The Cairo Pulse

by B. B. Kindred

  “They might come back, you know,” said Gizmo, sitting on the base with her legs dangling in the water. “Tides and stuff.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Too heavy and I don’t think there’s any serious tide here.”

  “We could use this raft to see how far out to sea we can get. Surely we can’t appear from the dunes if we do that?”

  The smell of our effort and exhaustion coalesced as I squatted next to her. “I think we’ve lost enough people.” I said. “I don’t want to lose anymore.”

  “We have to act, Gabriel. We don’t know what the hell’s going on out there. What if we’re the cause of it? What if we’re the solution? You must know that we can’t stay here. This is not the real world, I mean it’s real, but it’s not where we’re supposed to be.”

  “Gizmo!” Cairo hissed. “Don’t get him emotional, that’s when stuff happens.”

  “I thought it was the TV that made stuff happen.”

  “No, it’s not. The TV makes him emotional.”

  “I swear if people don’t stop talking about me like I’m not here, I will get emotional.” I said. “Okay, back to base, we need food and our beds. I promise we’ll sort this out in the morning. Once and for all.”

  Nineteen

  When everyone was asleep, I went to HQ and opened the cabinet where Cairo had stored the collected notebooks, flipping through each one in turn.

  I dreamt that people kept making a lot of rubbish and leaving it everywhere. Gizmo had written. But the people who did the most important jobs, like the people who take the rubbish away, didn’t get much money for doing it.

  I dreamt that I kept getting beaten up for no reason. It made me very angry and I got tough after that.

  I dreamt about my mum and it was so good to see her and I hugged her and hugged her and I cried when I woke up because I miss her. I think I do have a mum.

  From Vik: Dream: I was in a place where people judge each other about silly things like how they look.

  Dream: People were always buying things and some of those things had labels on the outside with people’s names on. I thought it must be because they didn’t know their own names, but I recalled it related to stratification. That made me dream about India where I discovered people were once divided into castes and still were, even though they tried to pretend they weren’t. I wondered if everyone in the other world was divided into castes of one sort or another.

  I was in an undesirable place, an institutional place. Mrs Cairo found me and arranged to take me away to a house where there was love and kindness and I was very grateful. I’m not sure this was a dream.

  Dream: I used to be someone else.

  Cairo: I had a mum and dad and brothers and sisters, we were driving along in a car and it crashed and they all died except me. It was very upsetting. I’m glad it was only a dream.

  An electric shock went through my head and it was where I really liked to be. It was a place where I felt happy, taken care of.

  I dreamt I was in love with Gabriel.

  I didn’t look at my dad’s contribution, it was all getting too much and who knows what might have happened then. I’d hoped that the notebooks might help me, but I was looking for reason where none seemed to exist.

  Bentley’s was missing, which aroused suspicion and I crept into the lodge he slept in. The notebook was on the windowsill but, when I opened it, several pages had been torn out and the ones that remained were blank.

  I fumbled around in the half-light until I found the bedroom and caught a flash of white sticking out between the mattress and the bed frame. I pulled the pages out, slowly, but probably needn’t have worried. Bentley, like most junior doctors, slept like the dead.

  The lines were scrawled in childish, chubby felt pen.

  After reading, desire to choke the life out of him overwhelmed me, but fear of what would happen if I allowed rage to take control forced me to employ some discipline. I stood over him for a little while, trying to decide what to do. When I’d considered all the possibilities, I took the indelible marker and wrote on his forehead.

  As I passed the lodge where Cairo would be sleeping, I whispered, “I dreamt I was in love with you, too.”

  I spent the rest of the night out on the dunes, occasionally glancing in the direction of the last piece of timber. Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew exactly where it was. Once I’d fitted the plank into its allotted place, the foundations would be complete, a tangible testament to my uncharted preparation. Lifting a handful of sand, I felt the speckles run through my fingers. There were more planets in the universe than grains of sand on the earth, but even this notion of cosmic grandeur felt paltry in comparison. I lit the torch and lifted the plank, dragging it into place. Standing back, I held my face to the breeze then walked over the dune and down to the shoreline. It can be a while before you’re ready. Like when you know a marriage isn’t working for the longest time, but you just keep going until you can face the fact and move on.

  The hissing began, but it wasn’t one of the others who’d turned the television on. I was on the return flight from Sweden, the landscape of cloud unrolled to infinity; grandma’s plaits and heads of dirty cauliflower, lakes of cushion wadding and spray on snow. As the sun fell deep below the horizon, the black, jewel-encrusted land was revealed to me, but when the plane began its descent to Manchester I didn’t fall with it, instead I was yanked out like a toy by a fairground claw. I held on to one thought. Keep them safe.

  “This is the six-o clock news on Radio National, with Julian Harris.

  The electro-magnetic storm which continues to rage in Manchester for a third day has increased in size and although the exact dimensions have not yet been released, those near the scene estimate by as much as a further four metres. Five people – two scientists and three army officers who were in the area at the time of the event are missing. The Prime Minister has declared a state of emergency, urging everyone to remain calm at this difficult time. We now cross over to our correspondent in Manchester, Kathryn Walters. Kathryn, can you tell us what’s happening in Manchester?

  Well, we seem to be having a little difficulty contacting Kathryn – we’ll try to return to Manchester in a moment.”

  Twenty

  A grand hallway of cream and black marble, plaster coving, ornate ceiling roses and harlequin tiled floors, the centrepiece, a broad staircase splitting left and right at the first landing. It’s a confluence of mansion and hotel lobby that bears a striking resemblance to the foyer of Manchester Central Art Gallery. The walls bulge with noise pitching me into a cold bath of terror until it dwindles into a single stream – music coming from the left. That which once nagged and tortured drips into my ears like nectar. Its source comes from double doors, I walk through them and into a cocktail bar, circa 1930.

  The song’s familiar – ‘Mr Sandman’, by The Chordettes.

  Echoes of clinking glasses and the hum of chatter, yet no one sits on the burnished leather sofas and chaise longue. I head for the polished oak bar where the barman, clad in full evening dress, greets me.

  “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”

  “You’re the barman from ‘The Shining’.”

  “Indeed, I am, sir. And if I may say so, sir, I am merely an external representation of your internal paranoia. May I recommend a mojito, sir? Most people find it very refreshing.”

  “A mojito, you say? Why not?”

  The drink appears on the bar; a tall, condensation-encased glass I down in one, feeling the burn and lift of the alcohol like it’s the first time I’ve ever drunk it. Through the bottom of the empty glass, I catch sight of two unnoticed doors at the end of the room. For anyone else this might have been a mere oversight, for Gabriel Meredith it’s a hitherto unknown event.

  I consider ordering another drink, but decide it might be prudent to keep my wits about me. I go for the
door on the right. At a less uncertain time I might pay more attention to the crystal beauty of the handle as I wrap my palm around it, likewise the carved oak door. As my noisy blood pumps, I walk into a crisp, white, windowless room, the sort of space that might be found in any modern gallery.

  The walls are alive with a divine and peaceful light, overlaid by patterns of shadow that glide across each other, floating, intertwining, separating, transforming; a bewitched and bewitching forest. At one moment oil on water, at another, leaves in the wind, geometric shapes, dim hints of human figures, rooms, streets, landscapes.

  In the centre of the room, an object burns with increasing force, revealing a gilded throne. I heave out of paralysis as the figure seated on it becomes apparent, a primate-like creature, probably around seven feet in height and naked, save for a bronze-coloured metallic headdress that makes the hair above it stand up like a monkey Mohican. Tan fur and leather skin, face covered in lines that shelter space black eyes, flaring nostrils and a frog-like mouth. It stays motionless like it knows I’m trying to make sense of it, but then meets my eyes and smiles, revealing a yellowed, business-like set of teeth. It leans towards the puny human.

  “Long time no see, Gabriel.”

  I was so not expecting a northern accent. My mouth is so dry my lips curl in and stick to my teeth, probably encouraged by the alcohol. The monkey picks up a plastic bottle.

  “Go on – take it. Don’t worry, no magic potions, just water. Hang on, I’ll open it for you.”

  It unscrews the top with long, weathered fingers and hands it to me. I grasp and gulp. Once finished, I let it slip through my fingers and clatter across the floor.

  The monkey gestures towards a brown leather recliner opposite its throne. “Take a seat.”

  I obey. The smile’s genuine and the face, if not the most attractive, conveys kindness. “Long time, no see? What?”

  “You’re the Monkey God. The one I imagined when I was little.”

  “Your Monkey God is what you see, but that’s not exactly what this is.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Perhaps the best phrase would be ‘The Situation.’”

  “You’re The Situation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying that you’re a figment of my imagination?”

  “The Situation is saying that this appearance is a figment of your imagination.”

  “So, I’m controlling you?”

  “No, Gabriel, you’re just seeing what you’ve created.”

  “You’re an entity that’s separate from me, but that’s appeared in a form that I’ve created?”

  “The Situation is unlike you and can only communicate through you. Whatever The Situation communicates will travel through your predispositions, your abilities and your psyche.”

  So, I’ve created a seven-foot talking monkey who sits on a throne dispensing refreshments to those in need. A flurry of comforts come to mind. Pockets of shadow descend from the walls, threat receding as they become three dimensional and glide in my direction; a coffee table, a packet of Marlboro, a lighter, a Big Mac, a latte and a box of chocolate covered ginger. Given the circumstances, the cigarette has to come first. I light it. The first drag makes me dizzy as hell, but I persist.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Are you asking if your memories have ended?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your memories haven’t ended.”

  Interesting way to put it. I watch the smoke from the cigarette curl languidly through the air. It’s quite beautiful, despite the deadly source. It makes me think of Cairo – the smoke, not the deadly bit.

  The walls become liquid, reorder back into the grand lobby. Sound emanates from the first floor. Plush scarlet carpet succumbs while my hand slides appreciatively up the dark, polished banister. A series of solid panelled doors line the first-floor corridor, light flickering around the frame of the seventh like a finger beckoning. I push it open. The room’s bare except for a hissing, un-tuned television. Kneeling, the light spatters my face as the dots focus. It’s Cairo the day we went to the MRI, the day everything changed.

  “But why would he start producing magnetite in his left temporal lobe?”

  “What if it’s a side effect? What if it’s not the thing at all? What if the thing was amplified by the lack of EM fields? And what could the thing be?”

  “I shouldn’t have done the sensory deprivation, how stupid am I? I should have started with normal sensory information and worked my way through. White noise. Cheetham’s radio was pumping it out before… What if the white noise in the lab...? What’s in white noise, then?”

  *

  The shape shifting walls return me to the gallery room. “The songs were a side effect.”

  “You were trying to avoid The Situation. Your brain really was interpreting electro-magnetic fields as music.”

  “Is that what the television in camp was about, then? Was that you trying to contact me?”

  “No, it was the part of you that actually wanted to contact me.”

  All those songs were just my personal version of fingers in the ears – La La La, I’m not listening. The essential paradox. White noise from dead radios and un-tuned televisions contains cosmic background microwave radiation – the song of the universe. Hear My Song. A wrecking ball of magnitude pulverises me.

  My first fight, buzzing strip lights, stinking sweat and leather infused into every molecule. Moisture drips on to the already slippery boxing glove as I hold it in front of my face. Smack. I’m way out of my league. A vague sense of others shouting from the end of a long tunnel. Make it stop. Smack. Bouncing off the ropes, I reel and crash to the floor. I want my dad.

  *

  The smell of the boxing club lingers and, in the corner, a fading image of the ring seeps back into its spectral position. My thoughts career, surge, align the inexplicable into sense and yet, even now, the sense can’t be fully accepted. The walls respond with a frantic, psychedelic explosion of activity. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. Where am I?”

  “In your memories.”

  “But why this room, this building?”

  “It’s what you’ve created. Always the architect, I suppose.”

  “What were you before the beach?”

  “The Situation is unable to say. The language is not available.”

  “You can’t communicate ideas that are beyond me.”

  “Indeed. The Situation can extrapolate from your contents, but there are limitations. The form you see is like a bridge and like any bridge it can only deal with a certain amount of traffic.”

  Click, click, click. The Situation is a real entity. I’m talking to a monkey. I’m talking to my creation. It’s all I’ve bloody well got, so I’d better get on with it.

  “Can you try to describe yourself from my contents?”

  “The Situation is a universal energy field that collects information and stores it. The information comes from all things.”

  “You’re a sort of hard drive.”

  “The Situation collects information through what you know as the unconscious. Life forms have capacity to sense The Situation and that which the Situation is connected to, although they often don’t have the means to understand it, so they create a product of their own psyche, like Jesus or Buddha or an old man with a white beard sitting on a throne.” He patted the seat. “Not unlike this.”

  Ah yes, the filtering. That’s what all those people were experiencing through Cairo’s headset. “What are you connected to?”

  “The source.”

  “What’s the source?”

  “The Situation is unable to answer this question.”

  “What are you collecting the information for?”

  “The Situation doesn’t understand.”

 
“What are you for? What’s your function?”

  “To collect information.”

  “Yes, but what for? For what reason?”

  “The Situation is unable to answer this question.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “The Situation is having difficulty with why. The Situation only knows what is.”

  Encased by the sum of my memories, I become aware of the paltry nature of our beachside consciousness, a group of jigsaws with half the pieces missing. We must have looked like your average day in my dad’s nursing home, just with a bit more energy and acrobatics and no kindly care assistant to steer us away from potential disaster or embarrassment. And that little green statue that started it all was nothing more than a product of my own inner struggle between the need to make contact and the need to deny it. It gave me the illusion of solidity. Entirely of my own creation, it was the first time I manifested a thought. Maybe that’s where all the trouble started.

  “What happened in the MRI? What did I do?”

  “It was unprecedented. Your first manifestation was crude and composed of void space. Combined with the electro-magnetic field from the MRI, it created a singularity.”

  Yep, I think we can safely say that’s when all the trouble started.

  “Where is it, then? Another Place, I mean.”

  “It occupies a space of approximately twenty metres around the site of the original event.”

  “What? What’s happening out there?”