by Joe Plus
“Your language, please.”
“Sorry, sorry. Then turned my body, slowly at first, so I could hide my face against the bedroom wall.”
He turned slowly and mechanically to his left, face frozen and eyes wide.
“Like this,” he said. He faced her, and scratched his stubble and, revealing a stained collar, loosened further his already loose tie, then continued. “I heard it knock something over, I don’t know, a wooden toy or something. Then heavy breathing against my ear and something pressed against my cheek. I just couldn’t move - I was… it was as if my body was switched off, you know, disengaged.” He tried to connect with her eyes and get a response, an acknowledgment. She kept her head down, her dark hair falling forward and touching the tip of her pen.
“Postdormital isolated sleep paralysis,” she said, “please continue.”
“Then my brother marched in,” he said.
“Your brother?” she said.
“Yeah Scrunch, gave me a kick and said, ‘your nightlight’s blown dude’, and that was it, nightmare over.”
“Ahuh?”
“Well I still get visions, except now I see cavemen, every fucking morning.”
She sighed.
“Sorry. Every, single morning,” he said.
“Cavemen? Every morning?” she said.
“Yeah most mornings through a passage that appears in the wall at the foot of my bed, and always before sunrise, if there is a sunrise. Once I was in Norway during the summer months and, I guess you know this but there's almost no sunrise or sunset that time of year, and still that passageway appeared, in broad daylight.”
He rubbed his forehead and pulled his nose and thought.
“Then again, the room I was staying in had special blinds like those used by old fashioned photographers, you know, for darkrooms. Made the room pitch black.”
“What does this, ah, passage look like?”
“Oh the passage, that’s not so interesting, I mean, it has amazing paintings and carvings, but it’s the people who get me.”
“People?”
“Yes, cavemen and cavewomen - usually no more than one or two at a time. They sit in the passage wearing skins sewn together with thick leather strips. They paint some kind of red stuff on their bodies.”
“Ochre,” she said.
“Oh, O.K, ochre. Do you know they have the most amazing tattoos? Really fucked up, and there’s always a cold blast of air that arrives with them. I keep a thick duvet over me even during the summer months, I…” John trailed off as he lip-read the Doctor’s mutterings of antipsychotic meds. “I know, I know, it’s my mind playing tricks, but it feels real. It’s like these guys are real.”
“What do they look like, these people? And what do they do?”
“Well they’re hairy, slope-headed guys with thick brows, wide noses, and they are usually doing shit – I mean stuff – painting mostly, but they sometimes chop wood, grind powder, sew, skin rabbits, cook, tattoo each other’s faces, tons of shit – sorry, stuff. Last night one kid was striking two flint stones together.”
“Knapping,” she said.
“Yeah knapping. Well, he was making a flint knife. There were flint chips everywhere after he left.” He rummaged in his pocket, “look I have some here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, when the Sun comes up, well, then the passage just fades away, right? But anything that comes out of it, dirt, footprints or whatever, remain.”
“Just fades away?”
“Yeah, just fades away,” he said.
John produced a handful of flint chips and the doctor raised her eyebrows and looked over her nose.
“Mr. Blessing, the chips are still with us. Clearly they did not fade away,” she said.
“Yes, that’s because, like I said, whatever comes out of the passage…”
“O.K. It’s O.K. You have nothing to worry about. We will fix you up in no time.” She made a note. John thought he saw the word Borderline. “What you have is well understood. Tell me again, when did these visions of the cave dwellers begin?”
John tried to recall the exact point. The visions had started some time after his first field trip with his father to Georgia.
“It all started in Georgia when we were racing to beat a team from the Max Plank institute to a really cool find. God, now that’s a long story. I mean, I got into big trouble because of it. I really fucked things up for the old man.”
“Go on,” she said.
“Oh, must have been fifty odd, what is it now, fifty-one, fifty-two years ago? I don't know,” he said. He looked at himself in the reflection, those LongLife’s worked – the death of the old girl had been worth it. He looked, what? Forty? “It screwed me up totally, well, maybe not as much as finding my wife in bed with Dad. Now that knocked me. I went straight to the press; spilled everything, the angels, the orgies, the drugs, my wife, Georgia, everything.”
She had perked up; she was leaning forward.
“Two sugars,” said John.
“Sorry?” she said.
“Coffee and two sugars.”
She rolled her eyes, threw down her pad, called her secretary and ordered one espresso with two sugers. She tied back her hair in a ponytail then picked up her pen and pad.
“Go on,” she said.
“Well the cool find in Georgia, it was amazing. It was a passage to a burial chamber, a Neanderthal burial chamber, a spectacular find.”
He fidgeted and frowned. The memories were bubbling up. The mindfulness, the drugs, nothing could press them down.
“O.K,” he continued, “Melody van Beek, an archeologist, had been hired by Bob to lead the dig, and she and dad fell out over the general approach, dad being, you know, impatient to get everything packed and off the site, shipped to YouGene. Those were early days for the Church and, like I said, money was tight. Melody wanted to take her time and she had the whole place sealed off to avoid contamination. She did not get it that the Russians were on their way; she would not be rushed. Oh, I should mention we were using a terrorist group to act as security. Dad employed the Islamic South Ossetian Liberation Army for protection - big mistake. Once the Russians figured that out, well, we were in deepest, darkest shit.”
A young girl entered with one small cup of espresso. John took a sip and noticed on the wall a Miró copy, girdled in thick black on a field of green a bullet of red forced its way into a yellow curvilinear triangle. Underneath was printed La naissance du jour. He thought it infantile, fraudulent, bullshit artist, he thought, and yet it held him briefly.
How much am I going to tell her? he thought.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.
“Do you mind?”
“Yes,” she said. She checked her clock, “anyway, time’s up.”
“Already? But I haven’t told you about the escape from the Russian army, the murders.”
“And I see this was our final session. I would recommend another appointment to round up. Would you like that?”
“Yes, yes I would.”
“Then please make an appointment at reception.”
“Oh god, before I forget. My sleep problem, got anything for that?”
She picked up her pad and input details for some medication.
“Your pharmacist will have your medication ready for you. It’s nothing serious, I see you suffer from migraines and have an intrinsic form of circadian rhythm sleep disorder for which you take a nightly dose of melatonin.”
“Yep, that’s right,” he said.
John had non-24, a condition of the pineal gland where melatonin is released at non-regular intervals. In his case, melatonin levels reached their peak approximately every twenty-five hours and twenty-five minutes, and so he experienced jet lag night after night except for when his circadian clock synchronized with the clock on his wall, which was every 16.94 days.
“Sometimes melatonin can induce dreams,” she said, “how much do you take?”
“Oh,
one of those pills an hour before sleeping.”
“That’s approximately point one of a milligram and insufficient. Let’s try upping the dose. That will induce a deeper sleep.”
“O.K., ” he said.
The Doctor smiled and said good day and see you soon, and John grabbed his things and left.
In the taxicab he recalled the first time he entered the passage on the Georgia dig, when he had ducked and passed through the flap into the passage. He had almost fallen backward onto the dust curtain when he saw the Bear. It was still formidable to the eye, the skull carefully set on a raised framework of dressed stone, and the hide - rotten and fragmented - hung over the framework like an old, filthy grey towel. The arms had been raised with two stone buttresses that spread back and up, giving the Bear the appearance of a monster breaking through a wall. It have survived because cave had been so bitterly cold, so exceptionally dry, constantly, without a single break for the last 35,000 years.
Around the floor was a clutter of paper note pads, sealed boxes, brushes and knives, and in one corner a small fridge. Doctor Melody van Beek appeared in a lab suit, weaving the beam of her flashlight from the right hand of the narrow passage to the left.
She greeted him before leading him along the tunnel, all the while giving a lecture on serendipity, contamination, and control. She had said that while she saw the value in serendipity, she was not able to guarantee it. She could however insist on control. She had worked for 10 years in an industrial lab and god knows how much money they had lost through bad practices, how many written warnings they had received from the FDA, how much time lost and precious resources spent in closing hundreds of avoidable CAPAs. And as for the data, she said, the data were to speak their own message, and no one was permitted to predispose this message with what one would like to hear.
Is that understood? she said.
“Understood,” said John.
“What?” said the cab driver.
John turned to the street outside. The Cape Town traffic was chock-a-block and the sky overcast. There was a light drizzle and the street was jam-packed with rain-coated pedestrians under umbrellas of many garish colors.
“Here we are sir.”
John paid, stepped out and went to the pharmacist, its neon green cross morphed into an upside down Y, evidence it was CoT+ approved. He wondered whether there was any point in more melatonin since he had a kilo of the stuff in his bathroom. He liked to take 20 or so washed down with a rum and coke just before he turned in. He turned from the pharmacist and walked toward his apartment where he would lock himself in his bedroom and return to his dreams.
Chapter 4
Log: 05-05-2044::11:20
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
We came across a mission station run by a Pastor Potts and his. I’m not sure what to make of them, with their bibles, their funny London accent and ideas of unconditional election. We gave them a batch of magazines Trish had brought along for just this sort of thing (yes, very old copies of Practical Homemaker, Home and Garden, and Biology Today – all wet and almost unreadable), soap bars, and Pringles for the kids. The kids kept asking for Marmite, the consumption of which I recall being part of a freshers hazing ritual. We didn’t tell them that we are from the CoT+. Not sure how they would respond to that, so I removed any giveaways just in case; pamphlets, a couple of stickers and any branded bits and pieces.
We continued on our way, and the opaque brown river, for all the thundering rain, seemed slow and molasses like. One of the guides walked alongside and we both held a groundsheet over our heads until there was some let-up - a bit pointless but kind of him. His features illustrate the imperfections Bob describes so well. Short limbs, a rolling gait, a sloping forehead with a high ridge-bone above the eyes, and a strong flat nose.
Our crew are strong and hardy, some armed in case we bump into one of the half-dozen guerrilla groups hiding out in these parts. Each group patrols its own diminishing region, and they tend to comprise former forest dwellers, driven off their land by loggers and palm oil planters, their young men killed or locked up, slowly squeezing them into smaller and smaller pockets. So they turn to banditry and terrorism, and I understand they are fierce fighters too. Human rights don't count for much around here, so it seems. But I’m O.K, we are with some very experienced locals who know the terrain well, so don’t you worry.
Our two interns, Natalie and Johanna, are like two teenagers the way they giggle and flirt with the porters - just two big kids. I need to keep an eye on Malcolm, especially when he’s had a few. I am also concerned about him. I caught sight of him alone at breakfast, cleaning a revolver. He looked frustrated and angry, and he was nattering away to himself under his breath, seemingly unaware of the porters close by.
There is a wealth of fauna and flora here I want to categorize. I caught a glimpse of a spectacular bird, which I am sure is a new species of paradise flycatcher. It has blue plumage around the head and a bright orange ruff encircles its neck, giving the appearance of an avian Philip III of Spain.
Log: 05-05-2044::18:20
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
We set up camp on a hillock that sits behind the riverbank. The rain stopped around an hour ago and now swarms of mosquitoes are going hell for leather. Even Malcolm is under his net reading a real book, unfortunately a piece of porno trash, you know the story – nuns in bondage - and he's drinking brandy too. After a reprimand from me, he said that, since he is doing offering his services for the good of mankind, he expects his moral bank account to be weighed heavily in the black. When I hand in a report on his reading and drinking habits, that should help recalibrate the scales.
I never tire of the red and green flash as the Sun drops - look at it, and the sky is clear. A faint gleam shimmers overhead like a silver net cast. It's full moon in around ten minutes, so no time for the shot of the Milky Way I have been meaning to get. I will turn in for an early night; get some good shut-eye. That’s not going to be easy with so much to prepare. Trish is a night owl and wants to talk about the best observation spots for tomorrow. With the full moon she will want to go off scouting – so much passion for her work, it's good to have her. I am not fond of marching around in the dark, up to my neck in grass and attacked by god knows what. You know me - not much of a girl guide.
Log: 05-06-2044::06:35
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Last night Malcolm joined Trish, ostensibly to help her track and spot, but in truth so he could try out his new toy, a kind of rifle that allows researchers to 'shoot and tranquilize' any animal without use of a chemical dart. I don't really understand how it works, some sort of pain-free pulsed energy that incapacitates. Since old style collection (i.e. killing the specimen) has gone out of fashion of late, the gun may come in handy (if it works). It comes with a guarantee that no animal, irrespective of size or species, will experience symptoms other than amnesia. Yes, that’s right, the manual uses the word amnesia. As far as I am aware, amnesia is a difficult thing to test, especially on, say, a snail, worm, or frog. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, and I shall err on the side of caution if not outright skepticism - unless of course, someone produces a talking slug, or a compliant frog that can read and write, and therefor verify the claims of the manufacturer. No doubt the gun will be the main topic of conversation during breakfast.
I slept badly - woke at around midnight, the tent moonlit and the forest abuzz; a background of unidentifiable buzzes, trills, and squawks, yet though this wall of animal farts, and burps I detected the beep of the long-fingered toad, the peal of cicada, and the distinctive metallic ping of bush frog. I had a strange panic attack, the kind where you are awake yet you cannot move, sleep paralysis it’s called. I am sure there was something, no someone, outside. I tried to cry
out but I couldn’t so much as snort. After a minute of a silence I heard a rustle and a coarse rasp, like a deep exhale, then I saw a shadow - I am convinced it was human. Eventually he moved on, and after some time I was able to sit up. I got dressed and crept back under my sheet with my knife for another half hour or so. Don’t you worry, if he enters my tent he’ll be sorry (it's always a he isn't it?).
At sunrise I performed an inspection around the tent, and the vegetation was flat on the East side – where the shadow passed by. There was an overwhelming smell: a urine-like sweet and sour tang. I was the one who put up the tent, so the flattened grass could well have been my doing, but the urine certainly was not, you can be sure of that. Perhaps it was one of those Bornean sun bears; I will ask the others just now. There’s a nagging sense that I heard nothing at all; that it was a dream.
Chapter 5
Bob was in a pensive frame of mind as they turned into South Bundy Drive, his plan was coming together, yet he felt sad – why? What did I eat this morning? Do I drink too much? The Limousine continued north, then turned left into Santa Monica Boulevard, passing the lines of garages, convalescent homes, shopping malls, advertising boards and churches.
He felt his jowls flap, sighed at his shaking hands and hissed when he felt his bowel move. He was a Galapagos Island tortoise of great age, too weak to lift his own shell. Nevertheless he was living proof of the success of LongLife pills and had a good few decades yet, albeit in an increasingly decrepit form. He could still walk (a few dozen steps, no more), could still fuck (with assistance) and could still give an impressive speech. Hell, he could manage a dozen lengths in the pool on a good day. After a century of intense living he wasn’t doing so badly. But the spores of senility were spreading, a slow but certain loosening of screws; unsnapping of locks on the mind, and that bothered him more than a loose bowel, swaying flab and hypotonia, and a benumbed, shrunken cock. For every CRISPR biohacks he had played on himself in the past, there was always some unforeseen cost, some hidden biohazard to his own health.