He was as good as his word and the Railway Goods Warehouse that became my home won a glut of awards, sealing our reputation as the hot young(ish) guns around town. Sol became our meat and potatoes and when he died of a heart attack, it was like losing the grumpy uncle with a heart of gold. Sol Junior had taken the reins, but he was a whole other kettle of fish, desperate to make his mark and get out from under his father’s shadow. He’d asked Arlo to call at his apartment the week before to show him the kind of look he was after for a bespoke development.
“Arlo?”
There was no reply. I waved my hand in front of his face, which didn’t even register. It was creepy and impossible and I panicked, trying to grab his arm, my hand passing through him like he was made of water.
I clung to Arlo’s side as Sol Junior took him on the grand tour of his Sunday supplement wankfest. Kill me now, I thought. It was a catalogue of modernist evangelism, all granite and polished concrete and clean lines with no discernible evidence that it was used by people, other than two Barcelona chairs and a Corbusier chaise, oh, what a surprise. The kitchen was like an autopsy room, the bathroom, asylum inspired. It didn’t smell of anything – assuming I had a sense of smell. I loved homes that smelt like people lived there, like Cairo’s house, all polish and coffee and last night’s takeaway and sweet perfume and cardboard files. Then Sol asked Arlo if he’d think about doing the project alone because he was more amenable. Gabriel wouldn’t like the look and try to change everything and make things difficult. It would be a nice backhander for him, cash, no questions asked.
“Amenable, is that what you think I am?” Said Arlo. “It’s not happening, mate, me and Gabriel, horse and carriage, etcetera.”
“Don’t you get sick of being the carriage?”
“You don’t get it, Sol. I’d like to work with you, but not like this.”
Then I was back in the office.
“Thank God for that.” I said.
“Thank God for what?”
“Oh, sorting it, obviously – the design, I mean. I know how frustrating it can be.”
I asked him how it had gone with Sol. He was bemused about why I’d brought it up, but just raised his eyebrows. “I guess one person’s heaven can be another person’s hell.”
“What sort of chairs does he have?”
“That’s a seriously weird question, dude. Take a guess.”
“Two Barcelonas and a Corbusier.”
We both giggled.
“I bet Old Sol’s turning in his grave.” He said.
I hugged him.
“What the bloody hell was that for?”
“I’m sorry, Arlo. It’s always me who wades in first. It must drive you nuts.”
“It doesn’t, actually. You only ever say what I’m thinking, if you didn’t I’d tell you. Truth be known, I rather like watching you. It’s quite poetic. I’ve never thought of us as anything but equals.”
“We don’t have to do it, Arlo.”
“Do what?”
“We don’t have to do work we don’t want to do. In fact, we’re not going to do work we don’t want to do anymore. And when we’ve finished this project with Cheetham, we’re not going to work for him, either.”
“You see – you only ever say what I’m thinking.”
“Do you know what you want, Arlo?”
“What do you mean?”
I stayed silent, a trick I learned from Cairo Shore.
“I want it to feel meaningful. I don’t know why it doesn’t feel meaningful anymore, but there it is.”
“Find a way, Arlo. Find a way and I’ll do it with you.”
“Really?”
“Yep, whatever makes you happy, mate.”
I couldn’t keep it together any longer, so offered excuses and made my weary way home, a home that no longer seemed like the miracle it had been the day before, however much I tried to re-summon the glorious ecstasy of Gabriel Meredith. In the end, I lay down in a pit of second guessing exhaustion. I’d imagined all of it, no I hadn’t, I was hallucinating, no I wasn’t, what did it mean, it didn’t mean anything, would it stop, would it start, would I ever feel peace again, was it anything to do with the headset or had the Meredith lift just stopped going to the top floor? And what the bloody hell was going on in my brain? I quivered as I curled up, hanging over a Jupiter vortex, wrung out from endless inconsistency and feeling spooked. I desperately wanted to talk to Cairo, but every time I reached for the phone, I’d scuttle down the same cul-de-sac. There was more than a fighting chance I was barking mad and she might feel obliged to have me incarcerated, but in the end, I dialled. I was spent of thinking I had to go through every damned thing on my own. She must have heard the urgency in my voice and suggested we meet the next morning.
Ten
We arranged to meet halfway between the University and my office, at Pop’s Deli on Deansgate. Pop’s Deli was squeezed into a recycled Neo-gothic bank and had sustained the Manchester multitudes for over thirty years. Besides all the usual Deli provisions, you could acquire eternal favourites like English breakfast, roast dinner, paella or pasta pretty much any time they were open. When you didn’t quite know what you wanted, Pop’s Deli was the place to go.
I nabbed the single table nesting in the grand porch, a stately, arched booth severed from the mayhem of scuttling plates and multilingual hollering. Cairo appeared in a yellow shirtdress and bright green hat. I wasn’t sure which style of greeting to go for, given we weren’t exactly friends, but we weren’t exactly colleagues, either. Greetings used to be simple, but they’d evolved into a cultural minefield. Some people shook hands, others hugged, or went for the one cheek kiss, maybe the two, left to right, right to left and some even did the dreaded Auntie kiss on the lips. The hugs I hated the most were those perfunctory, ironing board offerings that seemed to convey disgust rather than goodwill. Oh, for God’s sake, commit or don’t bother, I always wanted to say when on the receiving end. As it turned out, my dithering was needless; a warm embrace was offered and shared without awkwardness. After fussing over me like a glamorous mother hen, Cairo insisted on going to the counter herself, eventually teetering back with a tray containing two mugs of coffee complemented by bacon muffins. She delivered a muffin dissertation while we ate them, the upshot being that what Americans called a muffin we called a cake, but nowadays when you said the word muffin, people invariably assumed you meant a cake and incidentally what we were now forced to call a cupcake was actually a fairy cake and that you could keep your teacakes, baps, batches, rolls or whatever because the only bread worth having in that department was a genuine Lancashire oven bottom muffin and it was to Pop’s credit that he stocked them as they didn’t keep. In her opinion, they were the only credible vehicle for the genre because they weren’t so thick they overwhelmed the bacon, but still held their shape and never got soggy.
I was doing the enraptured puppy thing again, so tried to appear manly and nod in the right places.
“I’m sorry.” She said. “You’re distressed and I’m rambling. What’s the matter?”
It probably took me an hour to navigate the maelstrom. I think I managed to tell her pretty much everything, even about Stephanie Cartwright, but forgot to tell her about the overhearing in the lab and didn’t remember until much later. When I spoke about the time of revelation and its end, she let slip an air of melancholy and I was consoled by the marriage of our loss. Nevertheless, by the time I’d finished, it all seemed like ridiculous, incoherent babble and I was convinced that she’d start to carefully edge her way out from the table before she hotfooted it down the street.
“I’m sorry.” I said. “It all feels… irrational.”
“Irrational is a word people use when they don’t understand the reasons why. Vik might seem irrational, but he makes perfect sense once you understand what’s happened to him. People call Gizmo a nutter, but ch
ances are she’s a victim of unstable temporal lobes and if they weren’t unstable, she probably wouldn’t be able to make those technological leaps. And then there’s me.” She said, springing up from the chair. “I’d better get us more coffee, or they’ll be throwing us out.”
“What do you mean, then there’s you?”
“Back in a minute.”
It was then I understood the way she saw her fellow humans. Whilst others might shy away from the Viks and Gizmos of this world, to Cairo, they simply represented interesting permutations of brain activity. People like me weren’t to be feared or rejected; they were to be celebrated.
Once returned, she put a sachet of sugar in her coffee and stirred it for much longer than necessary.
“Right.” She said. “Then there’s me.”
More stirring.
“I have episodes.”
“You have episodes.”
“When I’m faced with a tricky problem – usually with an unprecedented element, I go into this trancelike state I don’t remember, but when I come out of it I’ve generally solved the problem. Or at least I’ve gathered the clues that allow me to solve it. It started after the accident.”
“Well, as unusual brains go I’d say that was on the upside.”
She grinned. “Yes, of course it is, but I always feel stupid afterwards because I’ve lost control of myself. I don’t know what I’ve said or done and it makes me feel peculiar, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“And I’m unusual and being unusual isn’t nearly as much fun as people think it is. Come back to the lab, Gabriel. Tomorrow. Let’s see if we can find out what’s happening to you. Will you be okay until then?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I think just getting it off my chest has done the trick. You don’t think I’m a lunatic, then?”
She gripped my hand. “Listen to me, I absolutely do not think you’re a lunatic, okay? If it’s any comfort to you, bona fide lunatics never think that’s what they are. Your brain just has a mind of its own right now, if that makes any sense. Well, actually, everyone’s brain has a mind of its own; it’s just that yours is on the original side, so it stands out.”
“It’ll have to be the evening – tomorrow, around seven, is that okay?”
She nodded her assent then noticed she still had her hand on mine and whisked it away.
“The experiments,” I said, “is it because you want to get back there? I mean, I’d understand, really. Christ, would I ever.”
“No. I mean, yes, obviously, I’d like to go back there, who wouldn’t? When you lose it, you understand the true meaning of bereft.”
“How would you describe it? The feeling, the high or whatever you want to call it.”
“Like you’re swimming in an ocean of everything good that ever happened to you.”
“You know that feeling like there’s a divine presence in the room? I overheard some of your test subjects talking about it. What do you think that is?”
“I think it’s probably us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s possible everyone has a divine presence within. Which shouldn’t imply any kind of supernatural belief, I hasten to add.”
“You could help a lot of people with this, Cairo. I see that now.” I wanted to help her help people. But most of all I wanted to help myself; help myself to experience it all over again.
Eleven
Vik was in the same spot as the first time I encountered him. Sitting on the hillside, he patted the ground for me to join him like we’d done the same thing every day for twenty years. The hills had turned purple with the flowering of heather, throwing a halo of mauve-green light over the landscape. I glanced at his profile as we contemplated the view, finding it hard to square his delighted, uncomplicated presence with all that I’d read about him. After my last visit, I hadn’t been able to resist an online search, gathering that Vikram Joshi QC was a ruthless operator with an impressive record of wins. His last case had involved representing George Stung, who was accused of the rape and murder of an eight-year old girl. Stung had entered a plea of not guilty even though the evidence was stacked against him. I guess Vik had no alternative but to do his best for the man, anything else would have been professional suicide and in the end, he’d got Stung off on a technicality. Vik’s colleagues later reported that he took it very badly, becoming increasingly moody and erratic. Three weeks later, another girl died the same way. Apparently, Vik had hunted Stung down and there’d been an altercation that resulted in Vik suffering a serious head injury. Once his physical injuries healed, he was taken to a nearby institution, unaware of his previous existence. I guess that’s where Cairo found him.
“You have been in another I.” He said.
His expression contained a hint of mischief. I had an urge to keep him close, like he was an echo of the sensed presence experience. It took me a moment to work out what he meant.
“Yes, but that I has gone, Vik.”
“That I has not gone, Mr Gabriel.”
“Then where is it?”
“Where it’s always been.”
“Mystic riddles aren’t really my thing, Vik.”
“Well, Mr Gabriel, the Tao that can be named is not the Tao.”
“And what does the Tao mean?”
“It means the way, the path.”
Are you in the other I, Vik?”
“I’m in it enough.”
“What is the other I, then?”
“The I that is not your thoughts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you ever witness yourself thinking?” He said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Who is the witness?”
The question winded me, inducing an unwelcome sensation in my solar plexus.
“What about before, Vik? What was it like for you, then?” I cursed as soon as the distracting words were out of my mouth. Cairo had warned me not to make any reference to Vik’s previous existence.
“I remember that I once bought a shiny new washing machine, Mr Gabriel. I had the previous one for ages then, water started pouring out of it, what a mess it made. It was obvious that I needed to get a new one. Then I saw my clothes so smooth and sparkling and fresh. I must have been doing my washing in a useless machine full of fluff and dirty water for the longest time. I didn’t spot it because it happened over many years; every day a little more dirt, a little more grease, a little more fuzz, a little less water running through the wastepipe. It happened so slowly that I didn’t notice it until I had to.”
“Are you talking about you or me, Vik?”
“I’m talking about us all, Mr Gabriel. But what do I know? I’m just an everyday madman. But perhaps we are not so different – you, me, Mrs Cairo. We are all people who started off in one world then came to live in another. Perhaps that is even true of Gizmo. The realm of codes and bytes is just as real to her as this sunset is to us. Will you give me a lift? I would very much like to be in your car, it’s so quiet and shiny. And Mrs Cairo will be much less inclined to give me a telling off if you’re there.”
I understood why she’d got him out of the hospital, why she protected him so fiercely. I’d gladly have taken him home myself.
*
I was a little put out when the headset was positioned by Gizmo rather than Cairo and mused on potential reasons. Some of the reasons were appealing, but others weren’t. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, perhaps she had things to do in the lab.
Buzzing with anticipation in the idling chair, I snooped on the preamble, resolving to confess as soon as it was over.
“Okay, Gizmo, you’ve checked every millimetre of the equipment, he’s in an empty room with a headset clad in the finest cable shielding known to humankind. What could happen?”
“Well, let’s fi
nd out, shall we?”
“Look – there it is again, that beat from his left temporal. I’ve been racking my brains about it, but I just don’t know what it is.”
There were no songs in my head; there was so much nothing it seemed like something. Then it came.
“Hear My Song…”
Oh, it was a searing night. Where were we? My dad had parked the car up and opened all the doors. It was near the beach, but there were trees. Perhaps it was Formby. I was about seven and in an enchanted, secret adventure. The scent of petrol and leather, carried with a hint of Chanel Number Five, rarely bought and carefully eked out. My dad switched the radio on and held his hand out to my mum in an invitation to dance and I was beguiled by the way her full skirt swung in anticipation as she stepped out of the car. They smooched like a couple of teenagers, a silhouette through the sharp radiance of the headlights as I watched them trip the sand fantastic, a magic capsule of all my seven-year old heart found dear.
“Hear My Song…”
Predisposed by silken tranquillity, I spoke through the far place of my mind. I hear it. I feel you. I’m here with you. Oh, the rapture of it all.
“Okay Cairo, what the holy hell is going on? He’s isn’t within a sniff of an EM field, he’s producing underlying alpha waves that indicate sleep, but his brain’s doing a light show to the beat of a slow tango. This is officially impossible. This man is clearly not human.”
“Gizmo, are you sure…”
“Don’t say it. Everything is fine, gazillion checked, hunky dory. I’d put my own new born baby in there, were I ever to have such a thing, which is unlikely given my sexual orientation. Well, there’s always the turkey baster, I suppose.”
“What the hell is that, Giz?”
“Not a bloody clue. He isn’t connected to the pulse, but it’s pulsing and what’s more, it’s pulsing to a pattern I don’t even recognise. I think it might be time to panic, now.”
I heard a rippling sound, a little like thunder.
The Cairo Pulse Page 6