The Unhappy Medium, page 14
Normally the old car would have coughed and groaned itself to life. But today, as he fearfully turned the key in the ignition, there was a different sound altogether. It started at his feet, a clean, electrical whine – something he’d never heard before. It grew in intensity, louder and louder, until the teenager on the back seat had clamped her hands over her ears and Newton winced as the sound became quite unbearable. Then, with a terrifying deep growl, the engine burst into the most alarming roar. It was like a Merlin engine coming alive on a Spitfire and Newton, expecting the worst, closed his eyes, waiting for immolation. But it didn’t happen that way. As the roar settled into a healthy throb, he tentatively opened first one eye and then the other. Not only was the car not in flames, it was actually sounding OK, maybe even rather good. In fact, it sounded bloody amazing.
Hesitantly, Newton tapped the accelerator and the car obligingly whirred like a thoroughbred. He hit it again, a little harder, and the interior filled with the most wonderful engine sound he’d ever heard. It was as if the sweetest song of every sports car ever made had been taken and blended expertly together. Newton glanced up into the mirror to see Gabby sitting bolt upright, looking baffled. Excited as he was by this strange development, he had to make a choice – A, abandon the car to prevent them both from being burnt to death, or B, risk an unpleasant reaction from his ex-wife when he failed to deliver his daughter on time.
He released the handbrake and edged out into the traffic.
Normally the old DS would struggle up to Muswell Hill like a canal boat up a set of locks. Now it was all that Newton could do to prevent the car from flying over the roofs of the cars in front. The smallest pressure on the pedal set it throbbing like an Atlas rocket; Newton and Gabby rocked back and forth as he bounced his feet frantically from accelerator to brake. The choked roads did little to help and it was only when they dropped down onto the north circular that Newton could stop worrying about collisions. With the dual carriageway clearer ahead of them, Newton put his foot down. The car surged violently ahead and they both let out a loud involuntary ‘WOOOAAAHHHHHHHH!’ as the Citroën stood on its tail and charged.
‘Blooooodddyyyyy HELLLLLL!’ yelled Newton, fighting with the wheel, the Citroën weaving through the traffic like a shark through a shoal of tuna. They breezed past a terrifying blur of lorries, busses and vans with just inches to spare.
The Citroën triggered fifteen speed cameras in as many minutes, the flashes catching Newton’s wide eyes in the mirror. He couldn’t know it, but each one of them, against statistical probability, had failed to record an image of either the car or its number plate and they sped on unchecked to the east.
With the complex turn-off for the M11 fast approaching, Newton’s knuckles whitened. He was bearing down on the lover’s knot of feeder roads and underpasses like an asteroid on a dinosaur. But, as they tore into the junction, Newton found the car suddenly responding more humanely. Sedately, it throttled back and they turned a graceful, controlled curve off the ring road towards Cambridge.
Being a Sunday morning, the motorway was quiet, allowing Newton briefly to gather his wits. ‘You OK back there Gabbs?’ he shouted, looking into the mirror. Gabby was obviously very OK, thank you. She had a huge smile on her face; her hoodie was down behind her and she’d wound down the window.
‘Random!’ she yelled, ‘totally random! Dad! When did you get the car upgraded?’
‘I didn’t!’ Newton screamed.
‘What do you mean you didn’t?’ she shouted back. ‘You so totally have – it’s utterly pimped!’
‘No, I swear I didn’t,’ he insisted, dodging a horsebox that left him with a vivid snapshot of a wild-eyed pony.
‘You so have!’
Newton didn’t restate his defence, concentrating instead on the slalom of lorries, cars and vans. ‘Ohhh sheeeeeet!’ he said through clenched teeth, trying to slacken on the accelerator. Instead of easing off, it barrelled yet faster towards obstructions, forcing Newton to throw the car from side to side as a cacophony of horns blared like a yachting regatta. Then mercifully they broke through to a clear stretch and like a cruise missile, they roared past Stansted airport.
‘Dad, I take it all back, you are so cooooool!’ exalted Gabby from the back seat, as they careered up to Rowena’s deadline and overtook it. With the suburbs of the old university town rolling towards them, the car regained its composure. Once again, Newton felt more in control and the Citroën eased off to keep pace with the Sunday traffic bumbling off to long-drawn-out Sunday lunches and family arguments. By the time they reached Rowena’s, the car had oddly returned to its old self completely.
‘That was amaaaaaaaaazing!’ said Gabby, giving him an unheard-of peck on his unshaven face. ‘Don’t bother coming in, she’ll only be foul. Thanks Dad, that was fun.’ With that she hopped out briskly and ran up to the door. As always, Rowena appeared at the door with a face like bad pickles; sensing something positive between her ex-husband and her daughter, she looked from one to the other with ill-concealed suspicion and resentment.
But then, thought Newton, she always looked like that.
******
Half thinking he’d imagined the whole thing, Newton eased the Citroën into a petrol station. He pulled up away from the pumps and opened the hood. The engine was simply immaculate. The old fingerprints, dust, filth and oil were all gone, and there was no trace of the small bits of Christmas tree he’d picked up coming off the road in Epping Forest last year. The components were all exactly where they had always been, the solenoids, the plugs, the fan, the radiator – nothing had moved, they were now just very, very clean.
And there was more. As he got back in the car and rolled it to the pumps, he glanced at the fuel gauge, fully expecting to see it down near zero. But the tank was full, 100 per cent full. Newton sat silently at the wheel for a good ten minutes, trying to make sense of things. But, despite his finest reductionist thinking, he got nowhere.
******
Dr Newton Barlow liked to trust his mind. Like most people of a scientific bent, he tried to keep things rational and strictly under control. Observation, exploration and explanation; that was Newton’s way. The odd behaviour of the car had been one thing, but the next event was altogether in a different league.
As he drove back into Crouch End, something caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. A shimmering image of the late Dr Alex Sixsmith was forming on the back seat. Newton shook his head to clear the vision. Annoyingly, it refused to oblige. It was still there, forming like a photograph in developing fluid. To make matters worse, it was now waving.
As hallucinations go, it was certainly vivid. It was unmistakeably Dr Sixsmith; there was his jovial round face, the striped shirt and the distinctive half-moon spectacles resting high on his balding head. All the gestures were spot on, the cheeky grin, that occasional knowing wink. Although the vision was starkly silent, it seemed to be trying to mouth something at him. ‘Oh boy,’ Newton said to himself, parking. Fighting back, he switched off the engine and screwing his eyes up tight, he took long, deep breaths to control his heart rate. When he felt ready, he cautiously looked in the mirror again, first with one eye and then the other. Sixsmith, or rather the hallucination of Sixsmith, had finally, thankfully, gone.
Rather than go straight to his house, Newton bolted to the nearest pub and downed two stiff whiskies. Was he really coming to bits? If he was, then it wasn’t surprising. Hadn’t he passed both ways through the mangle these last years? But although he accepted his mind might have misfired enough to generate the image of Sixsmith, the weirdness with the car was hardly an illusion – Gabby had been there too.
The money in the bank was another awkward abnormality he couldn’t get his head around. Sure, he hadn’t been on top of things recently, but then no matter how bonkers or feckless people get, he mused, they never fail to notice money. Was someone placing funds in his account deliberately or accidentally? He ran through the possibilities. Maybe someone was trying to have some cruel fun with him, a bit of entertainment, or possibly something far worse, like reality TV. Hadn’t those harpies tried to lure him into jungles and Big Brother houses before? That must be the answer. They’d rigged up the hallucination too – of course, some kind of projection – clever. Newton ordered a third whisky. ‘Hold on!’ he thought. ‘How would they have known to choose Alex Sixsmith of all people?’ No, that didn’t fit – picking his old mentor was just too personal, too private. No TV researcher, however keen, was going to put that one together. You’d have to be an intelligence agency to be that complex, thought Newton, and for a few seconds his paranoia dabbled with some ill-formed reasons why MI5 might be interested in him. He looked at his glass. It shook slightly, making the ice cubes dance. Then he glanced up at the barman who was looking back, clearly sensing that something odd was in the air. Newton smiled unconvincingly and downed the whisky. ‘Perhaps I’ve been drugged,’ he thought. But when? Magic mushrooms on the pizza last night? Nope. Gabby had the same, that didn’t work either. ‘Stress,’ he said out loud. ‘It has to be stress.’
‘You OK mate?’ asked the barman.
‘Er ... yes, thanks,’ said Newton and he knocked back the rest of his drink. ‘Need to get myself together,’ he thought as he hurried past the shops. ‘Tidy the flat, do my paperwork. Normal stuff.’ Back home, he rushed up the stairs, ready to attack the apartment, but as the door opened, he stopped dead. The flat – usually a heap of divorcee chaos – was tidy. Not just a bit tidy, it was very, very tidy. Newton checked the number on the door thinking he’d entered the downstairs flat by accident.
He hadn’t.
Newton edged warily into the immaculate lounge, walking in a straight line where previously he’d had to weave like a motorbike in traffic. There was no stale laundry; Newton’s clothes were washed, ironed and folded neatly, airing pleasantly on top of a chest of drawers in the bedroom. The kitchen was barely recognisable. Cutlery, plates and tea towels had been put away, all with the mindboggling care and attention he’d associated with his long-dead grandmother. The flat even smelt clean, a crisp alpine breeze mixed with what Newton thought might be baking bread. He was not mistaken; a fresh loaf sat beside the breadbin broadcasting wonderful welcoming smells. It was not like his flat at all.
Once again, Newton’s mind started oscillating. Baked bread, a classic house seller’s trick, what did that mean? Oh no, Rowena! She was planning to sell his flat to get yet more child support. That had to be it! He had a short sharp vision of wandering the streets with nothing but a carrier bag. But no, it couldn’t be that. That was just sheer paranoia. Not even Rowena, despite her trademark spite and talent for appropriation, would take Newton’s last piece of security without at least discussing it first. Besides, thought Newton, she’d have enjoyed telling him. No, it had to be something else.
‘Viv!’ he blurted to the empty flat. ‘Of course!’ He’d just given her a spare key; she must have done it as a surprise. What else could it be? This hypothesis, as convenient as it may have been, gave him instant mixed feelings. Although it was an act of kindness, it still felt like an abuse of sorts, no matter how well intentioned. True, he’d let himself go a fair bit, well a lot frankly, but all the same, it was his place to pick himself up and dust himself down. If he gave into this kind of thing there was no knowing where it would end. No matter how awkward it may be, he’d have to put her straight. He took out his phone, took a deep breath and dialled.
‘Newton, sweetie ... hi!’ said a sleepy sounding Viv. ‘You’re back. How was it?’
‘Odd,’ said Newton briskly, wanting to get to the uncomfortable point. ‘Look er ... Viv, about the flat.’
‘The flat,’ said Viv yawning, ‘what, your place or mine?’
‘Well mine, of course,’ said Newton sternly. ‘Look, it’s very kind and everything but I think we need to ...’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me ... what’s very kind?’
‘The flat, you’ve done a great job on it, but I’m not sure I’m really comfortable ...’
‘Great job? What on earth are you talking about?’ said Viv.
‘You, tidying my flat.’
‘I did what?’ said Viv, incredulity plain in her rising voice. ‘Are you mad? Do I strike you as the sort of woman that breaks into people’s flats to tidy them up? Have you seen my place? It’s a bloody midden.’
‘Are you saying that you didn’t tidy my flat?’
‘I’m telling you I didn’t tidy your flat ... sorry I’m lost here matey. What are you going on about?’ She sounded a bit rankled, and Newton felt caught by a need both to explain and pacify.
‘Well, I got home here, opened the door and well, the flat is immaculate. It’s perfect.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘No it isn’t, because I didn’t do it, and you are the only other person with a key so I thought you must have done it. Are you seriously telling me you didn’t?’
‘How many times Newton, I’m telling you I have not been anywhere near your flat! I’ve been here all weekend. Who else has a key?’
‘Like I said, it’s just you and me.’
‘Anything out of place?’ Newton quickly scanned the flat; the TV and computer were present and correct.
‘Nothing, in fact, well, actually there is something ...’ he said, as he spotted a vase of flowers on the dining table. ‘Flowers, and er ... fresh bread.’
‘Say whaaaaat?’ said Viv. ‘Hang on Newton, think about this, are you sure you didn’t do it yourself and then just forget?’
‘Oh I’m going mad, that’s it!’ he snapped. ‘I hate housework – trust me, if I’d tidied this flat I’d remember every bloody awful second. And I never buy flowers. Never!’ All the same, now she’d said it, it was beginning to look like the only logical explanation. What was that old Sherlock Holmes thing? When you have eliminated everything impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Follow that little line, worried Newton, and it’s time for the happy pills.
‘I’m coming over,’ said Viv decisively.
‘No don’t, it’s OK, look ...’ but the phone clicked off as Viv ran for the door. Newton, seriously frustrated by events, fell back mentally exhausted into an armchair, his galloping mind threatening to fly to pieces like a cheap spin dryer. Desperate to steady his nerves he began to take long, deep breaths. Utterly worn out and completely drained, his eyes drooped, sagged and then closed as he drifted into a fitful sleep
Sometime later he was woken, brought back to life by a sudden, unexpected chill. Drifting back into consciousness, Newton could feel the temperature in the room dipping and he folded his arms around himself as he began to shiver.
‘Sorry Newton,’ came a voice behind him. ‘You must be finding all this a tad annoying.’
Newton froze.
There was no mistaking that it was a voice, and there was no mistaking whose. Glued in place, his eyes darted from side to side, his hands locked solid to the arms of the chair.
‘I’m not expecting you to get this straight away, old boy. That wouldn’t be like you at all. Take your time, please.’ The voice was perfect, such an uncanny match for Sixsmith that it quite unnerved Newton, who was sweating despite the chill. ‘To be honest, I was so surprised by the whole thing myself that it took me weeks to get it all together in my head. I mean, it’s just so bloody unlikely.’
‘This is not happening! This is not happening! This is not happening!’ said Newton, slapping his face. ‘Come on, snap out of it!’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ said Dr Sixsmith’s voice. ‘All quite natural of course. Really, I don’t want to unhinge you. But I urgently need you to recognise that this is really happening.’
‘But it’s not,’ said Newton defiantly.
‘I assure you that it is , old chap,’ said the persistent aberration. ‘And, it’s bloody hard work manifesting myself like this, so don’t waste it. The least you can do is turn around and dismiss my existence to my face.’
‘Good idea!’ thought Newton, ‘I’ll turn around and you’ll be gone.’ He began to lean around the side of the chair.
‘That’s it! Chop-chop!’ said Sixsmith’s vision. ‘Nothing to be scared of. I’m not a bloody poltergeist,’ he laughed. ‘Promise I won’t heave anything about, especially now the flat’s finally been cleaned.’ Newton could clearly see the image of Dr Sixsmith sitting at the table. From top to toe, it was a perfect reconstruction of his dead friend, elbows on the table top, its semi-transparent fingers idly playing with the flowers in the vase.
‘You’re a hallucination!’ declared Newton as he rose from his seat.
‘No I’m not,’ it said curtly.
‘Yes you are!’ said Newton. ‘Dammit why did I reply? You don’t exist.’
‘Yes I do,’ it said. ‘Look, I’m waving at you.’
‘I’m having some kind of a breakdown, that’s it, has to be.’
‘That I won’t argue with,’ said the apparition, grinning.
Newton crept up to the vision who, clearly amused by Newton’s determination to dismiss him, aped his narrowed eyes and returned his baffled expression. Tentatively, Newton extended his index finger to touch the shimmering form.
‘Go on, feel free to have a good poke, I’m not shy,’ laughed the apparition. Newton jabbed his finger into the sliver of light defining Sixsmith’s forehead. There was a slight electrical sensation, like the tingle from a cattle fence, and as he moved his finger around in a circular motion, the light swirled around it in a disrupted trail, like froth in a recently stirred coffee. ‘Great, isn’t it?’ said the hallucination. ‘Bloody hard work though, can’t keep it up all day sadly. We’ll have to keep things brief.’
‘Amazing,’ said Newton to himself hopefully, ‘the power of the human mind!’
