Back in his private ward, after sleeping for an
hour or so, Doug checked the Dream-Zone folder and saw that Peter had uploaded
the audio files. He began to transfer them to his hard disk, as Dr. Singh
entered the room carrying some dark sheets of film. “I have the results from
your MRI this afternoon,” he said, holding one of the foils up to the window.
Seeing the concern on Doug’s face, he immediately added, “Don’t worry, it’s
nothing life-threatening!”
Doug relaxed a little. “Okay, that’s good to hear.”
“Do you know anything about brain anatomy, Mr. Richards?”
“Only a few bits and pieces from reading The New Scientist and watching TV,”
replied Doug.
“Well, see this image from the MRI? It shows a lateral cross section of your
brain.”
Doug peered at the image wondering what he was supposed to be seeing.
Singh continued. “It shows two perfectly healthy hemispheres with no
abnormalities whatsoever.”
“Okay, so far so good,” said Doug, as Singh leafed through the foils and held
up another.
“Virtually all of the slices paint the same picture - no tumours or any other
abnormalities.” He paused. “This one, on the other hand, shows something a bit
strange in an area known as the hippocampus, which is located in your temporal
lobe.”
“That doesn’t sound so good.”
“Normally an area like this,” said Singh pointing to a part of the image, which
to Doug, looked exactly like all the rest, “could indicate a hardening of the
brain tissue.”
“Caused by hitting my head?”
“Not usually, but it’s impossible to say for certain. It’s very small, almost
too small to say whether it’s really there or not, but if there really is a
hardening, or sclerosis as we call it, then it could explain the seizure you
experienced last night.”
“And if it is there, can you fix it?”
“Well we need to see what we’re dealing with first, and even if you did have
some mild scarring in there, it’s not necessarily cause for concern, unless it
gets worse or gives rise to more seizures. What I would like to do is monitor
you over the next twenty-four hours using electroencephalography - EEG.”
“Okay – that’s like a bunch of electrodes attached to my skull right?”
“Exactly, we’ll need to move you to another room and we’re also going to video
you at the same time, so that the brainwave patterns recorded on the EEG can be
correlated with any physical movements or other activities.”
“So I have to lie still for twenty-four hours? Can I work on my computer?”
“Obviously we can’t expect you to lie still for all that time, which is why we
video you. That way we can tell when the brain activity we record is caused by
physical movements. You can read or listen to music, but the PC is probably
out. For a start, its electromagnetic field might interfere with the readings,
and secondly, the typing action could give rise to brain patterns which could
obscure what we’re looking for.”
“So my iPod is okay?”
“Yes, that should be fine providing it’s not plugged into the mains. You’ll
also need to turn off your mobile.”
“Okay, I can handle that.”
“Good, we should be able to get you moved over to the lab in a couple of hours.
The results will take some time to interpret, so providing you don’t experience
any more symptoms, you can go home tomorrow afternoon.“
Once Singh had left the room, Doug connected the
iPod to the PC to charge, and checked his email once again. After addressing a
few urgent mails, he texted Cindy and Brian to explain what was happening. He
looked at the computer again, and remembered that his computing assignment was
due the following day. He supposed that now he would just have to turn it in
late. But as he thought about the problem which had bogged him down the
previous afternoon, the solution hit him in a flash. He opened up the compiler
and examined the code he’d written so far. At once, he could see where he had
gone wrong. It now seemed so obvious. He started correcting the programme, his
fingers flying over the keys with a speed and precision he would have never
thought possible.
After about fifteen minutes, there was a knock at
the door and Susan appeared. “Doug?” she said. “How are you? What did Singh
say?”
Doug looked up at her. “He said I might have sclerosis in my hippocampus, and
he’s going to run a video EEG over the next twenty-four hours.”
“How do you do that?”
“How do I do what?
“Carry on typing at that speed, while you’re talking to me about hippocampal
sclerosis?”
Doug looked down at his fingers, still busily writing code, and stopped. “I’ve
no idea. I’ve probably just written a load of gibberish.” But as he scanned his
work, he could see that it was syntactically perfect.
Susan came over and looked down at the screen. “Shit, it’s not even text. Are
you programming?”
“Hmm…I guess men can multi-task after all!” he said with a smile.
“I guess so!” she said, clearly impressed. “Anyway, I came by to say yes - I
think I will be driving over to Kal’s funeral, so if you and your friend need a
lift…”
“Brilliant, thanks. Will you be able to drop by campus and pick us up or should
we meet you somewhere?”
“I’ll pick you up. How about 9am on Friday morning?”
“We’ll be there.”
She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck with the EEG then, and
I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Friday!” he confirmed, watching her as she left. She shot a glance back over
her shoulder, smiling, and then skipped off down the corridor, humming
cheerfully as she went.
Another thirty minutes and the computing
assignment was completed. It compiled first time, so he zipped it up and
emailed it to his supervisor. He had no idea how he had done it so quickly, but
it was a huge relief to finally put it behind him.
The EEG lab was a smaller room, with light blue
walls and a one-way mirror at one end. At the other end, by the bed, was a rack
of electronic equipment, and an IV support from which dangled a net of wires
and electrodes. A young man in a white lab coat placed the net on Doug’s head
and carefully attached each electrode to a point on the scalp, first moving his
hair aside and gently rubbing the skin beneath with a piece of cloth.
He lay on the bed wondering what his brainwaves
might look like. Then he wondered how his wondering might affect those waves.
It was strange to think of the inner workings of his brain somehow represented
on a sheet of graph paper. It seemed rather like trying to appreciate music by
plotting the decibel levels around a concert hall.
After reading for a while, he eventually took the
iPod from his bag, set it to shuffle, and turned out the light. It took a few
moments to get comfortable. When he lay on his side the electrodes dug into his
temple and the wires pulled uncomfortably against the dressing on his cheek. Lying
on his back felt somehow unnatural, but was ultimately more comfortable. After
shifting restlessly for some time, he finally drifted off into a world of music
and dreams.
The four-bedroom mock Georgian box Peter had called home
for the last six years now seemed depressingly cramped. In fact, the whole
cul-de-sac, an expression he could no longer recall without hearing Isabelle’s
accompanying translation to ass-of-ze-bag, appeared to have contracted to an
anally retentive pouch. It was as though each house and garden were stolidly
attempting to preserve a sense of isolation and privacy as everything squeezed
ever closer together.
Initially Peter had been excited at the prospect of
returning home to his family. While not expecting any pomp and circumstance, he
couldn’t help thinking that a little fuss and attention might be in order after
burying his brother. But following a quick round of hugs and kisses, everyone
had returned to their lives as though he had merely strolled back from a two minute
walk to the shops.
Not quite sure whether his life had just changed
completely or not at all, he immersed himself into the Dream-Zone audio and
graphics files, now transferred to his laptop. The similarity of effect between
the two apparently independent sets of stimuli was staggering. It was clear
that both were somehow exciting the same part of the brain - perhaps triggering
the release of endorphins or other natural opiate-like chemicals. But it was
more than just an endorphin rush. It was as if Dream-Zone were somehow
unlocking distant memories. Obscure long forgotten facts were once again
retrievable. Unpractised skills became second nature, as if honed through years
of constant use. A contract to design the control system for some automated
factory assembly equipment had finally been awarded to him after a lengthy bid
process. Normally, such a project would have taken weeks of planning before he
could start on the main architectural design, but within a matter of hours, he
could already visualise the finished system. Three more days on the CAD
software and the project would be completed - two months ahead of schedule.
He had tried to call Doug, to discuss how they
might combine audio and visual components, as Kal and Martin had somehow
succeeded in doing, but Doug’s mobile had been switched off. Playing both files
simultaneously, as described in his brother’s email to Kal, elicited only
glimpses of the full potential. At the back of his mind was the nagging
suspicion that success in creating the combo file might have had something to
do with the suicides, but the desire to experience whatever lay beyond
overpowered any concern for personal safety. That train had already left the
station and Peter was firmly aboard. Where, or even if, it might eventually
come to a stop was, at this point, a mystery. Either way, he was in for the
duration and, it had to be said, was relishing every moment of the ride.
Abigail would appear from time to time to suggest
he take a break, watch television with the family or join them for meals, but
when he agreed he did so with palpable reluctance. It wasn’t really that his
feelings for them had diminished; it was just that this thing was somehow
bigger than that.
Once or twice, they had become curious as he sat
at his computer with the large black headphones covering his ears. Katie had
said they made him look like Mickey Mouse and they had all laughed at him.
“You look so engrossed”, Abigail had said. “What on earth are you listening
to?”
“Oh, it’s just a boring lecture on circuit design,” Peter had lied, closing his
laptop and changing the subject. Although sharing the discovery with Abigail
might have proved easier in some respects, he was worried where it could lead.
Ironically, it was the desire to protect that was now pushing his family away,
but in spite of this knowledge he felt powerless to stop.
On his second night back in Bracknell, after
tucking the kids into bed, Abigail slipped into a silk negligee in an attempt
to entice him to an early night. He realised that turning her down, only to
continue work on the laptop, would not be taken well - although if truth be
told that was all he longed to do. He forced a smile, closed the PC, and
approached his wife. She was still an attractive woman. Her pale skin had lost
some elasticity over the years and a few dimples of cellulite had appeared
around the thighs, but she had never lacked sex-appeal. Tonight however, as she
moved towards him dressed in black lace, swaying her hips, and smiling
seductively, Peter felt nothing. At any other time he knew he would have been
sufficiently aroused, but currently his libido seemed at an all time low. He
tried to feign interest and excitement, but Abigail wasn’t fooled.
“Peter. Did something happen while you were up at the lakes?”
“Other than burying my dead brother?” he replied sarcastically.
“You know what I mean.”
“No! I don’t think I do.”
“Look, I understand that you’re upset at losing Martin, but this is something
different. You’re distant – distracted - obsessed with something - and you’ve
hardly spent any time with Sam or Kate since you got back. It’s just not like
you, and I’m concerned.”
“I just need to sort some things out - find some answers - work things through.
You know - men are from Mars etcetera - I need some time in my cave.”
Abigail put her robe back on and folded her arms, staring at him intently. “Are
you absolutely sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?” she asked very
slowly, letting her words sink in.
Peter looked into her eyes, wondering how to respond without actually lying.
“There’s nothing else you need to know.”
She studied his face for a few seconds, her stare glancing from eyes down to
mouth, up to forehead and back to eyes again. Abigail could be a formidable lie
detector, a talent honed through ruthless interviewing of countless
unsuspecting job applicants. She turned away with a huff, clearly not entirely
satisfied, but perhaps too tired to argue any more. “I’m going to bed. Just do
what you want.”
He briefly considered opening his laptop again, but instead, followed her
upstairs.
Brushing his teeth, he stared at the tired, ageing
face in the mirror. Unfamiliar bloodshot eyes, underscored with dark shadows
and framed with greying wisps of dishevelled hair and a three-day stubble,
stared back at him. He suddenly felt unworthy of his wife’s latent advances,
let alone Isabelle’s affections.
In the bedroom, Abigail had switched off her
bedside light and was facing the wall. The air was heavy with unresolved anger
and frustration. “Would you like me to do the school-run tomorrow?” he asked,
getting under the covers.
“That would make a change,” she replied coldly.
“Okay, well, I’ll take care of it then. Might even make you a cup of tea, if
you play your cards right,” he added hesitantly. There was no reply.
“Okay, good night darling!”
Again no reply.
Peter was awoken by the alternate ringing and
vibrating of his mobile on the dresser across the room. The bed was empty and
light was penetrating the thin curtains. He glanced at the clock: 9:30am. He
had overslept, Damn! Abigail would be on her way back from dropping off the
kids. He staggered out of bed, but the ringing stopped before he could pick up.
The display showed a missed call from Doug Richards.