Biblical

by Christopher Galt

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but we’re not the people to make them. This isn’t about winning Big Sky or Full Frame awards, it’s about winning viewers. About solid Nielsen.” Elmes sighed, leaned back in his chair and ran the fingers of both hands through his dark hair. As he pushed his hair back from his brow, Hudson noticed with malicious gratification that Elmes’s hairline was receding. I may be getting old, Hudson told himself, but at least I’ve got a full head of hair.

  “I know it’s difficult to accept,” continued Elmes, “but things have changed. This is all about living reality, not the Ken Burns effect. Like you said, at one time American TV audiences were interested in the world around them, looking outwards and into the lives of others. That’s all changed. Television isn’t a telescope any more, it’s a microscope. It’s all about looking inwards, at ourselves, at lives like ours. I’m not saying that’s right, but that’s the way it is.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it. Or at least as far as your pitch ideas are concerned. Sorry.” Elmes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and closing the distance between him and Hudson. “I want you to know something Jack: I watched your stuff all the time, when I was at school and then college. All your documentaries. I always considered them – and still do – as an essential part of my education. You were a huge influence on me … an inspiration. And a big part of why I chose television as a career.”

  Hudson held his hands open in a so-what’s-your-point? gesture. It was a small-minded, ungracious act and he knew it.

  “Yours is a talent that is still needed,” Elmes continued, undeterred. “A talent we can still use to great effect. Your name behind a project still carries a lot of weight. Gravitas. And I think we have something that would be perfect in your hands. Something that would benefit from a producer of your experience. And it is a documentary.”

  “Okay, let’s have it,” Hudson sighed.

  “Have you ever heard of someone called John Astor?”

  36

  JOHN MACBETH. BOSTON

  Macbeth and Corbin crossed back over the open green space of the Upham Bowl, in front of the main administration building courtyard, passing a maple tree that stood elevated on a small knoll. When he’d been at McLean, Macbeth had spent many afternoons sitting on the grass at the foot of that particular tree, writing up research notes. He had always understood why, for many, McLean had provided an environment for creative effort: it had been here that Sylvia Plath’s bell jar of depression had been lifted, albeit temporarily, inspiring the poet to write her only novel.

  “So what do you think?” asked Corbin as they sat eating lunch in the de Marneffe Cafeteria.

  “About the Carbonara or about Deborah Canning?” Macbeth stirred his pasta with his fork. “I’m beginning to get an unpleasant feeling that you didn’t forget about my last patient here. The one I treated in that very same room.”

  “Debbie is exhibiting the same classic Dissociative Identity Disorder traits your patient did: depersonalization, derealization, amnesia and personality-trait loss.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” Macbeth frowned. “But my patient displayed the key symptom: multiple personalities. Debbie doesn’t have multiple personalities; she’s struggling to hang on to the one she’s got.”

  Corbin leaned forward. “What if there are alters – personalities she retreats into but doesn’t show us? These absences she has – the long periods she believes she doesn’t exist because there’s no one there to validate her existence – she could be escaping into other identities. It’s just that her alters play out internally, in her head, and we don’t get to see them.”

  “Listen Pete, any Dissociative Identity diagnosis is controversial. There have been no diagnoses outside the US and even here there’s a large body who think it’s hooey. I stuck my neck out with my DID diagnosis of my last patient here and it ended up with him dead and me before a committee. It’s the reason I went into research. You want my opinion on Debbie? Cotard’s Delusion. It’s the most elaborate and coherently structured case I’ve seen, but that’s what I’d go for.”

  “But she doesn’t believe that she’s dead,” said Corbin.

  “Believing she’s non-existent is the same thing and more consistent with her internal logic – plus her work has added a very specific twist. Patients with Cotard’s Delusion of Death often believe they inhabit the world as disembodied spirits. It’s just a belief in ghosts is not part of Debbie’s premorbid intellectual architecture.”

  Corbin finished a mouthful of food. “I know DID is controversial and that you had your fingers burned – but I went through your case notes and I think you were right. Your patient’s suicide was unforeseeable, given his progress, and had nothing to do with your diagnosis. I think that Debbie is displaying many of the same symptoms.”

  “God, Pete, that’s a stretch.” Macbeth thought for a moment. “Okay, let me talk to her again. There’s a cop coming in from California – Ramirez. He wants to talk to her if you’re okay with it. I’d like to be there too.”

  “Okay,” said Corbin cautiously. “But I want you to remember that I called you into this as a colleague and a professional, not because of your previous involvement with Melissa. I want Debbie to remain the priority.”

  Macbeth nodded. “Of course.” He gave Corbin Ramirez’s contact details.

  “I’ll see what can be arranged.” said Corbin. “By the way, I meant to show you this …”

  They had reached the main administration building. Corbin struggled with the file he was carrying, eventually taking out a foolscap sheet of lined paper and handing it to Macbeth. It was filled from top to bottom with neat, very small and very careful handwriting.

  “When she was first admitted, Debbie spent entire days writing that same line, over and over again. I have thirty pages exactly the same as that one.”

  Macbeth read the line.

  WE ARE BECOMING.

  37

  JACK HUDSON. NEW YORK

  “John Astor the founder of the Astor dynasty,” asked Hudson, “or John Astor the Internet spook everyone’s talking about?”

  “The latter,” said Elmes. “And he’s more than an Internet spook. Much, much more. The FBI have a strangely serious interest in him and he’s rumored to be connected to some kind of cult.”

  “One of these fanatical religious groups?” asked Hudson.

  “This is where it gets confusing. Some reports link him to Blind Faith, the fundo-Christian group, others with a group calling themselves the Simulists, some kind of science-based Doomsday cult. They’re behind the we are becoming ‘graffiti’ you see all over the place. Remember how they found the billionaire Samuel Tennant starved to death in his Park Lane penthouse?”

  “I remember …”

  “Tennant was connected to the Simulists. There’s a rumor that, just before he did his Howard Hughes act, he claimed to have gotten his hands on a copy of Astor’s book, Phantoms of Our Own Making.”

  “This is all beginning to sound like some New World Order, Illuminati conspiracy crap,” said Hudson.

  “Hear me out, Jack. I put a researcher onto Astor’s history. Turns out there is one. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s there.”

  “In what way doesn’t make sense?”

  “For a start, the chronology of it means Astor should either be dead or impossibly old. He was important in twentieth-century philosophy, but more as a shadow than a figure. He’s claimed to be the author of several incredibly influential philosophical works, none submitted for publication and most in the form of private correspondence with other philosophers, particularly philosophers of science.”

  Hudson leaned forward. “Go on …”

  “Well, despite his correspondents being meticulous preservers of such writings, none of these letters or essays have survived his death.”

  “But he’s supposed to be still alive …”

  Elmes shrugged. “We don’t know when, where, how or even if he died. Nor d
o we know where and when he was born. You see, John Astor’s existence only comes to us through these writings. Almost as if he exists only in reflection by others. I’m telling you, it’s a mystery. And one I think you are the best person to clear up … and to make one hell of a documentary about it.”

  Jack leaned back into his chair again, his expression wary. “And exactly how is a piece about a mysterious twentieth-century philosopher, who may or may not have existed, sexier than the European Integration piece I’ve just pitched?”

  “Okay … For starters, we know that philosophers from Henri Poincaré to Karl Popper and a whole lot of others were aware of or had contact with Astor and many were greatly influenced by him.”

  “So?”

  “Just taking those two examples, Poincaré died when Popper was ten years old. How could Astor have had peer-level friendships with them both? For that matter, how could he possibly still be alive today? Yet there are mentions of him – of clearly the same character – in the writings of half a dozen philosophers of science right through the twentieth century, up until today. And this is the doozy – there’s an urban legend that if you manage to track down the manuscript for Astor’s book, reading it drives you mad. That’s what’s supposed to have happened to Tennant.”

  “Okay … here we go,” Hudson sighed. “For a moment I thought we were discussing something credible and worthwhile.”

  “You want to do something quality, Jack? That’s what I’m giving you. Have you heard the rumor about the book or not?”

  “I’ve heard it. Pure crap.”

  “Maybe so, but the fact is that fragments of the manuscript have been found – buried deep in the Internet. They’re supposed to be from Astor’s book, the book Tennant got hold of before he starved himself to death. But the really big thing is what this manuscript is all about. The earthquake that never was in Boston, and all of the other stuff that’s going on all around the world – people having visions, seeing ghosts – in his book, Astor is supposed to have predicted them happening.”

  “Come on, Tony – you know all kinds of conspiracy nut are all over the Boston thing. Everything from aliens to the CIA to the Illuminati to secret Nazi mind-weapons hidden deep beneath the Antarctic ice. In fact, there’s one website that claims it’s all of the above working together.” Hudson shook his head. “Sometimes the intellectual power of our great nation leaves me humbled.”

  “Well, while all of these conspiracy theories are the usual …” Elmes struggled for the right word.

  “Apophenia,” Hudson helped him out. “The tendency to see patterns and connections between things where there are none. Joining up dots that aren’t there.”

  “Apophenia,” Elmes repeated. “Is that a word? Anyway, all of that crap is going on and it’s confusing the real issue, which is that we’re not getting the whole story. These hallucinations are happening all over the world and they’re getting bigger and worse. The story is that this Astor manuscript not only predicted exactly what is happening, but explains it. And it’s that explanation that’s supposed to be so momentous and terrifying that it drives you mad.”

  “You said yourself that the fragments that have been found have been on the Web … how do you know it’s not just some geek making it up as he goes along? Post-rationalizing events after they happen?”

  “This isn’t the first time Astor’s authored a mysterious work with a restricted circulation. In the nineteen-sixties there were rumors of another book called The Last Mortals. It’s supposed to be linked to the latest manuscript and there was a rash of suicides connected to it, just like with this one.”

  “You believe all this crap?”

  Elmes sighed. “I believe there’s enough in it to warrant an investigation, at least. Are you interested or not?”

  “In my time, I have exposed political scandals, humanitarian tragedies, war crimes … do you really think that I’m going to take on some half-assed conspiracy theory bullshit like this?”

  “I take it that’s a no?”

  “That’s a no.”

  “I really don’t think you can afford to say no to any project at the moment, if I’m frank, Jack.” Elmes pushed the red file across the table to Hudson. “Do me a favor … at least read through the information first, then give me an answer.”

  Hudson regarded Elmes for a moment. Despite what he wanted to believe about the younger man, he was sincere. A good kid. A good kid who shouldn’t be his boss, but was. Hudson stood up, picking up the file from the table.

  “I’ve already given you my answer,” he said. “But I’ll take a look.”

  *

  Jodie Silverman was waiting for them in the hallway with a tablet PC tucked under her arm. Or more correctly, she was waiting for Elmes and largely ignored Jack Hudson’s presence. Silverman was dark-haired, attractive without being exceptional, with a good figure smartly dressed. She was the kind of studio pussy that Hudson had bagged by the dozen, back in the day. But things had changed: attitudes, mores, even regulations about workplace behavior. And Hudson wasn’t the man he had been. Silverman was one of those edgy, flinty, chipon-the-shoulder career bitches, but that didn’t stop Hudson speculating that Elmes was maybe fucking her.

  “Hello Jodie,” said Hudson. “You’re looking lovely today.”

  He laughed out loud when she ignored him.

  “We’ve got a production schedule meeting at eleven,” she told Elmes. “I’ve brought your notes.” She tapped with a varnished nail the tablet PC she held. “You okay?”

  Elmes had stopped his progress along the hallway, a strange expression on his face, his posture almost unsteady. “Whoa … I just had the most weird feeling of déjà vu …”

  “Not again …” Hudson laughed at his own witticism. Silverman didn’t and he thought about how she really, really needed to get laid.

  “You okay, Tony?” she asked again.

  “I’m fine,” Elmes said. “But that was weird.” He shook his head and gave a small laugh. “I’ll let you know if I start having visions.”

  “Visions?” asked Hudson.

  “Boston Syndrome – that’s the way it’s always supposed to start, with déjà vu. Or so they say.”

  “Well, try to hallucinate a project for me that’s worth doing.”

  “That’s what I’ve just given you, Jack,” said Elmes in a tone that warned Hudson he was pushing his luck a little too far. Elmes stopped again. “Do you smell something?” he asked.

  “Other than corporate bullshit, no …” Hudson said.

  “I’m being serious … Do you smell burning?” “Burning?”

  Silverman became suddenly alert and sniffed at the air. “No … I don’t smell burning.”

  “Me neither,” said Hudson.

  Elmes remained silent for a moment then again shook his head. “I was sure I could smell burning. It’s gone now.” They started along the corridor again and reached the elevator hall, a wide, bright space about twenty feet square. The two side walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over Midtown Manhattan. “I’ve got to go to this scheduling meeting, Jack. Promise me you’ll give that –” he tapped the red file Hudson held “– the consideration it deserves. We’re going to be doing something on it, one way or another, and I’d really rather that it was you at the helm.”

  “I said I would look at it and I will. But I think—”

  “Don’t say you can’t smell that?” Elmes cut him off, looking around the elevator hall anxiously.

  “I don’t smell anything,” said Hudson.

  “Me neither …” Silverman looked anxiously at Hudson, then back to Elmes.

  “You’re kidding …” Elmes sniffed urgently at the air and began pacing the hall, scanning the corridors leading to it, examining the elevator doors. “How could you not smell that? It’s getting stronger. Shit … something’s burning somewhere.”

  “I don’t smell a thing …” said Silverman, her groomed corporate composure gone.

  “Do you
smell it? Tell me you smell that …” Elmes turned to Hudson, waving a hand to indicate the air around them.

  “Take it easy, Tony …” Hudson stepped forwards and placed his hand on Elmes’s shoulder; the younger man shrugged it away, looking at Hudson as if he were mad.

  “Christ … Christ … something’s on fire …”

  “Calm down … There’s nothing. Take it easy …”

  Suddenly, Elmes backed away, shrinking back and pressing himself against the wall opposite the elevators. “Look! For fuck’s sake, look!”

  “Look at what?” said Hudson, who then turned to Silverman. “Get someone! Get a doctor.”

  “The smoke!” Elmes began coughing. Scrabbling his way along the wall as if trying to escape something the others could not see. “What the fuck is wrong with you? We’ve got to get out of here … We’ve got to get out of here now!”

  “Jesus … look at his eyes!” Silverman said. Hudson could see the producer’s eyes all right: red, inflamed, streaming with tears. Elmes started to cough uncontrollably, to splutter, saliva sleeking his lips and dangling in viscous threads from his mouth, his face red. He tore desperately at his unbuttoned shirt collar, as if it was strangling him.

  “I told you to go and get a fucking doctor!” Hudson yelled at Silverman, who backed away, her gaze fixed on the gasping Elmes. “Go!”

  She turned and ran.

  Hudson stepped forward and grabbed Elmes by the shoulders. “Listen, Tony … you’re having some kind of attack. You’re seeing things. Jodie’s gone to get help … in the meantime, try to stay calm.”

  “You’re mad! You’re crazy! We’ve got to get out of here! Look!”

  “Look at what?”

  “The flames, for Christ’s sake! The fire! Jesus! Jesus!”

  “Tony, there’s no fire …”

  Elmes shoved his colleague away violently, causing him to fall backwards. When Hudson got up, he saw Elmes extend his arms like a blind man, his wide-open, streaming eyes unseeing. His coughing was now constant, wracking, and he seemed to fight for every breath.