by Darren Dash
“Baths,” I whisper, grinning as I trot to the oversized tub that comes with the high-end room. I never got round to asking if they had baths back in that nameless sham of a city, but even if they did, I bet they weren’t as grand as this one. I fill the tub with hot, steaming water – it takes ages – then yelp when I step in and have to drain off some of the hot and replace it with cold. On the second attempt it’s just right. I sink beneath the water, gurgling the lyrics to Yellow Submarine, and it’s like a cocoon when I’m totally immersed, free of the pull of work, hangovers, near-death experiences and nightmarish cities, and if it wasn’t for the lack of oxygen I’d happily lie submerged here forever.
Lying naked on a four-poster bed, sipping champagne. This is the life. I ring Hughie and Battles, tell them I’ve arrived, what the room’s like, that I’m having a great time. Then I tell them about the nameless city, the drones, Cheryl and the rest. There’s silence for a few seconds when I finish, then…
“Holy fuck,” Hughie hoots. “That sounds wicked. Wish I could trip like that.”
“Must have been the bagels that did it,” Battles sniggers.
“I bet it freaked you out,” Hughie says. “Were you a drooling mess while you were tripping?”
“Not really,” I sniff. “I coped with it well, rode out the storm, accepted the city on its own terms, kept my head, tried to fit in with the locals.”
We discuss it some more. Hughie fancies himself an amateur psychologist, so he tries analysing the nightmare. “Those drones must be how you see people,” he says. “They were your subconscious telling you you’re an aloof fucker, that the way you see it, people are here just to serve you and do your bidding.”
“Fuck off,” I laugh. “You’re the one with the God complex, remember?”
When he was younger, Hughie used to think he was a divine incarnation.
“That was years ago,” he snorts. “I’ve worked through my delusions. But you haven’t. This was your inner self telling you to grow up and smell the roses.”
“What about the city?” Battles asks in the background. “Why didn’t the place have a name?”
“Because the inner mind doesn’t have a name for itself,” Hughie pontificates. “We call it the subconscious, but that’s just a label we’ve stuck on.”
“And glass?” I ask, intrigued despite my scepticism. “Why wasn’t there any?”
“Because glass is a barrier,” Hughie says, sounding as if he genuinely knows what he’s talking about. “Your mind wants you to reach out to your fellow human beings, not cut yourself off from the world.”
“You’re stretching,” I growl.
“Not at all,” Hughie says smugly. “The woman – Cheryl – didn’t want you coming inside her because you’re afraid of commitment. You think you can screw around freely forever, but she was your brain telling you that you’ll get your card stamped if you continue to play the field – you’re bound to get a girl pregnant eventually – which will mean the death of your current, carefree life.”
I want to snort with derision but I’m fascinated. I’m sure Hughie’s making this up on the spur of the moment, but it seems logical to me and goes a long way towards explaining the dream to my satisfaction. I’d been keen to dismiss it as a bad trip, to forget about it as swiftly as I could, but this is encouraging me to give it more thought, in case I can work out other things about what my subconscious is trying to tell me.
“I could go on in this vein for ages,” Hughie says without a trace of modesty, “but we have to get going. Planes of our own to catch.”
“When will I see you again?” I ask.
“Weeks, months, years, what does it matter?” Hughie chuckles. “You won’t be able to keep track of time when you’re locked up in a nuthouse.”
“Well,” I say with a wry smile, “if I escape and catch up with you, the beers and gear are on me next time, and so are the flights to the city of the drones.”
“See you, Newman,” Hughie laughs.
“Have a good holiday,” Battles says.
And then, together, they bellow, “Don’t catch the clap!”
I watch TV for a couple of hours, replaying my conversation with Hughie, marvelling at my brain’s hidden capabilities. I always thought I had a rather dull mind – those of us who make a living from computers usually do – but this has radically altered my view of myself. Seems I’ve got an imagination after all, and a beast of a one at that. Maybe I’ll junk the computers and become a writer. Can’t be that hard. Sit at a desk all day and type. Easy-peasy. Big money in it too, or so I’d imagine.
Heh. I picture myself on one of those slick American chat shows. “So, Newman, where do your ideas come from?”
“Well, I stuff myself full of beer and vodka, a bit of marijuana, some coke, shag a few brasses, then I climb aboard a plane – no clue where it’s going, of course – choke on a nut and the ideas come flooding in.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Room service,” a maid calls. That’ll be the club sandwich. No matter where I stay in the world, if I’m ordering room service, I always start with the club sandwich.
“Hold on,” I shout. I pull on a robe, then open the door and let her in. She carries the meal in on a tray and looks to me for directions.
“Just leave it by the TV,” I tell her, digging in my pockets for loose change.
“Is it OK here, Newman?” the maid asks.
“Sure, that’s…” I stop. “You called me Newman.”
“So?” she smiles. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how do you know that? I’ve never been called by my first name when ordering room service before. Who the hell are…”
Her face changes, whitens and narrows. Her hair, which was short and dark, becomes long and fair, forming into two braids which hang down her back.
“Cheryl?” I gasp.
The maid/Cheryl smiles. “Time to wake up, Newman,” she says.
“What are you talking about?” I moan.
“You told me to wake you.” She reaches out, and though there’s three or four metres of floor separating us, her hands brush the sides of my face, then tweak my ears. “Wake up, Newman,” the maid/Cheryl says. “Wake up, wake up, wake…”
“…up.”
My eyes open. They weren’t closed in the real world but they open all the same. I stare at Cheryl’s face wordlessly. She winks and squeezes my nose. “You’re a deep sleeper,” she says. “I was about to leave. I would have, only I was afraid you mightn’t be here when I got back. Are you alright? You look confused.”
I shake my head and sit up. “Wh-wh-where am I?” I stutter.
“Where do you think…” She stops and grimaces. “Let’s not start that again. I know you don’t like it. I’ll be back before it gets dark. We’ll go for a walk, get something to eat, see where the night leads us.” She smiles. “What are you going to do today?”
“I don’t know,” I say weakly, feeling tears building. I hope she leaves before I start sobbing. Nothing I hate worse than crying in front of a woman.
“Well, take care,” she says, kisses my forehead, then leaves, closing the door – the door of my room in Franz’s boarding house, not the door of my hotel room in Casablanca – behind her.
I look round the room, to be entirely certain that I’m back in the city and not in Morocco, then let my head sink into the pillow and wail.
NINE
I stare at the sink for what must be hours on end, sinking deeper and deeper into depression, remembering the bed in Casablanca, the champagne, the bath, the TV. What do I have here? Not even a toilet to piss in.
How could I have slipped through the wormhole again? If this place was the product of a bad trip, why am I back? I returned to the real world. I spoke with Hughie and Battles. The drugs had worn off. I still had a headache but I wasn’t stoned. So why aren’t I in Casablanca, tucking into my club sandwich? It doesn’t make any kind of sense. Unless…
Unless this is
real.
The thought sends an Arctic chill through my bones. What if this city is the real world and that other one was just a construct of my warped mind? After all, I’m the only person here who believes in an outside, other cities and families, glass and beer. Can I be the only sane man in a city of lunatics, or is it the other way round? What proof have I that the world I believed I knew exists? Maybe it never did. Perhaps the plane, Amsterdam and everything before was an illusion. The pill might have set my mind twirling again, hence my detour to the imaginary Casablanca. Perhaps this nameless city has always been home and the other place was a mirage.
“No!” I scream and lurch to my feet. I refuse to accept that. I know what’s real and what’s false, and this city’s fake to the core. My world does exist. I’m Newman Riplan, twenty-eight years old, the King Kong of troubleshooters, on my way to my first million. That’s the truth. Those are the facts. I mustn’t lose track of them, no matter how weird things get. Whatever this city is, it isn’t mine. This isn’t home. Never has been and never must be. A real world – my world – exists and I have to stay focused on that. I’ve returned once, so I’m sure I can do it again. And next time I won’t lounge about in a hotel. Next time I’ll seek help and find a way to stay and…
Next time. What the fuck am I saying, next time, as though I might have to wait years for another chance. I’ve got the means right here, right now. The sleeping pills. I don’t have any on me but I’m sure they aren’t hard to find. I can ask Franz. I don’t have many teeth left but I’ll bullshit him if I haven’t enough. I won’t show him the colour of my teeth until he’s handed over a pill and then, if needs be, I’ll do a runner, hole up some place dark and quiet, pop one and float on out, leave this dump behind once and for all.
The pills are the answer. Drugs got me into this mess and got me out of it for a few blissful hours last night. They’ll get me out of it again. And if I keep snapping back, I’ll just go on popping pills, every time I wake and return. This city won’t beat me. I’m Newman Riplan. I don’t know the meaning of defeat.
Pausing only to throw on some clothes – how come I’m naked? I didn’t undress last night – I hurry out the door and race down the stairs, yelling for Franz.
He has pills and they’re cheap, ten for one drone tooth. They’re as common as muck, he tells me. I rush back upstairs once the exchange is complete and lock myself in. I sit on the bed and tip out one of the pills. I go to toss it back. Pause and lower my hand. What do I know about these? Maybe it’s dangerous to take more than one a day. Perhaps I should wait.
No. Fuck waiting. Another day in this place, when I know the real world is a mere pill-pop away, would drive me loco. I’ll take my chances. I lie back on the bed and make myself comfortable. Stare at the ceiling, then glance at the sink, the candles, the wardrobe. “Adios, amigos,” I mutter and fire down the pill.
I black out like before, then the real world fades in, sunny and familiar. I’m lying on a bed in this world too – a beautiful four-poster in a five-star hotel room in Casablanca – staring serenely up at the billowing material of the canopy. I spread my lips into a victorious smile and bring my fists up. “Yes!”
Except something’s wrong. My lips won’t move and my arms won’t raise. I try lifting my head, to see what’s wrong, but my neck’s stiff. Even my eyes are stuck, fixed on the one spot. What’s going on? I try to speak but my vocal cords don’t work. My mouth – slightly open – won’t form words. In fact, now that I focus, I can’t feel my lungs working. I listen carefully but don’t hear my heart beating.
The door to the room opens and footsteps rush towards me. Faces appear above mine. One’s the maid who was serving me when I flashed back to the dream city. The other’s probably the manager. The maid is frightened, the manager worried.
“He just fell,” the maid says. “I was bringing in his meal. He told me to put it over there. Then he muttered something I didn’t catch and when I turned he was falling. I called one of the other maids to help me lift him onto the bed, then came to fetch you. I wasn’t sure if we should move the body but I didn’t want to leave him on the floor.”
“You did the right thing,” the manager says. He checks one eye, then the other, then puts an ear to my lips for a while. Sighs and shakes his head. “Dead.”
Dead? Is he saying I’m dead? It’s ludicrous. I can’t be. How could I see or hear them if I was dead? It’s obvious I’m not my natural self – I wouldn’t be immobile if I was – but I’m sure as hell not a stiff. I’ve suffered a stroke or brain aneurysm, something that’s floored me, but I’m still alive, capable of thought and feeling.
The maid and manager leave, closing the door behind them. I hope they’ve gone to fetch a doctor. A medic won’t be long clearing things up. I smile – inside only – as I imagine him leaning over, stethoscope pressed to my chest. His eyes widen. “This man’s alive!” he shouts and the room bursts into action at his words. I’ll be rushed to hospital, hooked up to machines. They’ll bring me round. When I can speak, I’ll tell them about the other city and they’ll give me something to make the dreams go away and everything will be fine, everything will return to normal and I’ll be able to recover and continue with my life. That’s how it’s going to be. That’s how it’s going to be. That’s how…
The doctor’s a middle-aged woman. She examines me briskly, then engages in a conversation with the manager in a language I don’t understand. She’s probably asking lots of pertinent questions, what I had to eat and drink, how I’d been acting. She looks like a sensible lady. I bet she’ll get in contact with the crew of the plane and learn of my earlier attack. She’ll hear I was in a coma for several minutes. This won’t be the first case of its type that she’s experienced. She’ll know how to handle it.
The doctor examines me again, prods me, lifts my arms, opens my mouth, looks down my throat, then checks my genitals – naughty! – and listens for sounds of a heartbeat. She shines a torch in my eyes and mutters something to the manager, who leaves the room. The doctor flicks off the torch and checks her watch. Come on, doc, speak in English. Give me the good news. Buck me up. Don’t you know that coma victims can hear people speaking? Reassure me. Tell me it’s…
With the second and fourth fingers of her right hand, the doctor slides down the lids of both my eyes. Then she places my hands on my stomach and neatly crosses them. Then she leaves.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. No. No! No!
I scream as I’m eased onto a stretcher. I scream as I’m wheeled out of the room, along a corridor, down a lift and out of the hotel. I scream as I’m loaded into an ambulance. I scream as we drive slowly through the streets of Casablanca, no sirens blaring, no hurry to deliver my body. I scream as I’m lifted out and taken somewhere cool, dark, beyond the realms of hope. I scream as I’ve never screamed before, as I’ll never scream again, but nobody hears. Nobody ever hears the screams of the dead.
Time slows to a horribly thin trickle. People pass occasionally. I keep hoping one will notice me breathing, that somebody will take an interest and discover I’m still conscious, but they don’t. How could they? Even I can’t detect any signs of life in this washed out waste of a body. My mind’s alert as ever but the rest of me…
How is this happening? How can I be dead and alive at the same time? Is this common? I never believed in heaven, not even as a kid. I’ve always thought the mind is a computer — shut off the power and that’s it, nothingness, oblivion, the end. Was I wrong? Is the mind a soul, capable of surviving the body’s end? If so, then surely I can free myself from the corpse, branch out and roam at will. If the mind and body thrive independently of one another, it should be possible to physically separate them.
I try leaving my flesh-clad shell, to no avail. This body has me in its clutches and it’s not letting go. I imagine it laughing at my predicament, sneering, “If it’s curtains for me, it’s curtains for you, old buddy.” No, that’s crazy. A dead body can’t sneer. I mustn’t give in to hyst
eria. I have to concentrate on forcing a way out. It must be possible. Forget about my body. Put it behind me. Divorce it.
Easier said than done. My trouble is, I’ve always been a creature of the flesh. I never went in for meditation or mental escape. Maybe a more spiritually educated person could make headway, but I’m too used to the fusion of body and mind to extract one from the other.
Ghosts. I never thought they were real. I used to watch horror movies and read spooky stories, but it was all for fun, ludicrous escapism. If spirits did survive the body’s end, the world would be full of them. With the billions of people who’ve died down through the millennia, you wouldn’t be able to take more than a couple of steps without running into a sheet of ectoplasm. But what if only a lucky few are capable of evacuating their earthly shells? What if the minds – souls – live on, but confined to their bodies? The strong manage to break free, while the rest stay imprisoned, doomed to monotonous, motionless conscious-ness for all eternity.
I wish I could stop thinking like this but I can’t. How can you stop thinking when thinking’s all you’ve got? With a body it was easy to tune out my thoughts. I could exercise and focus on my physical being, or tank myself up with drugs and drift off into a blank, mental void. I could sleep. Can the dead sleep? Is there any rest for inactive ghosts? Any diversions? If not, I might as well be in hell itself, because I can think of no worse form of suffering than this.
For hours I stare at the backs of my eyelids, listening to the sounds of the room, anticipating the future with dread. Will there be an autopsy? Will I feel the pain as they slice into me? And afterwards. Will I be buried? What if they cremate me? I’ve always been terrified of dying in a fire. I imagine myself lying in an oven, flames roaring into life, the flesh burning off of me. A friend of a friend works in a crematorium. I got talking to him once at a party. He told me no fire is hot enough to reduce human bones to ash. When the body has been incinerated, they comb through the ashes and pick out the remaining bones, then stick them in a machine that crushes them into tiny pieces. Will I feel all that? Will I hear the shriek of the machine as it chews on my bones? Will…