The Simpatico Series Box Set (3 books in 1)

by Dermot Davis

  "You chose the perfect place," Abigail said as she settled in, the lines on her brow vanishing more and more with each moment that passed. "I appreciate you thinking of what I'd like and not the other way around," she said with genuine gratitude.

  "Thank you," Dowling said graciously. "Perhaps you've been dating the wrong type of person if they have been putting their own pleasure above yours."

  "Dating?" Abigail asked in a high-pitched voice that befitted her incredulous facial expression. "You must be mistaking me for someone else," she joked. "I haven't been on a, oh, wait, is this a date?" she then asked, as if she was shocked to reality by a sudden revelation.

  "No," Dowling said like that was a preposterous idea. "No, of course not," he said as he took a sip of his ale.

  "This is a charming place," she then said nervously, as she looked around at the large wooden bar and the former beer caskets that were now nicely re-purposed as tables and drink stands. "Very authentic, actually," she said as she checked out the ornately framed mirrors with drink company logos stenciled upon them. Then she hurriedly added, "Not that I spend much time going to pubs, which, of course, I don't."

  "No," Dowling agreed. "Who has time, right?"

  "You don't care much for pubs, either, I take it?"

  "No, not so much. Barely leave the house, actually. Now that I'm retired," he said, barely concealing his sadness.

  "What has that been like? Retirement?"

  "Wasn't my choice," Dowling said, like he didn't have many good things to say about it. "I suppose the best gift it has offered me is that I now have the time to work on some projects that I had put aside. Projects that have always been closer to my heart than the ones that had to satisfy a certain, scientific criterion in order to secure funding and the backing of the university."

  "Lovely," Abigail said as the food arrived. "What kind of projects? Your pet projects?" she asked, feigning interest. The waiter returned just then to deliver their food.

  "I've been working on a study of precognition that I had to abandon but I'm now resurrecting the work. It's actually an attempt to replicate the Cornell experiment and, hopefully, not just validate their results but to make certain, measurable differences of my own."

  "That sounds wonderful," Abigail said as, cutlery in hand, she looked lustfully at her main course.

  "Yes," Dowling said, feeling a little disappointed that she wasn't more interested. "We'll see."

  "And those two young people, Andrew and Fiona; they've been helping you with your studies?"

  "Yes," Dowling answered, nodding his head as he chewed a mouthful of meat. "I wish I had known them when I was back at the lab," he said as he swallowed.

  "Why is that?"

  "Because they never fail to knock the results out of the park," he said, almost laughing. "Never met students like them. Very... extremely talented; Fiona especially."

  "Talented in what way?" Abigail asked, downplaying her interest.

  "Her abilities," Dowling said. "Both of their abilities; they have different capabilities, quite distinguished skill-sets, but both very... out of the ordinary."

  "You mean with all that ESP, psychic phenomena, and stuff?" Abigail asked, sounding innocent.

  For the first time looking at her uncertainly, Dowling squinted his eyes a little. "I know that you know what I'm talking about, Abigail," he said, as if he was puzzled by her reaction. "Why put on an act?"

  "Oh," Abigail shrugged him off, as if she was busted. "Of course, you know that I know. We have a history, don't we?" she asked lightly. "I forgot," she said, like that was her excuse. "I get so used to speaking to people that don't understand what you and I might find... commonplace," she said and paused. "I've gotten too used to censoring myself for fear that the average person would consider me funny or strange in what I believe. You must forgive me. It's been a long time, you and I," she said, as she took another bite of food and looked away.

  "Yes," Dowling said, like he fully understood. "I do know what you mean. You have no idea how many so-called intelligent faculty members, most of them tenured, I should add, that considered me practically insane. At best my lab was an embarrassment to most of them; calling themselves "true" scientists involved in "serious" scientific inquiry," he said bitterly. "They couldn't wait to get rid of my department."

  "That sounds horrible," Abigail said with a facial expression of deep empathy. "Then you know exactly what I've been experiencing myself, almost on a daily basis."

  "It is what it is, I guess," he said, looking like he was now over it. "How long more do you have here, in the states?"

  "So hard to tell, at this point. It could be weeks, it could be months," she said like it was a horrible thought.

  "You don't like it here, then?"

  "I miss home," she answered, with a weary emphasis on the word, 'home.' "How can you deal with all of this sunshine?" she asked with an incredulous expression. "Day after day of nothing but incessant sunlight," she said, like it was a question. "It's intolerable."

  "You prefer the incessant gray skies and all that rain of home, then?" he asked, jokingly.

  "Most certainly," she admitted with a smile and a nod of her head. "Being away from it, I'm appreciating it more and more, I can tell you. Every day I wake up and look out the window and see that horrible sunny, cloudless blue California sky, as a matter of fact," she said with a smile.

  "Each to their own, I guess."

  "So, let me ask you then," she said, leaning forward, as if a good question was coming. "Knowing what you and I both know."

  "Yes."

  "Why would you say that these two young people are as exceptional as you propose? Why should they be so different, so exceptional? What in their makeup would separate them from the pack, so to speak?"

  "I don't know," Dowling said pensively, like he considered it a good question. "Fiona mentioned that her father performed some ritual at her birth, of which I'm sure you have some knowledge."

  "What kind of ritual?" Abigail asked. "There are many."

  "She said that she was born as a Moonchild," Dowling said, as if remembering. "So, you tell me, could that have any bearing?"

  "I have heard of that, yes," Abigail pondered. "That could account for it, certainly. And what about the boy?" she asked quickly. "What's his special power, so to speak?"

  "Well, he has had a very normal childhood development; certainly nothing out of the ordinary. There is no likelihood that his parents engaged in an occult or other spiritual rituals. It would have been really interesting to track his development; don't you think?" he asked like a scientist.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, I'd really like to know what his aptitude was, from very early on. At which point did he develop his psychic ability? Did he have it, as a latent capacity, all along, for instance?"

  "Oh, I see where you're going," Abigail said thoughtfully. "Or perhaps he developed his abilities as a result of his intimate relations with the girl. A fascinating thought."

  "Is it possible?" Dowling asked, clearly intrigued. "Can psychic gifts be transferred from person to person or perhaps triggered from a latent status to an active form as a result of some kind of energetic frequency entrainment, perhaps?"

  "You're asking me?" Abigail shrugged. "You tell me; you're the scientist. You've been researching such questions all your life."

  "No, not quite," Dowling demurred regretfully. "I've been studying rats in a Skinner Box and some clueless undergraduate students that just wanted to make some pocket money or earn extra credit or work toward their PhD so that they could get a well-paid teaching job. If only I had gotten my hands on that pair when I had proper facilities!"

  “Gnothi seauton,” Abigail said and Dowling look up at her. Seeing that he didn’t understand the Greek, she added, “Know thyself. It was inscribed in the forecourt of the ancient Temple of Apollo at Delphi.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Dowling said, wondering to himself what deeper meaning she was implying.


  “That is the journey that we’re each on. Yes?” Abigail said.

  “Indeed,” Dowling agreed with a smile as he took another mouthful of his delicious meal. They naturally fell into a companionable silence as each of them focused upon eating the remainder of their meal, each lost in their own thoughts. Dowling noticed that Abigail, even all these years later, was still quite beautiful to him. He felt a pang in his heart, thinking about all the time gone by, the lost years, without his wife by his side.

  Whenever Abigail glanced up from her food, and looked around the restaurant, he was quite careful to look down or away. She in no way exhibited any behavior or other indication that she had missed him all of these years. Had she missed him at all?

  "I must say, this has been a wonderful evening," Abigail said as, plate mostly empty, she put down her fork and then casually checked the time. "We should do this again, soon."

  "Oh," Dowling said, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice. "You need to call it a night?" he asked, also checking the time. "It's quite early," he said, as if unable to censor his thinking. "Of course, if you have an early start tomorrow," he recanted gracefully as he realized that he sounded needy, or perhaps a bit clingy.

  "You know, you're right," Abigail said, noting his disappointment. "We old farts can get stuck in such a rut, can't we? I haven't been out properly socializing in a long time. What did you have in mind?"

  "Well," Dowling said, as if properly stumped. "You know, I never really thought beyond a meal and a nightcap," he said apologetically. "Didn't expect you to be up for something more... strenuous. I've no idea where people our age go dancing in this city, for starters."

  "Well, a nightcap sounds strenuous enough, to be honest. Your place or mine?" she asked quite directly.

  "Um," he answered, feeling his face blush. "Uh..." he continued awkwardly, as if unable to answer. "Either is fine," he finally added.

  "My place it is, then," she said, collecting her things. "Let me pay a visit to the ladies’ room and we'll toddle along back to my hotel, how does that sound?"

  "That sounds... wonderful," he said, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. "Excellent," he said nervously as she sashayed out of the booth and left for the bathroom.

  "Be right back," she said as she left. Once out of earshot, Abigail took out her phone and pressed speed dial. "I know that it's late," she said immediately when a male voice answered, "but I just found out why Simon has been keeping his little girl under wraps all of these years," she said excitedly at a hushed volume. "Turns out, the young lady is a Moonchild," she said like it was big news. "No wonder we never heard mention of her; he's been keeping her and her gifts all to himself."

  Once inside the bathroom, Abigail looked around to ensure that it was empty. Although the ladies room accommodated more than several people at a time, she locked the door behind her and ran the water at a sink. "I'll tell you what it means," she said, as if she was answering a question. "It means that what we’ve dreamed and hoped and worked for all of these years has been hidden practically in plain sight. Simon had done the extraordinary and now we have a chance to capitalize on it. We need to recruit the young lady and, considering the current state of affairs in this compromised, backwards outpost, I would suggest we do so with an optimum sense of urgency. We need that girl’s gifts and abilities and we need them now," she said with determined anger, then hung up the phone.

  Chapter 5

  Once the sensory deprivation tank was all set up, Andrew didn't hesitate. After a hard day at his work, he was anxious to try it and see what might arise from the experience. Although he held no preconceptions of what the experience might be like, he was optimistic that the sensory deprivation experience would be a positive one and something that could help him either in finding Fiona or, as Arjuna repeatedly insisted, find himself.

  "Something about you has changed," Andrew said after he had greeted Dowling with a man hug. "Did you do something to your hair, maybe?" he asked, standing back to get a better look at the older gent.

  "I did get a haircut," Dowling admitted.

  "Your clothes are different too," Andrew noticed as he followed Dowling into his kitchen. He looked the former professor up and down and realized that the dude was looking more hip and put-together. "Someone here got themselves a makeover," he then teased. "Wonder why that would be?"

  "Just because I'm retired doesn't mean I've, you know?" Dowling asked without finishing his sentence. "Would you like something to drink? Some tea, perhaps?"

  "Nah, you know what? You drink too much tea. I'm good. Let's get this party started," Andrew said, looking towards the garage.

  Appearing like the device had been cleaned up a great deal, the flotation tank sat center stage in the garage. Nodding his head in approval, Andrew circled it as if it were a brand new model car sitting in a showroom. "I like it," he then said, slapping Dowling on the back. "You did a great job." The older man grinned.

  Dowling opened up the lid to reveal the interior which was filled with water. "It might be a bit cool," he said apologetically. "It's supposed to be lukewarm but I couldn't get the heater to work properly. Your body temperature will soon bring it up to standard," he said as he checked the tank for leaks. "It's good to go, whenever you are," he then said, looking pleased.

  "Cool," Andrew said, thinking to himself if he should be getting naked, there and then. "I should undress?" he then asked. He’d done a little bit of research online and had learned that floating was typically done naked for a whole hour in skin-temperate water mixed with roughly 1,000 pounds of Epsom salts. The floating chamber was entirely light and sound proof.

  "Yes, I'll leave you to it," Dowling said but then changed his mind. "You know what? I should stay here and supervise. Just in case."

  "Just in case, what?" Andrew asked, wondering if there was something else that he should know about. “Isn’t it safe?” Andrew asked when Dowling didn’t immediately answer.

  "Well, I've had students suffer from panic attacks having been confined to a dark space—“

  "Like maybe they fell asleep and woke up thinking that they had been buried alive, for instance?" Andrew interrupted.

  "Back in our LSD experimental days, we used to use the term, 'bad trip.' You don't need drugs to suffer from having a bad trip. You could hallucinate in the tank, enter a dream state while you’re awake."

  "Or maybe smoke some pot? Andrew joked but even he didn't find it funny, having said it. Dowling rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to respond to the lame joke.

  "This is about a consciousness-cleansing, a spiritual event, if you like, or whatever else you might naturally experience,” the man gently reminded the younger man.

  Andrew shrugged.

  “Whenever you're ready," Dowling then said, checking the time. "It's getting late and I don't want to be rushing you out of there. Holler if you get into something you can't handle. The mind is a tricky customer; no predicting how it's going to react to darkness and silence."

  "Where can I put my clothes?" Andrew asked as he looked around at all the clutter.

  "Oh, I brought you this," Dowling said as he produced a hanger. "You can hang it from any of those hooks," he said, pointing. "Keep them away from the dust. I'll go put on some tea and come back in a bit; give you some privacy."

  "Here goes nothing," Andrew said as he took off his jacket.

  Once inside the tank, Andrew let the lid down gently as he enveloped himself in darkness. The water was indeed a bit on the cool side but it wasn't so cold that it was going to ruin his experience. He actually enjoyed the weightless feeling of floating effortlessly. It was as if he was in zero gravity, although he had no idea if the two experiences were in any way comparable.

  He had ear plugs in. There was no light, no smell, no tactile stimulation, and no sound, except the beating of his own heart. As he relaxed, his heart rate slowed and there was no sound at all. He really couldn’t feel the water and in the darkness there was nothing to look at. I
t was like the absence of everything.

  He wasn't used to such silence. There was absolutely no sound at all to be heard in the womb-like tank. He had to imagine, and it was difficult to do so, that right outside the enclosure an old refrigerator was humming and that cars were passing and making noise outside the house and garage along with the occasional sirens of near and far emergency vehicles.

  Wondering why he would be even bothering imagining what sounds were going on outside, he realized that, inside of the darkness and the silence, he was lost for context. His body orientation had completely disintegrated. It was if he needed to know his place in the world; as if he required some mental physical or kinesthetic context, like a construct, for where he was located.

  Feeling like he was floating in the void of space, he then considered that even if he was a free-floating astronaut in outer space, he would still be able to see shimmering stars and planets in the distance. In the darkness of the tank, he could see only pitch black nothingness. Without external stimulus and sensation, he felt as if he might not exist.

  The sense of being nowhere and resting in a sea of nothing was the weirdest feeling that he had ever experienced. He now understood others before him who had tripped out in panic: the whole experience was as disorientating as all get out. He soon felt a desire to sing to himself, as if he needed some sounds, any sounds, to fill the air with something other than complete silence. As if he had found himself trapped into some kind of vacuum, he wanted and almost needed something, anything, to fill the void. Feeling increased discomfort, he felt a wave of nausea.

  Realizing that the more he concentrated on what the situation lacked and he was focusing upon how awful he was feeling, the more that he felt panicked and unhappy. It was as if the more he resisted the experience, the more pain he felt as a result, he considered. If he could deny himself the urge to feel reassured that he knew exactly where he was and how he had gotten there, then he might be able to relax. If he could relax, he might be able to get something from the session. He decided that he needed to let go.