W
ILL THIS BE THE PLACE
he remembers? Will his possessions still be there—all those things that declare who he is and what he values? Both fearful and hopeful, he turns the key, opens the door and steps inside, expecting to find the home of a stranger. But, no, the hall seems unchanged. He goes through to the sitting room and finds a familiar world. At first glance the furnishings are more or less as he left them, all his treasures are there: his books, his music, his art collection. No, looking again, he finds there are one or two items missing. Some have been replaced by something he never owned but might well have acquired given the opportunity. Relieved, he sees the Franz Marc still in its place on the wall. The pieces of origami he had created himself are gone. He understands that. Why would someone who had never dreamed of Cassandra’s hands want to sculpt paper? The Running Man is missing, a small bronze statue he’d bought in New York. Perhaps he didn’t buy it. Perhaps he’s never even been to New York. Who knows, he may have been burgled and now has no way of knowing what’s been taken. Suddenly it hits him: the entire absurdity of his situation. He begins to laugh, a discordant hysterical laughter that trembles on the edge of tears. He reaches for a bottle and pours himself a tumbler of neat Scotch, tossing it down his throat in an attempt to sober up.
The drive home had been strange in its familiarity. At first there were minor differences, a tree felled, a house painted, a bus stop in a different place. But as he left Covington behind and drew closer to Cambridge, those differences lessened. She had said, hadn’t she, that his friends would be safer in the city? He prayed that only he and Cassandra had been at the centre of the energy fault when they’d attempted the repair, that everyone else had had time to leave.
It is only here, in his own environment, that the shift in time becomes evident, and that is more about changes in him and his personal history. But surely that, in turn, would have affected everyone he has known? Every relationship will been different. What about Lacey and Drew? He would never have met them, would never have had a reason to. They were the only ones who knew of Cassandra. No, what about the hospital? Matthew and Triss were there, they may remember…But he has just come from the schoolhouse and neither of them even knew who he was.
He swallows the remains of the Scotch and stares at the empty glass, turning it in his hand. She was here, wasn’t she? He poured a glass of orange juice for her, she drank it in this very room. But there is no used glass on the coffee table. He runs into the kitchen, but everything is clean and clear. He opens the cupboard door. There is no way of knowing which of the neat row of tumblers is the one she drank from. But then, she didn’t, did she? She was never here, not in this world. Even that has been lost to him. It feels like the final twist of the knife. How can he live here now? How can he live anywhere?
The noise tears through the room like jagged glass. Gideon’s body jerks with shock while his mind identifies the ringing of the telephone. He hesitates, then picks up the receiver and whispers a cautious hello.
‘Is that you, Wakefield? Whitely here.’
‘Who?’
‘Whitely, Chairman Whitely, the Parapsychology Forum.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ Gideon’s mind is racing. Here’s a man who knows him. A connection with the university and with the psychic
research. Which means he himself must still have some connection with either or both.
‘Hello? Wakefield? You still there?’
‘Er, yes, yes I’m here. You caught me in the middle of something. Sorry. What can I do for you?’
‘Just ringing to make sure you’re still OK for tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten!’
Gideon is silent.
‘You have forgotten, haven’t you? Professor Lebowski. The American. UCLA or whatever they call themselves.’
‘Oh, Lebowski, yes, of course.’ With his free hand Gideon is frantically turning the pages of his desk diary. ‘Seven-thirty. The Norton Rooms at King’s,’ he bluffs. ‘There, you see: I hadn’t forgotten.’
‘Good. You had me worried for a minute. Lebowski is really insistent on meeting you, and we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot now, do we?’
‘You’re absolutely right there.’
‘You feeling OK, old man? You sound a bit strange.’
‘No, I’m fine. Really.’
‘Well, if you’re sure…Anyway, I wanted to remind you about arriving promptly. I’d like you two to have a chance to meet before the buffet is served. That’ll be at eight-fifteen. Oh and by the way, those friends of yours you wanted me to invite. I managed to get hold of them, at least my secretary did. She said they have agreed to come. Those sort of people usually turn up early, so you will make sure you’re here in good time, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll see you later, then.’
‘Who the bloody hell’s Lebowski?’ Gideon mutters as he puts the telephone down. He takes a breath and prepares to think this through. A visiting professor from an American university, a reception at King’s College, outside caterers—must be someone important.
Now why would Whitely want me involved in a university welcoming party? And why would this Lebowski want to meet me? Unless there is some
connection with the Parapsychology Forum. Which must mean that I, also, still have a reputation in psychic research. The books—of course, I didn’t look for the books!
He goes to their usual place. Nothing. No, the shelf above. And there they are, all in their distinctive covers with his name prominently displayed on the spine. There should be ten but there are only eight. Two of the titles are missing. Were they ever written? What’s this? He pulls out the end volume and reads the cover.
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield. But it wasn’t finished. It was still in the computer, and he’d abandoned that in Drew’s cottage. No, he hadn’t! There’s the computer, over there on his desk.
He sinks down onto the sofa, his head in his hands. This is like living in a crazy house, something out of a funfair where the floors tilt and all the dimensions are skewed to throw you off balance.
She said that when I had agreed to work with her she went back into my past to start the training. But when she first made contact with me, which was only two years ago, I was already a writer and a developed psychic; that was one of the reasons I was chosen. Therefore, I may now have reverted to the life I would have had if Cassandra had never found me. That would make sense. But no, that’s too easy, surely. Besides, even if that’s right, it doesn’t help me one bit.
Take it step by step. Start tonight. Go to this reception. At least there will be people there who know me, even if I don’t recognize them. What about those friends of mine, the ones Whitely invited? He didn’t sound too impressed by them. I hope somebody knows who the hell they are, because I’m damned if I do.
Arrive early, Whitely had said. Early and on an evening in midsummer, with the sun hanging low over the city. He has decided to walk, a comfortable stroll beside the river to Magdalene Bridge, then through the market square to King’s Parade. The city is unchanged. The ancient buildings with their delicately sculpted arches and spires have always struck him as being strangely at odds with the austerity of those who
created them. As always, the area around the main entrance to King’s College is heaped with students’ bicycles. He walks over the old, cobbled pavement and through the porters’ lodge, where he’s greeted by the head porter.
‘Evening, Mr Wakefield. I believe you’re expected at the Norton Rooms.’
Gideon feels just as if he’s found an old friend and wants to throw an arm around his shoulder. Such unseemly behaviour would never be countenanced within these hallowed halls, so he mutters something about the weather and walks on through.
Once inside the rectangle of college buildings, the street sounds are cut away. This is a special place created for study and contemplation, set aside from the mundane world and revered by countless generations of masters and students. Gideon pauses a moment to remember the peace and joy of his younger years. This is a place where time itself stands still, or so they say. If only he could turn it around and make it flow upstream.
A buzz of conversation is audible as he approaches the door. He slips in quietly, hoping to remain unnoticed for as long as possible while he assesses the assembled guests. Who are the strangers? Should he know them? There are several familiar faces, but do they know him? He decides to wait, let people approach him first. He takes a glass of wine from a passing waiter and stands in the shadow of the wall, pretending to examine an oil painting.
‘Ah, there you are, Wakefield.’ Whitely’s balding head is slick with sweat, a network of veins showing red on his cheeks. Gideon sympathizes. The evening’s too hot for formal dress, and Whitely is obviously under pressure in such an illustrious assembly. All the head fellows are here, and quite a few distinguished old boys—himself among them, he supposes. He spots at least one member of the House of Lords.
‘Has the guest of honour arrived yet?’ Gideon is hoping to God that
someone will point Lebowski out to him before he makes a fool of himself.
‘Yes, over there, talking with some people from the Board of Trustees. And those friends of yours seem to be making themselves at home, don’t they?’
‘Oh, really? Where are they?’
‘There—right behind you.’
Gideon turns to see a group of people in animated conversation. Most of them have their backs to him, but, despite the grey lounge suit, there’s something more than familiar about that mop of frizzled hair. And the woman next to him, short skirt, high heels. He’d recognize those legs anywhere.
‘Lacey!’ As she turns, Gideon grabs her in a bear hug. ‘And Drew!’
‘Yes, well it’s nice to see you too.’ Drew manages to gasp between having his back slapped and his hand pumped up and down.
‘This is fantastic.’
‘Yes, it was good of you to get us an invite.’ Lacey glances around, obviously embarrassed.
Gideon realizes they are attracting unwanted attention. ‘Sorry.’ He feels himself grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able to come. And it’s so good to see you.’ He forces himself to calm down.
‘Yes, well it must be all of twenty-four hours,’ says Lacey.
‘Twenty-four…what?’
‘Since you saw me. Yesterday, in the library. Don’t you remember?’
‘Library? Yes, of course.’
By now Drew is looking from one to the other, his expression changing from bemusement to concern. Gideon is almost thankful when Whitely joins them.
‘Gideon, perhaps you’d be good enough to introduce me to our guests?’ There is a moment of awkward silence.
‘Professor Whitely, isn’t it?’ Lacey holds out her hand. ‘I’m Lacey Prentice, reporter with the
Fenland Herald.
We’ve met before, though you may not remember. It was a couple of weeks ago—the lecture
tour by that Eastern guru. I spoke to you both afterwards, though only briefly, obviously you were very busy. I did the write-up.’
‘Ah yes, of course, I do remember. And that was a very competent piece in the paper. I was extremely impressed.’
‘Oh, thank you. And this is my partner, Andrew Burrows. He was at the lecture, too, weren’t you, Drew?’
‘Really? Is that so?’ Whitely shakes Drew’s hand. ‘And what did you think of the Swami?’
‘To be perfectly honest, I thought he was talking a load of rubbish. How anyone can be taken in by that—’
Lacey pinches Drew’s leg. ‘Drew’s still rather sceptical about such things, I’m afraid.’
‘And you’re not so sceptical, I gather, Mrs Prentice. Wakefield here was telling me that you and he are collaborating on some sort of project.’ He turns to Gideon. ‘Something about Fenland history from the paranormal perspective, isn’t it? Sounds very exciting.’
Gideon is stunned and, for a moment, speechless. ‘Er, you’re better at explaining it, Lacey.’
‘Well, it started with a series of articles I did last year. Fenland mysteries—you know, haunted houses and that sort of thing. I managed to persuade Gideon to give me some expert advice, sort of consultant psychic. It went down very well; in fact readers started writing in with their own stories. We decided some of them warranted further investigation. Eventually, we ended up with enough material for a book.’
Whitely looks genuinely interested. ‘There have, of course, been a number of publications concerning East Anglian phenomena—’
‘Yes, there have,’ says Lacey, ‘but written by historians. This will be something different. The stories will be recounted by a journalist with experience in local research, namely myself, and then evaluated by Gideon, a renowned psychic investigator.’
‘Indeed, a very original angle, wouldn’t you say, Mr Burrows?’
‘Yes, if you happen to believe that sort of thing.’
‘And Drew, here, is our voice of reason,’ Gideon manages to intercede. ‘He helps us retain our sense of perspective.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s so.’ Whitely smiles politely. ‘However, I shall be interested to read the finished manuscript. Perhaps I could review it for the Forum? Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to our guest of honour.’
They watch Whitely retreat across the room, then Drew leans in to whisper to Gideon. ‘Why all the fuss over this Lebowski, anyway?’
‘Oh, Drew.’ Lacey turns to Gideon. ‘I already told him on the way here, I knew he wasn’t listening.’
‘Yes, I was. Visiting American professor, you said, some bigwig from California, with enough letters after his name to fill a paragraph. What I mean is: why is he here?’
‘She. She’s on sabbatical and touring Europe. Among other things she lectures in medieval European history. She’s written several books on the subject. I did tell you—’
‘I remember you banging on and on about her being highly respected in academic circles and how very privileged we were to have the chance to meet her. Still doesn’t explain what all this is about.’ Drew drains his glass and changes it for a full one from a passing tray.