The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  The Remote Possibilities

  Oscar felt bruised by the city the moment he stepped off the train. King’s Cross thundered with a million tiny sounds: the heel-march of commuters, the scrape of wheels against the tracks, the rainfall on the rooftop, the clash of deployed umbrellas. He was hardened to the London rain, the way it made the whole town feel dirty, claustrophobic. Walking by St Pancras, he kept his eyes down. The giant old station with its dense red bricks and its soaring clock tower was the building that terrified him most in the world. When he was nine years old, his father had left him alone in the van one afternoon, parked facing St Pancras; and while he went off to see a man about some work at the Camden Library, Oscar had nothing to do but stare at that gothic railway station, noting every shadow under its spires and gables, imagining ghosts on every balcony.

  By the time he got to Cartwright Gardens, his shoes were wet through. It was an attractive crescent of terraced houses—some were flats now, and some quaint little hotels—one sweeping curve of bricks that seemed perfectly round-edged, as if the place had been built around the lip of a saucer. At the centre of the crescent, where there might have been a park square, there was a tarmac tennis court without a net.

  On the steps of number 41, he found Herbert Crest’s name written on the buzzer and pushed it. ‘Yes, hello?’ came his muffled voice after a moment.

  ‘It’s Oscar Lowe.’

  ‘Ah, you’re right on time. It’s the ground floor on your left.’

  The lobby was bright and smelled like snuffed candles. It was modest and friendly, the kind of place where the residents had a committee and chatted on the stairwell, where neighbours stopped by uninvited and pushed wrongly delivered mail under each other’s doors.

  A young black nurse emerged from Herbert Crest’s apartment, zipping up her raincoat over her uniform. Passing by, she said: ‘Two hours—that’s all you get. I’ll be back later, yeah?’ Then Crest appeared in the doorway, his face as pale as a sugared almond, and she called out to him: ‘Don’t forget to take your Dilantin, Herbert. Listen for the alarm clock.’

  Crest waved Oscar inside. They went through the narrow hallway into the living room, where the old man gestured towards his leather couch like a practised psychiatrist. ‘There’s nothing the matter with Bram, is there? I know you said there wasn’t on the phone, but I need you to put me at ease.’

  ‘No. I’m here about something else, someone else.’ Oscar removed his coat and sat down.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. Bram Paulsen works in mysterious ways. I told him back at The Orchard—we’re okay, him and me. Can’t we just leave it at that? I don’t want to hear any second-hand apologies.’

  ‘This isn’t about Dr Paulsen. He doesn’t even know I’m here.’

  ‘Good. Glad we understand each other.’ Crest slowly levered himself into an armchair. ‘Oh, damn it, I forgot to pour the coffee. Would you mind? Once I’m down it’s hard to get back up again.’

  The apartment had the solemnity of a doctor’s office. Papers and files were piled into an organised mess on the bureau, on the dining table, on the floor. There was a serious regiment of medicine bottles lined up on the coffee table. A laptop computer was humming on the ottoman beneath the window and there was a glass display case in the corner of the room, which housed a collection of tiny ornaments arranged in a meticulous formation.

  Oscar went into the nook of the kitchen. Two mugs and a cafetière were set out on the counter, ready to pour. The calendar on the fridge was sketched with reminders, the first week of February already crossed out. Crest called: ‘So do you think we might cut to the chase here, kid? I have to get back to my writing before noon.’ He left no gap for a response. ‘My editor’s a hardass, worse than my nurse. She wants my final draft done by the end of March, and I’ve got a pile of notes to get through. I think it’s her way of telling me it has to be finished before I die. I said to her, Listen here, Diane, I think you’re taking the word deadline a little too literally.’

  Oscar laughed. He carried two cups of coffee back into the room and handed one to Crest.

  ‘You’re a handsome kid, aren’t you? I can almost tell what Bram sees in you.’

  Oscar gave an awkward smile.

  ‘Oh, relax, I’m too old and too sick to make any moves on you. Just take it as a compliment.’

  He sat down and sipped his coffee, feeling Crest’s eyes upon him. There was a pause between them. Inside the apartment, the city felt gentler, like something containable. Pigeons circled the sky outside the window. The rain had stopped but there were still spots of it descending the glass.

  ‘So, come on, kid, out with it. Don’t hold back.’

  ‘It’s kind of a long story.’

  ‘Oh, everybody always says that. If you want me to say start at the beginning, I’m not gonna.’

  ‘Are you this tough with everybody?’

  ‘I learned from the best, remember.’

  Oscar explained everything he knew about Eden Bellwether. About how they’d met at King’s College Chapel, and all the things he’d said about Descartes and Johann Mattheson. About how he’d been hypnotised and injured by him, and how the wound had disappeared a few days after. About Eden’s email and the New York Times article, and the way Eden seemed to figure out their connection to Dr Paulsen, as if he wanted the two of them to be brought together somehow, as if he were playing games with them. About all of the things Iris had told him of their childhood, the stunts Eden had pulled when they were kids, the damage he’d done, the wounds he seemed to have healed. About everything he’d learned about Narcissistic Personality Disorder from Crest’s own book.

  Crest just sat there all the while, nodding, making noises of interest and agreement, scratching the stubble on the underside of his chin. He seemed intrigued by what Oscar was telling him, contemplating his words, stopping him sometimes, mid-flow, to ask a question or make a comment (‘And you say you had no awareness afterwards that you’d been hypnotised?’ ‘You mention predictions—what kind of predictions?’ ‘Did you feel in danger? Or did it all seem like harmless fun?’ ‘That’s the thing with these kinds of charlatans—they all think they’re infallible, unshakable, but, trust me, if you stick around long enough observing them, the mistake always comes.’). By the time Oscar told him about Iris’s accident and how Eden had promised to heal her before the turn of spring, it was well past noon, and the coffee had gone cold in his cup. There was tiredness in Crest’s eyes; they kept drooping towards the carpet and closing over. The daylight was heavy on his sheer bald head.

  ‘Well, alright, Oscar. I’ve listened to you, and I’ve got to admit it’s mysterious. This friend of yours could be an interesting case. Bottom line, though: I can’t help you. I don’t have much time left, and it pains me to let a good opportunity slip by, but I’ve really got to concentrate on my book right now if I’m gonna get through all these edits by next month. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.’

  ‘But your book is partly why I’m here,’ Oscar said. It came out more desperately than he intended. ‘What I mean is, I think Eden would be a perfect case study for you.’

  ‘Maybe so. I just don’t have any time to waste on discovery.’

  ‘But what if he could actually help you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He might really be able to make you better.’

  Crest laughed so loud it seemed to hurt his whole body as it came out of his throat. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ He looked like a teacher who’d been asked an inappropriate question by a child in his class.

  Oscar chose his next words carefully. ‘I don’t really believe he could heal you, Dr Crest. But then again, I’m not completely sure that he couldn’t—not enough to rule out the possibility, even if it’s just the tiniest, tiniest possibility. And isn’t that what your book is meant to be about? Those remote possibilities? Isn’t it about trusting in things that seem like madness?’

  ‘You’re in the
right ball park, I guess.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, Eden’s the strangest, most conceited person I’ve ever known. He probably has some kind of illness, maybe NPD, I’m not sure. But even if he is ill, it doesn’t mean he’s not onto something. The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, right? You wrote that yourself.’

  ‘Actually, Nietzsche wrote it, I just quoted him.’

  ‘Well, couldn’t you just take a look at it? See it for yourself before you make any decisions.’ Oscar picked up his coat from the arm of the couch. The wool was damp and smelled musty to him now, like those patients’ wardrobes at Cedarbrook that were filled with old dinner suits, worn once and hung out for generations of moths to feed on. Stuffed into the inside pocket, the cardboard sleeve of the video tape was still dry. He took it out and showed it to Crest, whose eyes narrowed at once. ‘Do you have a machine I can play this on?’

  Crest studied the black cassette. ‘In the bedroom,’ he said.

  The plan had been beautiful in its simplicity. Oscar and Iris had conceived it across the stiff linens of her hospital bed only two months ago. Every avenue of it had been considered. They’d talked it over so many times as she’d lain there in recovery, studying the dots on the suspended ceiling, her leg braced and elevated. It was a practical plan, disaster proof. And it had worked without a hitch.

  In the days before Iris was discharged from the hospital, Oscar had put everything together. She’d given him her credit card and told him not to worry about how much any of it might cost—just to get whatever they needed. He’d found a website called The Spy Shop and bought the smallest video camera they had. It was a black and white pinhole camera, small enough to be concealed inside a book on Iris’s dresser; digital, with good resolution, and a long thin cable that could run down and hook up to a video recorder in the cupboard beneath. From the same site, he’d bought a seed microphone, which had a head no bigger than a wood louse and could be contained inside a pillow—the webpage had said it was the same model the police used undercover. The parcels had arrived at his flat the next morning, tiny and light as jewellery boxes.

  Iris came home from Addenbrooke’s on a brisk afternoon in early December. Everyone was there to meet her, waving in through the passenger window as her father’s Alfa Romeo halted on the driveway.

  Her parents stepped out of the car first. ‘Okay, everyone, stand aside, give her space,’ Theo said, and went around to open the door. Iris hobbled out with her father’s help and the aid of crutches. Her left leg was held straight by a metal scaffold and she struggled to stand upright, keeping all of her weight on her right side, wincing with the pain.

  ‘Welcome home, Iggy,’ Jane called out, and everyone sounded their hellos.

  Iris just nodded. Slowly, slowly, she moved along through the side gate and into the back garden, her crutches rattling over gravel and flagstones, everyone following patiently behind her. Reaching the organ house, she seemed surprised by the GET WELL SOON banner that was stretched out across the doorway—thick blue letters painted on a bedsheet by Jane earlier that afternoon, hung by Marcus and Yin. Inside, the organ house was adorned with bouquets of flowers, helium balloons, and paper chains. There was a Christmas tree twinkling with fairy lights in the far corner, and gold and silver tinsel was strung across the room and around the posts of the bed like parcel ribbon. The door to the big oak wardrobe was open and all of Iris’s clothes—moved from Harvey Road—were hanging inside dry cleaning bags, freshly laundered. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,’ she said, standing in the willowy light. ‘I’ve only broken my leg.’

  ‘We’re just glad you’re back,’ Yin said. ‘You had us all worried.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a celebration,’ Oscar said.

  ‘You’re too important to go stepping in the way of traffic,’ Marcus added. ‘Don’t do it again.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Theo, helping Iris onto the bed, twisting her legs around and propping them on a mass of pillows. Again, Iris rocked with the pain. Oscar, seeing her pain, felt it too. The others looked at her with faces of sympathy—all except Eden, who simply loitered near her bed, expressionless, saying nothing at all. He stood with his arms folded, his right hand fingering his weedy left bicep, as if practising a piano tune.

  ‘Come on, everybody—out.’ Theo clapped his hands together, shooing them back into the garden. He turned to his daughter. ‘You need to rest that leg awhile, okay? I’ll come back later with your tablets.’

  ‘You don’t need to fuss over me, I’m fine.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve taken the day off work.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, you needn’t have done that.’

  ‘Tough luck.’

  ‘Where did Mum go?’

  ‘She went back up to the house. Had to make a call.’

  Iris threw her head back against the pillow and looked around the room. ‘It’s so lovely in here. The light is so gentle.’

  ‘As long as you’re comfortable.’

  ‘Thanks, everyone, for looking after me like this,’ Iris said. ‘I have such good friends. Come in and see me later? I want to hear all your news.’

  Everybody started filing out, waving goodbye-for-now. Eden trailed slightly behind, hands deep in his pockets. Oscar could see him in the corner of his eye. ‘Wait, hang on, sweetheart!’ Iris called out.

  Eden turned first. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Iris said, her voice softening, ‘sorry, I meant Oscar.’

  There was a palpable silence in the room. Eden cleared his throat a little meekly and said: ‘Of course. Of course you did.’ He walked away, head lowered, and Oscar could smell the stale odour of his body as it passed by him in a gust. Jane went to catch him up, calling, ‘Eden, darling, slow down!’ The others followed. And soon it was just the two of them, alone in the great yawning space of the organ house.

  Iris made sure the doors were closed before she took his hand and asked: ‘Is everything set?’

  ‘I did it this morning, first thing. Nobody saw me.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘The camera, dummy.’ Her eyes flicked from wall to wall.

  ‘Best you don’t know. Then you won’t give it away.’

  ‘Yes, okay, makes sense.’

  ‘I just need to show you how to work the microphone.’ He took the tiny device out of his pocket and instructed her how to switch it on. ‘Keep it inside your pillowcase, okay? It’ll pick everything up, though, so try to keep your head still. And the wire runs right along the skirting board, so don’t be too rough with it.’

  She smiled wearily. ‘Wow. This is almost exciting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it that way, if I were you.’ He kissed her lips—they were parched and briny. ‘Your dad’s right—you need to get some sleep.’

  She closed her eyes. Cold daylight fell down through the glass ceiling. The helium balloons quivered with the gentle draught. ‘Do you think this’ll work?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he said, ‘but anything’s worth a try.’

  The video played out now on the dusty TV screen in Herbert Crest’s bedroom. It was a black and white image, a little misty around the edges, the way silent movies tend to be, but the clarity of the picture was good enough: nothing out of focus, nothing too pixellated. After a minute of scratch and fuzz, the TV speakers jolted on and began to hum with the drawl of organ music. There was a surging quality to the sound—a flood of notes followed by a slow and searing drone, going back and forth, back and forth.

  The camera didn’t move. It zoned in on one section of the organ house, where Iris lay half-under the covers on the four-poster bed, her left side exposed, her leg braced. In the near distance, there was the blur of a familiar shape—a shadow swaying in the chalky light, like the silhouette of a candle flame against the wall. It was Eden. He was sitting at the organ console with that unmistakably straig
ht back of his, fingers sprawling across the keys at an urgent pace, then slowing. As he played, he stared straight ahead, never down at his hands. He tapped the sole of his left foot against the pedals, emphasising the rhythm. And as the music lurched on, it gathered force, until the passive tap of his foot became a stamp. Through all of this, Iris didn’t move a muscle in the bed. Her eyes were closed. ‘It goes on like this for another twenty minutes,’ Oscar said. ‘I’ll wind it forward.’

  ‘No, hold on,’ Crest replied. ‘Leave it. Let it play out.’ He folded his arms, eyes trained on the television. They stayed there together in the shade of the bedroom, with the outside world closed off behind the curtains, until the music stopped. Eden twisted on the organ stool, turning his pale face towards the camera at last. Even from far away, there was that familiar buffed-apple sheen in his eyes.

  They watched as Eden stood up and walked out of the picture. A few seconds later, he came back into the frame, carrying a set of wooden ladders, and placed them at the side of the organ console, beneath the column of metal pipes that towered over it. Without a sound, he climbed the ladders. Only his legs remained in shot. He stayed there like that for a long moment; then finally he began to step down. Bit by bit, the top half of his body came back into the frame. He held something under his right arm: a bundle of fabric, bright white and limp.

  ‘What’s he got there?’ Crest asked.

  ‘Keep watching,’ Oscar told him.

  Eden jumped the last rung of the ladder. Hurriedly, he carried the bundle over to Iris, who was still lying in the bed, unmoving. She seemed to be asleep. He loosened the brace around her leg. She didn’t even flinch. Then, carefully, delicately, Eden lay a white towel from the pile upon her broken bones. It looked heavy and sodden, and steam appeared to rise from it. He lay another one over her, then another, coating her whole leg in white. There were several of them lined up along her left side. Just above the knee, where Iris’s fracture was at its worst, he placed another, doubling up. He stretched his arms out in front of him, the heels of his hands pointed down at Iris’s leg. He lowered them until the flats of his palms were barely a centimetre above the towels and held them there, trembling. Minutes went by. Nobody moved. Then Eden simply walked away, towards the camera—he was so close that his hip almost brushed the lens as he went by. Iris remained perfectly still on the bed—the only movement was the rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed. Oscar must have watched this video twenty times, but this was the first time he’d noticed the trails of tears on her cheeks, captured by the light.