heighten the men’s suspicions that John couldn’t remember anything about the building. John knew this, but what could he do? The problem in this present moment had been anticipated, and John had simply been prepared to let Pete answer questions, but this didn’t mean John’s life would get any easier. Indeed, to ignore the question now might be the end for John. The black hole was growing. This world might not accept John’s explanation that he was suffering from concussion and, therefore, couldn’t answer the question. The black hole epitomised his amnesia, and it may now be too powerful to overcome.
In the terror of the moment, an idea suddenly occurred to him: one that would incentivise Pete, at the very least, to dismiss any concerns about John’s amnesia and, consequently, convince Mann that nothing was wrong with John’s memory. It was an idea reliant on Pete’s extraordinary ego. It was an horrific idea, and John’s problems would certainly not be overcome completely as a result, but it might at least offer an intermediate solution.
The Freedom Building Page 7