Regards
Martin.
Hi Martin,
Sounds very cool!
I'm kind of busy with other stuff this week, but will play around with it as I find time. Don't get too carried away though mate. That “changing me” comment is a little scary :-)
Kal.
Hi Martin,
I did it! Finally managed to create a combo file that plays automatically!!! The trick, as you'd said, was in the synch. I just had to stretch the audio waveform so that the larger amplitude beats corresponded with each shift in phase of the visuals. Heaven knows how you managed to do this manually and by ear though. It took me most of last week in between lectures and I had to hack some pretty heavy duty editing software to get the job done. At the end of the day, I guess that's why you're a pro musician though and I'm a computer geek LOL.
Anyway, take a look at it and let me know if it's the same as what you got. I reckon it must be, because it's blowing my f**king mind! I tell you, we can make money out of this. I think I know what you mean about it changing you too. It's like it somehow makes you cleverer. I seem to know stuff now that I didn't know before! Weird eh?”
Cheers
Kal.
Martin,
What's up man? You on tour or something?
I'm desperate to hear what you made of that last file. I just can't stop playing it. It's beautiful man! We need to talk though. Please get back to me!
Kal
Peter read the thread a second time, and then tried the link Kal had attached. The link worked fine, but the DZ folder was empty.
“Damn!” he shouted out loud.
“Peter! Are you all right?” Isabelle called from the kitchen.
“Yes. Sorry. Just looking for something. Don't worry.” he called back. He quickly opened up My Computer and started a search for video files. There were none.
At that moment Isabelle entered the Den. “If it's too much trouble to find that nursery stuff, just forget...” she stopped mid-sentence.
“What is it?” asked Peter looking worried.
“That expression on your face! For a minute you looked exactly like Martin.”
“Well, he was my brother,” he said, half-apologetically.
“No, that's not what I meant. That expression on your face when you first turned round was exactly like Martin's over the last few months. You're not getting into all that crazy computer stuff he was into, are you?”
“No... no of course not. I just came across some interesting correspondence with a fellow named Kal Gupta. Did Martin ever mention the name to you?”
Isabelle thought for a moment. She still looked worried.
“No, I don't think so, but then I was in Paris for the three weeks prior to his death, and so I have no idea what he got up to during that time. Peter, please promise me you won't become obsessed with that thing the way he did! I would never forgive myself if something ...”
“I promise,” he lied, getting up and hugging her. He picked up the nursery receipt from the printer and handed it to her. “Here, is this the place you were talking about?”
Isabelle took it from him, studied it and finally smiled. “Yes, that's the place. Thank you so much Peter. Can you get their website up, so I can order some things?”
The prospect of getting her hands on some new plants had obviously cheered Isabelle considerably, for which Peter was grateful, but as he helped her find the plants and place the order, his mind kept returning to Dream-Zone. He had to get hold of these video files, and to do that, it seemed he would need to track down Kal Gupta.
After lunch, Peter returned the study. He rescanned the emails, looking for a contact phone number. There were none. He composed a brief message to Kal explaining the situation and hit send. Why had Martin deleted the files from his computer, he wondered? For that matter, why had Kal deleted them from the University server? He checked the Internet browser to see if Martin had saved any relevant bookmarks. He could find nothing that seemed to relate to Dream-Zone. A Google search on the title of Kal's paper however, produced three results, of which one appeared to originate from Essex University. The work had obviously failed to be published in any respectable journals. He clicked on the link, and finally the paper appeared.
“Now we're getting somewhere,” he said to himself. It was not particularly well written, but the mathematics underlying the fractal transformations struck Peter as both clever and vaguely familiar. When he came to the passage describing the hypnotic effects, he stopped. He could see why Martin had been so eager to make contact. The sense of rising and rushing forwards were described with familiar clarity although quite how a computer generated image could do this was hard for Peter to imagine.
He sat back in the chair and shut his eyes, trying to visualise it. He felt a sudden urge to try the audio files again. It was almost like an addictive craving, gnawing away at his mind. Eventually he succumbed and ran the file. This time he tried to imagine swirling fractal patterns as the music worked its strange magic on him. If only he could get hold of the combined video file. He checked Martin's inbox again and saw that his earlier mail had generated an “unknown recipient” reply. Not only had the files been deleted, but Kal Gupta's email address was no longer valid. What on earth was going on? He sent the paper to the printer so as to preserve at least this one tangible connection to his goal, lest that too were to disappear for some reason. As the pages came out he removed the title sheet: “The Evolution of Mandelbrot sets” by Kal Gupta and Douglas Richards. In his haste to get to the body of the paper, he had completely missed the fact that there was a co-author. Under Douglas Richards’ name was an email address. He hurriedly composed another mail, sent it off and sat staring at the screen. “Please don't let this one bounce back as well!” he prayed to no one in particular. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four o'clock. Should he call Abigail now or this evening? He looked again at the email inbox and hit the send/receive button. Nothing. This evening, after the kids had gone to bed would be better. But then again, she would be more tired later, and tiredness could make her even more irritable than usual. Hell, maybe he'd just forget to call her altogether. Temporary relief versus the possibility of greater pain later? It was a tough call.
At that moment, Isabelle came in with a half bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Thought you might fancy one of these”, she said softly, slightly slurring her words. “Are you busy or can I join you?”
“No, that's all right, I think I'm done here for now.” He glanced through the window. “Seems to have stopped raining at last. Not too late for a spot of gardening if you still fancy it. I could even lend a hand if you like.”
She sat looking at him for a moment, sipping her wine. “Peter, is everything okay between you and Abigail?”
Peter was taken aback. “Yes, I think so... I mean, we have our fair share of rows, but doesn't everyone? No, I think we're doing okay. Why do you ask?”
“I'm sorry, it's really none of my business, I've just noticed that you haven't called her very much since you've been here and – well - each time you have, you've come away slightly peevish.”
“Well, you know what she's like. She gets very tired looking after the kids, and can be a bit irritable sometimes. She's a good egg though. Does a good job raising Sam and Kate, and we get on fine most of the time.”
“But is that all you want? To get on fine?”
Peter suddenly felt flushed. He imagined again what it would be like married to Isabelle instead of Abigail. So calm, so understanding... so breathtakingly gorgeous. Time seemed to slow as he stared at her lips, moistened with the wine and slightly parted, white teeth and the tip of her tongue just visible through the glistening gap. He yearned to kiss those lips, to enact that which his imagination had so often promised. He again pictured her naked body, as revealed in so many dreams.
Isabelle's cheeks partially reddened as if reading his thoughts. “I'm sorry Peter. You don't have to answer. It must be the wine.”
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br /> “It's okay,“ he said, thankful to have been jolted out of reverie before his mounting lust had become too obvious. He shifted nervously on the chair and crossed his legs. “Life is seldom perfect,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes we just have to do the best we can with the choices we've made.”
“I'm sorry,” she said again.
“Our marriage isn't perfect, but then, how many truly are? We've had some great times – still have ... and we have two beautiful children to show for it. Anyway, what is love, but a sliding scale of mental compatibility and sexual attraction? At one end, you can't stand each other. At the other, you can't stand to be parted. Most of the time, if we're lucky, the slider is closer to the good end, but it moves back and forth over time.”
“So you don't believe in absolute love - that it's possible to find one's soul mate, and never waiver in the depth of feeling you have for that person?”
Peter thought for a moment. “I so want that to be true, but experience so far has shown otherwise.” As he said these words, he again thought of his feelings for Isabelle. Did he love her, or was it simply a case of the grass being greener? His heart spoke loud and clear, but his head was not so sure. Had he not felt the same way about Abigail at the beginning? The passion of discovery accompanying every new relationship must surely die eventually, no matter how intense. Even the thrill of exploring every inch of a body as beautiful as Isabelle's would eventually start to recede - although admittedly, that was hard to imagine.
“Was Martin your soul mate, Isabelle? Did you love him as deeply at the end as you had at the beginning?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “Obviously, the nature of it changed, as did the way we expressed it, but yes, I loved him just as much ... and I think a part of me always will.”
Peter felt a surge of disappointment, and then hated himself for it.
“I also loved you,” she continued without emotion. “Still love you in fact,” she added.
“You mean like a brother or something,” he added awkwardly.
She stared at him, her eyes dark and intense. “Not exactly,” she said, taking a large gulp of wine and draining her glass. “But not as a soul-mate either. Would you like some more wine?” she offered.
Peter had taken no more than a few sips, but in three large gulps, emptied the glass and reached out for a refill.
“You must know what I mean,” she said, her eyes momentarily darting down to his crossed legs and back up again.
Peter stared at the woman before him with a combination of excitement and dread. He had so often imagined the moment when mutual feelings might be revealed through spoken word, but never in the wildest of those dreams, had the scene played out like this. It must be the wine talking, he thought with dismay. She would be embarrassed later. But then again, alcohol could surely only remove the inhibitions which might otherwise shackle one's true feelings. Deep down she must really love him. He leaned over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Dear Isabelle,” he said with a mixture of sadness and affection. “Now is neither the time nor the place to say such things.”
She started to cry.
“Hey, come on now. You know I love you too, but...”
She hugged him tightly, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. He rested his hand on the back of her head, and gently stroked her hair.
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed.
“No need to apologise - so much has happened – so much to take in.”
“I feel such a fool.”
“You shouldn't,” he said. “You just finally dared to say what we both...” he trailed off. She pulled away and looked at him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smudging mascara across her cheek.
“I didn't think it was just me.” She let out a stifled chuckle, then began to cry again, squeezing him more tightly.
He gently kissed the top of her head. So there it was. That burning question which had lain at the back of his mind for so many years, was finally answered. The feeling was mutual, but now he faced a greater dilemma. What to do with such information? In his dreams and fantasies, this revelation was followed by a delicious sequence of increasing intimacy, but now he just felt awkward. He thought of his brother and then of Abigail and the kids.
“Let's not spoil what we have,” he heard himself saying softly, while another voice in his head screamed, Take her now, you fool! “And let's not spoil the memory of what you and Martin had,” he continued. “You just said yourself that he was your soul-mate.”
She looked up at him again, sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Yes, thank you Peter.” She stood up and started towards the door. He rose and took a step towards her. She stopped and turned, her eyes like pools of molten chocolate inviting him in to bathe. Placing her palms on his cheeks, she pulled his face slowly towards hers and gently kissed him on the lips. Peter remained still, neither kissing her back, nor pulling away. A wave of emotion broke over him as he savoured the sensation. A tear ran down her cheek and landed on his chin. She gradually pulled back. For a moment their mouths resisted the motion, held together by the suction of warm moist flesh before gradually springing apart. Then she turned and left the room without another word.
Peter stood still, his feet rooted to the floor. He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in his mind. Part of him wanted to rush after her and ravish her there and then. Another part of him wanted to get as far away as he could. He had wanted to kiss her almost from the first moment they had met, but now he was terrified. For more than twelve years, he had never kissed the lips of a woman other than his wife. In spite of all the fantasies, he had felt safe in the knowledge that they were only that. It had become a game to think one thing, while saying and acting another. It had been harmless fun to imagine that Isabelle had felt the same way, without really knowing if it were true. He had revelled in the delicious pleasure of imagining an unfolding affair, while simultaneously denying that such a thing could ever exist. And yet deep down, had he not known that eventually, inevitably, he would arrive at this point?
For a while he had noticed the curious way in which such fantasising would make him sneeze. At first it had seemed like a strange coincidence, but increasingly he realised that it was somehow connected to his adulterous thoughts. It was as if something inside him was consciously interrupting the potentially dangerous stream of consciousness in order to keep him on the straight and narrow. Later he had read in a scientific journal how it was not uncommon for sexual thoughts to trigger the sneeze reflex, although the reasons were still not well understood. According to the journal, it was most likely due to a kind of hereditary short circuit in the autonomic nervous system, but Peter preferred to think of it as an evolutionary sub-conscious control system. Certainly if this were the case, then it had clearly failed on this occasion. No control mechanism had kicked in. Fantasy had turned to reality, leaving him hopelessly adrift. Tomorrow he would have to return to Bracknell, to Abigail and the kids. He turned to the computer again and clicked send/receive. Still no response. There seemed little more for him to do here.
CHAPTER 8
Doug was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling overlaid with the hazy indistinct images of a night's dreaming. An air of frustration persisted as he tried to make sense of the seemingly disjointed scenarios presented by a mind slowly hauling itself from slumber. Aggression – pain - street lamps speeding past - more pain – voices - bright lights - faces. A sense of having to attend to some urgent matter, but being thwarted at every step. The images subsided, and the glossy white paint of the ceiling came into focus. He was lying on a mattress firmer than his own, and stiff cotton sheets pressed awkwardly against his body. There was tightness across his left cheek, and out of the corner of one swollen eye socket, he could see white gauze from some kind of bandage or dressing. He tried to sit up, but a pain shot through his lower back, causing him to slump back down again with a grunt.
“Good morning my gallant hero!” came a sleepy but familiar voice from his right. He til
ted his head to the side, his neck objecting painfully. Huddled in a chair by the window, through which the first glimmer of dawn was announcing a new day, Cindy clasped a blanket around her shoulders. Under this was the red evening dress he now remembered from the night before.
“What happened?” he croaked, his throat parched and sore. “I remember the Russian hitting me...and you smacking him with that bag.”
“Is that the last thing you remember?” asked Cindy standing up and pouring a glass of water.
“Jock! I remember Jock and the others showing up. Or did I imagine that?”
“No, They arrived just as Sergei was about to start on me.”
“Good old Jock!” said Doug, cracking a smile. He raised the glass to his lips and sipped at the water. His upper lip was numb on one side, causing a few drops to dribble down his chin.
“Then you passed out and I brought you here to the hospital,” she continued, gently dabbing at him with a tissue. “You have bruising to your lower back from that rabbit punch, but no internal bleeding. You also have a broken cheekbone from when he hit you with the brass knuckles. You kept losing consciousness last night, so the doctors ran some kind of brain scan.”
“And?
“And they wouldn't tell me anything. They said they'd need to run more tests today when you're awake.”
“God only knows what I'd look like now if you hadn't hit him with that bag. Jesus! What do you keep in that thing, gold bricks?”
“A training weight... A girl can't be too careful,” she said with a grin.
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