‘Let me see that,’ asked Megan, and took the disc in the palm of her hand. She examined it for a while, turning it over, and then she said, ‘Why don’t we try it together?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Why don’t we see if we can both go into a hypnotic trance? I mean, the same hypnotic trance? Then we could look for this “Mr Hillary” together. If he exists in trances, as well as the real world, then perhaps we can find him without even having to leave the room.’
Michael looked at Megan cautiously. He hoped that her disability hadn’t unbalanced her, made her yearn for a freedom of movement which she could never experience again. But she smiled at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back. He liked her. She was bright and intelligent and genuine. She wasn’t angry at being paralysed, and she didn’t seem to crave sympathy, either.
He took the disc, and put it on the table between them, and then pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. ‘I don’t know whether this is going to work,’ he said. ‘But I guess it’s worth giving it a try. We’ll hold hands, okay, and then we’ll stare at the disc and induce sleep in each other. Then we’ll see if we can get our auras to join together.’
‘What if we can’t?’ Megan asked him.
‘Then the worst that can happen is that we both have a well-deserved nap.’
‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s try it.’
Michael took hold of her left hand. ‘You ready?’ he asked her. ‘Stare at the disc. The disc will help us to sleep.’
‘We want to sleep,’ said Megan. ‘We want to sleep, and to see our inner minds.’
Michael gently circled his thumb around the back of Megan’s hand, around and around. ‘We want to sleep. Our will is taking us deeper and deeper, into the darkness. Our will is taking us down and down.’
‘We want to sleep,’ Megan repeated. ‘We want to rest; we want to swim; we want to leave all of the waking world behind us.’
Michael wasn’t aware that he was falling asleep. He could still see Megan sitting opposite; he could still feel the soft warm skin on the back of her hand. But his thumb went around and around, and somehow his mind seemed to follow it, around and around. He felt a warm darkness rising up inside of him, a darkness that was deep and welcoming. The disc on the table winked brightly at him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t take his eyes away from it. He heard helicopters in the distance; he heard traffic; but they didn’t distract him. They reminded him of childhood, when he was sick, and staying in bed all day, dozing and dreaming as the sun moved all the way round his bedroom, fading at last into darkness.
‘We want to sleep now,’ said Megan, and her voice sounded very far away. ‘We want to sink back into our minds.’
Michael was about to repeat what she had said, but then he found that he was slowly falling, very slowly, through soft and suffocating darkness. He couldn’t hear anything any more – not Megan, not traffic, not even the sound of his own breathing. He was sliding down and down and down, although – unlike his nightmares of Rocky Woods – he wasn’t afraid of hitting the ground. He was falling too slowly, as if he were sliding down the side of a black velvet precipice.
With slow, exaggerated movements he turned around, and found that he was sliding down a sand dune, on his back. The dune gradually levelled, and he came to rest, looking up at a sky that was seamlessly black. The sand was sunny, the sky was totally black. He couldn’t understand it. Seagulls flew past, dazzling white against the darkness.
In the distance, he could see a woman standing by the edge of the water. She was looking down at the waves as they washed around her ankles. She was reflected in the water, so that it looked to Michael as if there were two of her, one upright and one upside-down, like a playing card. Her hair was blown in the salty sea breeze.
He climbed to his feet, and began to walk toward her. As he did so, she turned, and he saw that it was Megan. She wasn’t paralysed any longer. She was standing watching him with regretful but triumphant eyes. Those things that have passed, have passed. Think of those things that are yet to be.
He remembered as he approached her that people who lose their mobility often dream for years afterwards that they are still capable of walking. He was meeting Megan as she had been before her accident – something that even Thomas would probably never be able to do. He came up close to her and took hold of her hand, and he could feel her, she was real. It was almost impossible for him to believe that he was deep in a self-induced hypnotic trance.
‘Hallo, Michael,’ she smiled. Her voice didn’t quite seem to synchronize with the movement of her lips. ‘We did it, then, both of us. We’re here.’
‘Our auras are here,’ he reminded her. ‘Our bodies are sleeping in your apartment. Let’s hope that Giraffe isn’t the jealous type.’
Megan stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘I trust you,’ she said.
Michael looked around. In the distance, way off to the left, he could see the gleaming white stub of Mr Hillary’s lighthouse. There was no sign of Mr Hillary anywhere, although there was a greyish bundle lying on the shoreline two or three hundred feet away, a bundle that could have been the body of a young girl. Seagulls were stalking all around it, and now and again one of them would dance in close and peck at it.
‘Let’s head for the lighthouse,’ Michael suggested. ‘Maybe we can find Hillary there.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ asked Megan. ‘I mean, if somebody injures your aura, what happens to your living body?’
Michael looked around, and ran his hand through his mousy, thinning hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There’s only one way to find out for sure.’
She hesitated, and gripped his hand more tightly.
‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,’ he told her. ‘We can always wake ourselves up.’
She stared up at him anxiously, but then she nodded. ‘Let’s do it,’ she agreed. ‘We have to do it.’
They walked hand-in-hand across the beach, and then climbed the soft grey slopes of the sand dunes. Behind them, the sea dragged itself wearily back from the shoreline. Above them, gulls still wheeled, searching for fish, searching for carrion. They trod through the lumpy grass until they reached the lighthouse, and then they circled around it until they found the door. A low, thick, solid oak door, with huge iron hinges.
‘Perhaps we should knock,’ said Megan.
‘We’re inside of our own minds,’ Michael reminded her. ‘We don’t have to knock.’
‘But supposing we’re not inside of our own minds. Supposing this is real?’
‘Did you ever see a pitch black sky on a sunny day?’
She frowned at him, and looked up. ‘The sky’s blue Michael. The sky’s quite ordinary.’
‘I see nothing but black. Maybe Dr Rice was right: maybe my aura’s all screwed up.’
‘It’s a beautiful blue, Michael. I’m amazed you can’t see it.’
Michael went up to the door and tried the heavy ring handle. ‘Let’s just see if there’s anybody home.’ He twisted the handle, fully expecting it to be locked, but without a sound the door opened, and they found themselves confronting a darkened entrance, chilly and fetid as a cave. They peered inside, but all they could see was part of an iron hand-rail and the first of several wooden steps.
‘I’m worried,’ said Megan. ‘I can feel something not-quite-right.’
Michael didn’t reply, but squeezed her hand and listened. He thought he could hear singing, or moaning – very, very faint and echoing.
‘There’s somebody inside,’ he said. ‘We ought to take a look.’
‘Michael, I don’t mind admitting it, I’m scared.’
They listened again. At first they couldn’t hear anything at all, only the crying of the seagulls and the persistent fluffing of the wind, but then they heard the moaning again, and this time it was definitely moaning.
‘Somebody’s hurt,’ said Michael.
‘But what about Mr
Hillary?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he won’t appear when there’s both of us here.’
‘Michael, I don’t want to go inside.’
‘You want to stay out here?’
‘I don’t want you to go inside, either.’
‘Megan, I have to. They killed one of my best friends. They’ve killed a whole lot more people besides. I can’t just let them go.’
Megan gripped his hand tightly. At last she said, ‘You’re right, of course. Perhaps I’m just a coward, after that accident. The thought of any more pain – ‘
‘I promise you, I won’t let anybody hurt you.’
Michael eased open the door, and they stepped cautiously inside. The interior of the lighthouse was intensely gloomy, and there was a strong smell of dead flowers and something else – cinnamon, potash and alcohol – some of the ingredients of embalming fluid. It smelled like a place of death.
Together, they climbed the wooden stairs, which spiralled around to the right. The whitewashed wall beside them was chilly and damp, as if it had absorbed years of seawater. At the very top of the stairs, there was another oak door, which opened outwards, so that Michael had to turn the handle and then step back down the stairs.
They stepped inside, and found themselves in a huge circular library, with thousands and thousands of books arranged on semi-circular shelves. Some of the books were so old that their bindings had worn through to the linen backing, and their vellum spines were worm-eaten. Other books were brand-new, recently published. The Origins of Sin by William Charteris. Social Conscience by Leah Brightmuller.
The library was illuminated by a single electric bulb which hung from the ceiling. It was a daylight bulb, of the type used by artists to paint at night, and it gave off a cold, frigid light. In the middle of the room there was a couch, upholstered in cracked brown leather, and on it, on all fours, crouched a very thin white young woman, with startling red hair and startling red freckles. She must have been making all the moaning, because she moaned again as Michael and Megan stepped into the room. As Michael circled around the walls of the library, he suddenly saw why she was moaning. Two gingery kittens were dangling from her breasts, each clinging on with its claws, each suckling greedily from her nipples.
Every time the girl moaned, the kittens swayed, and dug their claws in more viciously. Michael could see tears in her eyes; but although her eyes were wide open, she didn’t appear to see him.
‘What is it?’ Megan whispered, in fear and awe. ‘What’s she supposed to be doing?’
Michael slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t have any idea, I really don’t.’
‘God, that must hurt,’ said Megan.
They watched the girl a few moments longer, uncertain of what to do. Then Michael whispered, ‘I don’t think Mr Hillary’s here. Maybe we should call it a day.’
But as they turned to go, a cold voice slurred, ‘Why call it a day? I should rather enjoy having you here.’
Behind them, tall and skeletal and white-bone-faced, his eyes red, stood ‘Mr Hillary’. His long grey overcoat trailed on the floor as he walked toward them, shush-shush-shush as if the coat itself were afraid of upsetting him.
He laid one hand on Michael’s shoulder and one hand on Megan. Michael noticed that Megan couldn’t stop herself from shuddering.
‘Why do you leave so soon?’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. ‘The party has barely started yet.’
‘I think we’ve seen enough, thanks,’ Michael retorted, and protectively took hold of Megan’s hand.
‘Enough?’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. ‘You haven’t seen anything. This girl is my aperitif, before the real carousing starts.’ He walked around the couch, examining the girl from all sides. She was openly weeping now, and there were dozens of scarlet scratch marks on her breasts, but the kittens kept clinging on.
‘You’re a pretty thing,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. He reached in the pocket of his voluminous coat and produced two or three lipsticks. He examined each of them carefully, and then he settled on Strawberry Crush. With great concentration, he leaned forward and painted the girl’s lips, even though she was trembling with pain and concentration, and crying.
‘ “And the sons of Azazel shall paint their women and dress them in great finery, and shall make divine harlots of them, and they shall teach their daughters to be harlots; and all women shall be harlots until the final consuming of the world in fiery hell; and they shall surrender themselves to all who want them, and revel in it.” ‘
‘That’s not in the Bible,’ said Megan, defiantly.
‘You’re quite right!’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. He had taken out some eye-liner, and was making-up the girl’s eyes. ‘Your eyes are beautiful,’ he told her, with palpable warmth. ‘We have to make them up so that we can see them.’
The girl continued to weep and shake, and the kittens shook, too. Playfully, ‘Mr Hillary’ slapped at each of them, and they clawed and swung, and the girl screamed out loud. ‘Don’t do that! Don’t do that!’
Without another word, ‘Mr Hillary’ beckoned, and a thin-white-faced young man appeared from nowhere at all. He was wearing a black suit and dark glasses.
‘This is Joseph,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. ‘Joseph is one of my most senior sons, aren’t you, Joseph?’
Joseph said nothing, but reached inside his coat and produced two long thin metal tubes. He handed them to ‘Mr Hillary’, and then he went up to the couch and without any hesitation whatsoever seized hold of the girl’s wrists. She must have known what was coming, because she stopped moaning and began to shriek repeatedly, over and over, although she seemed to make very little effort to get away. None, in fact. Michael had the feeling that Joseph wasn’t holding her down because he expected her to escape, but because she was voluntarily going to suffer pain, and needed somebody to hold on to her while she did.
Megan stared at him, shocked; but Michael touched his finger against his lips. There was a reason why ‘Mr Hillary’ was showing them this. He could just as easily have captured them, or chased them away, or even killed them – if it were possible to harm anybody’s aura.
‘Mr Hillary’ stood next to the couch and eyed the girl’s bare back like a connoisseur. He trailed his finger across her narrow shoulders and down the length of her bony spine, right down to the cleft of her bottom. It was then that Michael noticed that she had two gold studs in her back, one on either side – two gold studs, each with a hole in the centre. He didn’t say anything to Megan, but he suddenly realized what these studs were for. They acted like the gold ‘sleepers’ that women put into their ears after they’ve had them pierced, to prevent the wound from closing up. This girl had two wounds in her back, which led directly to her suprarenal glands, and she had kept them open so that ‘Mr Hillary’ could sample her adrenaline again and again.
‘Mr Hillary’ lifted the first of the thin metal tubes, inserted the end of it into the left-hand stud, and then slid it inside the girl’s body, expertly finding the suprarenal gland. The girl shuddered, and uttered another scream, and Joseph lashed at the kittens so that they would claw at her breasts even more viciously.
‘Mr Hillary’ bent over the girl’s back, and took the end of the metal tube between his lips. He closed his eyes, and sucked. Michael could see his cheeks drawing in, steadily and rhythmically. His bone-white hair fell across his forehead, and he reached down and massaged his free hand against his crotch. There was an expression on his face of terrible ecstasy.
Michael and Megan watched this feeding with gradually rising horror. As he sucked at the tubes implanted in the girl’s back, ‘Mr Hillary’ became more and more aroused. His white hair began to rise up on the crown of his head, cockatoo-like, charged with static electricity. His face began to shine white with pleasure, a blurred, dazzling white that Michael could scarcely bring himself to look at.
‘Mr Hillary’ gradually took on an appalling handsomeness – the kind of handsomeness that could mesmerize men as well as women. He took a final sip f
rom the right-hand metal tube, wiped his lips with his fingers, and then rose up to his full height, well over six feet, and confronted Michael and Megan with a smile.
His white hair shone like the whitest silk. His blood-red eyes glistened with satisfaction and vigour. Although it was so pallid, his skin gleamed on his perfectly-formed cheekbones, skin so soft that Michael had a strong and subversive urge to reach out and stroke it. ‘Mr Hillary’s’ nose was straight and narrow, sharply defined; and his lips were two thin but sensual curves, like the curves of a Stradivarius violin.
He turned back to the girl and gave a dismissive wave of his long-fingered hand. Joseph immediately dragged her off the couch onto her feet. Then he seized each kitten by the scruff of the neck, and tugged them one by one away from her breasts. She didn’t cry out, but she covered her breasts with her arms, and covered her face with her hands. Without hesitation, Joseph twisted the kittens’ necks, both of them together, as if he were wringing out a wet towel. He flung their bodies into the fire and didn’t even bother to watch them burn. Their fur flared, and Michael thought: How real can this be? Is this a trance or isn’t it? How can I smell burning fur, when this is all supposed to be fantasy?
Joseph covered the girl’s shoulders with a loose maroon shawl, and ushered her out of the library. ‘Mr Hillary’ turned back to Michael and Megan, and he was still smiling, as if something had amused him.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said to Michael. ‘This time you came of your own accord.’
‘This time I came to see if it was you who murdered Joe Garboden,’ Michael retorted.
‘Mr Hillary’ shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Maybe you don’t want to understand. A sin is a sin, and has to be punished. There is no such thing as atonement. Your friend was meddling with destiny; and those who meddle with destiny must pay the price.’
‘My friend was investigating the assassination of a Supreme Court judge.’
The Sleepless Page 34