Plato's Cave

by Russell Proctor

  "We're at the uni lab," he said, his voice modulating in volume and with a background of clicks and hisses. "We're going to watch the sky spilt from here. It might be a good idea if you joined us."

  "Can Joanna come?"

  "Sure. And bring the plant too."

  "The what?"

  "Heather's plant. What's it called? Mike. I want to have a look at it, too."

  "I'm not sure she'd like that."

  David had suggested that Heather bring her precious plant to Joanna's place the night before. He had not yet said why. I wasn't sure if he understood Heather's curious fondness for Mike – I sure didn't – or how upset she might be if he was removed without her permission. After a second, however, he said, "Well, just bring one leaf or something. And some of the soil, too. I need some samples."

  If David had taken a sudden interest in botany that was his concern. Anything was better than hanging around Birgili. The chanting that issued from Joanna's study was beginning to be obtrusive. Besides, he had started to burn something really stinky, redolent of old socks and stale fart.

  "When do you want us?"

  "As soon as you like."

  I paused a second. "Are you going to hook me up to anything? I mean, are we talking electrodes here?"

  I could hear him smile on the other end of the line. "Only about twenty thousand volts direct to the cortex," he said. "Nothing you can't handle."

  It sounded inviting. "At least it means I have a brain," I said. "There have been times."

  He chuckled and I liked the sound of it. "See you soon."

  We wrote a note for anyone else who might turn up, finished lunch, and headed for the university, closing the door on the Maestro and his chanting, which had taken on a cold, menacing edge. I hoped he wasn't going to involve Bruno as a familiar or anything.

  ***

  We were being followed. Joanna noticed the car in her rear view mirror soon after we turned onto Coronation Drive: a station wagon with a TV news service logo on it. It moved up from a few cars behind and sat on our tail. I gave them the finger; they pretended to ignore me. A stand-off.

  "I'm going to sue Bob Kirke," said Joanna. "That newspaper article mentioned me as well as you. These guys must have been waiting for us outside my house."

  We drove through Toowong. The news car kept following. Just before the bridge over the railway line, Joanna indicated a right turn onto the bridge, even though the university was straight ahead. The station wagon obediently followed us into the turning lane. Joanna slowed down, trying to time things correctly with the traffic lights. At the last minute she glanced over her shoulder, dropped down a gear, swung back into the left hand lane and kept going. We narrowly missed a car coming up in the lane, the driver of which honked his horn angrily and slammed on his brakes. The station wagon was almost caught. It had to brake suddenly and slip into the left hand lane behind the other car. There was a satisfactory squeal of tyres. We continued on through the lights.

  "Nice try," I said. "Where did you learn to drive like that?"

  "Peak hour," she said.

  At the next set of lights where we had to turn left onto Sir Fred Schonell Drive, Joanna sped up as the lights turned amber, trying to leave the news car with the red. I was flung sideways as we rounded the corner, clutching the door with one hand and the leaf we had taken from Mike with the other. The news car was too close behind: it made the corner and kept with us.

  "I'm going to complain to their boss," said Joanna. "They're getting dangerous."

  It was now obvious where we were going, but the news car kept close behind. Any attempt to lose them in the side streets would not work because they could still catch us at the university gates. We turned left at the roundabout and headed for the public car park.

  "We'll just have to brazen it out," I said. "I hope David can stop them entering the lab."

  We spied a young man in a lab coat standing beside David's car as we swung into the car park. He waved and we pulled up beside him.

  "Hi, my name's Stuart Whittaker," he said. "I'm with Dr Nabarlambarl. He sent me to meet you."

  We climbed out of Joanna's car just as the news car pulled up. Stuart was thin, tall and a bit weedy, but he glared at the reporters and squared his shoulders under his loose-fitting white coat as if spoiling for a fight.

  "Trouble?" he asked us.

  "Call campus security," said Joanna. "They're being a pain in the butt."

  There were two men in the car and they were fishing out a microphone and a camera. As we got out of Joanna's car, Stuart went over to them, smiled and said "Hi."

  "Hi," said the one with the microphone, in a tone that showed he was really not interested in him. The cameraman hefted his equipment onto his shoulder and pointed it in my direction.

  I held Mike's leaf in front of my face, the broad frond a nice screen from the camera. Max's camera I only just tolerated; I certainly wasn't taking it from these guys. I also hate having microphones pushed in my face. And I especially hate being asked demanding questions that are really none of anyone's business.

  "Ms Branwell," said the man with the microphone as we tried to go through the exit. "Have you any comment about the recent events that have taken place around your home?"

  I decided that attack was the best form of defence. "Are you married?" I asked.

  "Sorry?"

  "How old were you when you stopped wetting the bed?"

  "Ms Branwell, will you be watching the split sky this afternoon?"

  "When did you lose your virginity?" If he was interested in personal questions, I could certainly oblige.

  Stuart was leading us out of the car park towards a brick building fronted by a courtyard. A sign over the glass doors read PHYSICAL SCIENCES. The reporters were following us, the camera whirring away. It swung onto Joanna.

  "Ms Clifford, as a leading psychic, what is your opinion about..."

  "It's Miss Clifford," she said. "Arsehole."

  Stuart led the way into the building, standing aside to let us past and closing the door behind us. "Left at the end of the corridor," he said. "Room 122." We hurried on, while he turned to face the reporters, pulling out his mobile and dialling.

  "Hello, Security please," I heard him say as we turned the corner.

  "They're going to crucify us on TV tonight," Joanna said to me.

  I shrugged. "I had no reputation to start with."

  Room 122. The door was open and David was inside. He was still in last night's clothes. In contrast to Max's mess, David's office was quite neat, although filled with books and various bits of apparatus. He was also wearing a lab coat and was, as usual, tapping away on his iPad. This obsession of the scientist faction with small computers was beginning to be stereotypical. Still, at least none of them sported thick glasses that had been repaired with sticking plaster, or had pens sticking out of their top pockets. As we entered, he stopped typing and stood up, smiling.

  "Stuart find you ok?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Joanna, "We brought some unwelcome visitors with us. Reporters. He's just calling Security."

  "Fine. Well, thanks for coming. And for bringing the leaf."

  I put it down on the desk together with the little jar of soil I had scraped from around Mike's roots. I thought Mike had looked a bit dry when I took the sample, but I couldn't care less. If Heather wasn't going to water him, it was none of my concern. "What did you want these for?"

  "They could be very important."

  I stared at the horrible leaf and the soil and hoped David might do something nasty to them.

  "Going to chop it up into little pieces?" There must have been a gleam in my eye, because David looked startled.

  He examined the leaf carefully and moved his iPad around so I could see the screen. There was a picture of Mike on it. Max had used a digital camera to take some shots of him the night before.

  "I emailed these pictures to a friend in the Botany department here at the university," he said. "I wanted to see if h
e could identify it. He was curious as to where the specimen came from. Do you know where Heather got Mike?"

  "I've no idea," I said. "She had him when she moved in. That was two years ago. Why?"

  "Because it doesn't seem to belong to any known plant species."

  David referred to Mike as it, whereas I thought of him as a him, mainly because Heather always did. But this last remark made me reconsider: Mike was more of an it. Maybe more than I had first realised. The comment took me by surprise. Strange to say, I had never wondered what sort of plant Mike was. He was just Mike. Bruno was the same: he was just a cat, no particular type.

  "I was interested in it because when everything was removed from your house, it was the only thing left. What further intrigued me was how not just Mike survived, but also the dirt in the pot. And the pot itself. And the saucer."

  That had crossed my mind also, but I had been too busy to think about it since.

  "So you have a theory?" Joanna asked. She had been sitting there quietly so far.

  Stuart came in, looking a little harassed. "They've gone," he said. "But they aren't happy."

  "Too bad," I said.

  David picked the leaf up, looked closely at the stub of stem, rubbed it between his fingers. He opened the jar of soil, took some between his fingers and gave it a good feel. Then he sniffed at it. "My grandfather," he said, "taught me a lot about soil. How it feels, how it smells. You can tell a good deal from it. It literally is the Earth." If he was trying to impress me with his wisdom, he was doing a good job.

  "I needed samples because I want to put them through the mass spectrometer," he said. "Analyse what Mike's made of. I'm not sure it's normal at all."

  "What about me?" I asked.

  "You wouldn't fit in the spectrometer."

  That was scientist humour. But who am I to talk, with my record of failed one-liners?

  "Of course," he continued, "your affair with the Poinciana tree this morning may also be a link. Plants are starting to feature heavily in whatever is going on."

  I pondered this for a moment.

  Joanna shifted in her chair. "So you think the plant is not just a new species, it's actually unique?"

  "I don't know," said David. "All I do know is that it has the Botany Department here stumped. I'd like them to have a look at it in the flesh as it were, and see if they revise their opinion. If it is unique, then I'm afraid Heather may have to abandon her plant to science."

  I had a mental image of him trying to persuade Heather to give up Mike. I pushed it aside before it got bloody.

  "Ok," I said. "Mike is unique and for some reason he wasn't sucked into the void with the rest of the house. But what about the pot and the saucer? You mentioned them before."

  "Yes. That still has me stumped, I'm afraid."

  Joanna leaned back in her chair and folded her arms with a self-satisfied expression on her face.

  The movement was not lost on David.

  "However," he continued, "I believe both you and Mike – I mean the plant – are either generating, or situated within, some sort of field which extends out from you for a few centimetres. When you were floating in the circle yesterday I touched you, if you remember, as did your landlord this morning when he pulled you away from the Thing."

  "Yes."

  Was that only this morning?

  "I felt a slight tingling when my fingers went through your arm," said David. "Like pins and needles. And look." He held his left hand out for us to see. I looked. His skin was of course very brown, but the black hairs between the first and second knuckles of each finger were easily visible. I frowned at him. So what? "Now look at this one." And he held out his right hand, the one he had used to pull me out of the circle. There were no hairs on his fingers. The contrast between his two hands was quite startling.

  "Why didn't you say anything before?" Joanna asked, after scrutinising his hands for herself.

  "Because the alopecia, the hair loss, only happened about an hour ago. I haven't been in contact with any chemicals or processes which might have caused it. Perhaps something in a field being generated by you damaged or killed the hair follicles in my hand. Eventually they atrophied and the hair fell out."

  "Sorry about that," I said. I meant it, too. He had nice hands. I hoped the hair would grow back.

  "Mr Sabatini has quite hairy arms," said David. "And he had both of them in close contact with you for a few moments. It'll be interesting to see if he experiences the same result."

  Just another reason for my landlord to hate me. I didn't like where this was going.

  "So," said David, "you and Mike both have this field, or continuum, surrounding you. Perhaps it protected Mike from disappearing with the rest of your furniture. And it prevented his pot and saucer from doing the same thing. It also protects your clothing when you change states."

  "But how?"

  "Well, we don't know."

  Joanna spoke up again. "But why doesn't Emily's hair fall out?"

  A good question. I was attached to my locks, and not just on a physical level. Bald would not be a good look for me. And while the hair on my arms was pale and sparse, it was also still there.

  "Possibly because she is the source of the effect, or immune to it in some way," said David. "A snake is protected from its own venom, for instance. There could be an equivalence here."

  A snake? Oh well, there was no reason to take the analogy personally. I tried to remain scientifically objective.

  "It may also explain why events like the sausages only appear when you're around," said David.

  Joanna had said the same sort of thing about her computer program. And Heather's flat tyre had only occurred when I was in the vicinity. I had never been so influential before.

  A thought occurred to me. "Have you seen my lesions?" I said.

  They hadn't. I took off my shoe and sock and put my foot on the desk. It felt cool in the air conditioning blowing from up near the ceiling. The others crowded round, leaning in close (brave souls, to be that close to my feet) to have a good look.

  "Interesting," said David, and I don't think he was referring to my coral toe-nail polish. "What was the medical opinion?"

  "All the doctor said was there was nothing to worry about."

  "May I?" asked Joanna. She touched the lesions gingerly. There was a sharp snap! sound and the flash of a blue spark between her fingers and the lesion. She pulled her hand back quickly. "I got a shock," she said. "Like static electricity."

  David put his hand out and touched them. "Nothing," he said. "Maybe you generated some static from the contact between your shoes and the carpet."

  She put her fingers out again. There was another snap! and a spark, as strong as the one before.

  "That hurts," she said.

  "Well don't do it," I said forcefully. It had hurt me, too.

  "Interesting," said David, and I could hear the wheels start to grind in his head.

  Joanna stepped back a pace and looked a little worried. If she felt there was a cause to be, then I did, too. A squadron of butterflies launched themselves from the runway in my stomach.

  "I've heard of this before," she said, "but never experienced it for myself. It happens only in strongly psychic people. It's a discharge of energy between points of opposite alignment."

  "Well, electromagnetism also causes – ," began David, but Joanna interrupted him.

  "This isn't good."

  I had been prodding the lesion with my finger. "How do you mean opposite alignment?" I asked. "Sort of like good versus evil?"

  "I don't like those terms," she said. "To categorise them like that is to neglect that both are necessary to a balanced universe. I call them points of opposite alignment. And if one is very strong, it can cause a discharge of energy like that when they come in contact with each other. Everyone has centres of energy that can be seen and measured: aura, Chi, chakra points. This energy is real and influences things around it. We just had a demonstration of it."

&nb
sp; I said, "So you're saying these lesions are a strong source of some opposite energy to yourself?"

  "Yes."

  Stuart smirked. The smirk actually made a noise as his cheeks drew apart, all moist and slurpy like he had a mess of saliva in there. He had been standing there quietly all this time, scribbling a few notes and watching with rapt attention. Now he drew attention to himself. Not wise.

  "Looks like static electricity to me," he said.

  Joanna had heard the smirk, and now turned her big guns on him. She must get tired of not being believed.

  "It's odd, though, isn't it," she said slowly, "how it only happened when I touched Emily's foot, and not David?"

  "What sort of shoes are you wearing?" Stuart asked, still dangerously supercilious, with a glance at Joanna's coconut fibre sandals. She even dressed vegetarian.

  David intervened quickly. "Perhaps," he said, "it deserves further investigation. I'm not dismissing Joanna's idea completely, just withholding judgment until we have further data."

  Stuart took the hint, but didn't look happy.

  I started to put my sock and shoe back on. "That still doesn't explain why one of your points of alignment seems to be in my foot," I said to Joanna. It seemed to me that if the universe did have a centre of dark, negative energy or whatever, my instep was a strange place for it.

  "I'd say whatever that Thing was in the circle is an even bigger point," said Joanna. "It left those marks on you, and they carry a mere trace of its full charge."

  "I'm not sure about that Thing," said David.

  Creases furrowed our brows as we wondered what was coming next. A claim of mass hallucination? Max had been keen on that idea, too.

  "Can we agree on what we saw?"

  That proved to be a problem. We were yet to have our major discussion of what the Thing was, trying to put a name to the part of something we could not define in the circle of infinite size in my living room, but it was obvious even now that we had all seen something different. We tried a few words, but none of them fitted.