Dreams of Origami (10 page)

The moment of death is very difficult to pin down, and mistakes can, and do, occur. At present, the most generally accepted indicator is the cessation of electrical activity within the brain, as this is something which can be measured and which ceases altogether when the person is obviously dead. However, brain activity does continue to function when consciousness is temporarily absent.

Plainly, there is a direct correlation between consciousness and brain activity, but, rather than producing consciousness, the brain appears to behave more like a complicated organism which registers and channels consciousness within an electrochemical field.

What happens when that field of energy dies? Does consciousness die with it, or does it survive physical death? As yet, there is no scientific evidence to suggest the latter; however, science deals with physical matter, whilst consciousness—mind and spirit—is non-physical and operates outside of physical dimensions.

Let us try flipping the question over and viewing it from another angle. Is there any evidence—in fact, is there anything at all—to suggest that we do not survive physical death? The simple answer is no.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

E
IGHT-THIRTY ON A SATURDAY
morning is early for Drew. He’s standing on his doorstep with a mug of coffee, bleary-eyed, and hair looking like an explosion in a mattress factory. Bill Henderson, who lives by the farmer’s clock and has been up for hours, is returning from a walk with his son’s dogs.

‘Thank the Lord that wind’s dropped. Never known a summer like it for weather, but I think we could be gettin’ a decent day at last.’ Bill removes his old, battered cap and uses it to dust grass seeds off his trousers. ‘Still not what I’d call warm, mind, but at least you’ve got a bit of sun for the match.’

‘Should be a good afternoon, though we are two men down, what with Matthew and now your Kenny with his broken arm.’

‘Oh, aye, I’d not thought about that. Can’t hold a bat one-handed, can he? Don’t s’pose that’ll keep him away, despite him being told to go home and rest.’

‘What exactly happened?’ asks Drew. ‘Lacey told me he was trapped under a tractor.’

‘That’s right, though God only knows how it turned like that. Ken said the thing seemed to go out of control all by itself. Wheels came up and over she went. Ground’s flat as yer hat out there, not even a tree root pokin’ up to throw it off balance. I got the mechanics in straight away, for the insurance, like, but there’s nowt wrong with the steering. Young Kenny’s been driving a tractor since he was knee-high, so I don’t know.’

‘Not a good time to be off sick, I imagine, with the harvest coming up.’

‘You’re right there. And here was I, thinking I’d retired. Just as well it’s a late crop.’

‘Incidentally, Audrey was telling us about the history of Gainsborough Street.’

‘What, old Samuel Gainsborough?’

‘That’s right. She said you’d know about the land drainage in this area. How long ago were these fields drained?’

‘Well, it would have been the end of the seventeen-hundreds when this area was cut and ditched. Right desolate place it was afore then.
You’ve been to Wicken Fen, I dare say?’

‘What, the nature reserve? Yes, I went on a few trips with the school kids.’

‘It’s much as how the Romans found it. One great wetland, reed beds, mostly, with tufts of solid ground rising out of shallow water. Dangerous place if you didn’t know it well, full of hidden pools and mires.’

‘So Audrey was saying. But people lived out here, didn’t they?’

‘Oh, aye, have done for centuries. Rough lot they were, too. At one time city folks’d only come out here with an escort, else they’d get mugged or worse.’ Bill looks along the road, his attention drawn by a car drawing up on the opposite side. ‘Hello, who’s this then?’

Drew recognizes Gideon Wakefield’s Jaguar.

Gideon crosses the road to introduce himself. ‘I know it’s a bit early, but I was rather anxious to take another look at the area. I was hoping you might tell me where I can find Lacey Prentice. I’d like to have another word with Triss and thought it might be better if Lacey were with me.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve not long missed her. She went home to change and put some proper shoes on. You’re welcome to wait, she shouldn’t be long. I’ll give her a ring if you like. This is Bill Henderson. He lives over the road. Mr Wakefield is helping with young Matthew.’

The two men shake hands. ‘You with the police?’ asks Bill.

‘No, a sort of private investigator. I take it there’s been no change?’

‘No sight nor sound of him,’ says Bill.

‘Bill was just telling me about the Fens before it was drained,’ Drew cuts in.

‘A hard life.’ Gideon looks around at the open fields. ‘Though ideally suited to the monastic orders. That would have been the Saxons, wouldn’t it, Mr Henderson?’

‘Oh, aye, built a lot of monasteries out there, they did. Most of the buildings are gone now. There’s Ely of course, and what was that other one? Crowlands Abbey. That artist chap, old Matthew Paris, he did some drawings of it back in the twelve-hundreds. “Place of horror and
solitude”, that were his words and he lived hard enough, so imagine what we’d ‘a thought of it now’days.’

‘So, how long ago did all this drainage start, then? And who thought of it?’ asks Drew.

Bill’s getting into his stride. ‘Well, the Romans were the first. They built a system of dykes, but, as soon as they left, it all fell apart and the water seeped back again. From time to time all sorts of people had a go, right back to the Middle Ages. In the end it was the Duke of Bedford. He got some investors together and hired a Dutch engineer, Cornelius Vermuyden. Course the Dutch knew about land drainage. They cut a series of ditches and dykes and reclaimed what’s now Hatfield Chase. Rich peat underneath all that water, soil as black as pitch. Took a couple of hundred years afore all the area was dry, though, except a few places like Wicken a’ course, and they’re mostly owned by the National Trust.’

‘You said there were lots of monasteries.’ Drew looks puzzled. ‘What on earth for? And what happened to the monks?’

‘Not much call for the ascetic life these days.’ Gideon grins. ‘Besides, Henry the Eighth cleaned up their act, and there wasn’t—’

‘Drew! Please—I need some help here! It’s Mr Abercrombie. There’s something very wrong.’

The three men turn in unison to see Triss standing in the road in front of the end cottage. They all move at once, Drew reaching her first.

‘Where is he? Is he hurt?’

‘In the garden. I noticed him out there about an hour ago. And when I looked out the window just now he was still there. I went to see if he was all right, but he’s not moving.’

Drew is first around to the back of the house, with Gideon at his heels. They find Charles Abercrombie sitting on a bench, his gaze fixed on some faraway place.

‘Mr Abercrombie? Can you hear me?’ Drew shouts near his ear.

‘His coat’s wet through. It hasn’t rained. It’s dew. He must have been out here for hours.’ Gideon kneels down and takes his wrist. ‘Can’t find a pulse…No, there it is. Very erratic.’

Drew thrusts his hand inside the old man’s coat. ‘His body’s freezing. Better get an ambulance.’ Gideon has already flipped open his cellphone.

‘What’s happened?’ Bill comes around the corner of the house, with Triss. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Looks like hypothermia. We’ll need some blankets, anything warm.’

‘I’ll fetch a quilt.’ Triss heads towards the schoolhouse.

‘Shouldn’t we be getting him inside?’ Bill is suddenly breathless.

‘We don’t know what else might be wrong. Best not to move him.’

‘Medics are on their way.’ Gideon slips his phone into his pocket. ‘What the hell was he doing out here?’

Lacey snaps her car radio on. A local station is playing an old Simon and Garfunkel song, something she can sing along with. Memories of last night wrap around her like a warm, fuzzy blanket. She expects the rest of the weekend to be equally as pleasurable. She’s been home, taken a long, hot shower, changed into jeans and a shirt, and thrown a heap of casual clothes into a holdall along with a good book. Drew’s playing cricket this afternoon; not her game really, she prefers football. But she’ll sit dutifully by the pavilion, applauding enthusiastically, and between runs she’ll sneak a glance at the Patricia Cornwell on her lap. This is her long weekend, three days in a row. They don’t come around very often, and she needs the break.

There is still the Caxton case, however. Before she left, she made a telephone call to the office. No change in the situation. She should slip over and sit with Triss for a while. No, perhaps not; this is her weekend off and she doesn’t own Triss, does she? That’s what Drew was saying about getting too personally involved. First thing is to get back to Drew and see what’s in his fridge. A good weekend starts with a fry-up: eggs, bacon, sausages—the works.

As she turns into Gainsborough Street, she sees Gideon’s car parked near the schoolhouse. He must be visiting Triss, although it’s early, not
half-nine yet. Something must have happened. Perhaps she ought to go over? As she turns her car around and parks in front of the cottage, she notices that Drew’s van is not in its usual space. Now, where’s he got to? Just as well he gave her the spare key. However, when she opens the front door she discovers she’s not alone.

‘Good morning, Lacey.’ Gideon gets up from the sofa and carefully folds the newspaper as he explains about Mr Abercrombie.

Lacey swings her holdall onto the stairs. ‘So, where’s Drew?’

‘Bill went in the ambulance. Apparently he’s friendly with the old chap and there doesn’t seem to be any family. Drew followed in the van in case Bill needs a lift back. He said I should wait here and let you know what’s happened.’

‘Oh Lord. Poor old boy. What was he doing out there?’

‘That’s what everybody wants to know. I suspect he’d been out there some time. It was Triss who found him.’

‘Oh my God, as if she hasn’t got enough on her plate. Is anyone with her?’

‘Yes, the woman from the cottage opposite. She came over when she saw the ambulance arrive. She was afraid it was for Triss.’

‘That’ll be Audrey Stanton. So, what were you doing out here so early?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this place all night, and about Matthew’s disappearance. I came to have another look around, and I was hoping to talk to Triss again. But as things have turned out, this hardly seems an appropriate time. Perhaps I ought to get going.’

‘No, don’t feel you have to run off. Besides, you’ll want to know how Mr Abercrombie is. Drew’s bound to phone soon. Shall I make us some coffee?’

‘You’ve no idea how good that sounds.’

Lacey puts the kettle on and grinds the beans, feeling her long-awaited weekend crumbling away. Better brew a big pot; Drew is bound to need a caffeine shot when he gets back. He won’t touch the stuff that comes out of hospital vending machines. The small house is soon filled with the aroma, and Gideon’s spirits lift when Lacey carries mugs through from the kitchen. ‘Not a good way for you two to meet, but
I was hoping you’d get to know Drew. But be warned: he’s more than a bit sceptical about your field of knowledge.’

‘We made our own introductions, and I met Bill, too. In fact Bill was telling us about the land recovery here.’

‘Oh, yes, Audrey said he was the person to ask. She was around here last night, filling us in on a few historical details.’ Lacey tells him about the origins of Gainsborough Street. At first Gideon sips his coffee and nods thoughtfully, then he places his mug on the table, takes a pad and pen from his pocket and makes some notes.

‘Did she say why the schoolmasters left?’

‘No, there was no particular reason that she knew of. She did say that the house still keeps changing hands. Various people have used it as live-in business premises, but it never seems to work out.’

Gideon taps the end of the pen on the table. ‘Could just be that it’s too isolated an area, not commercially viable. However…’

‘You mean there might be something wrong with it? Ghosts or something? Surely the locals would know about it?’

‘Not necessarily. Did you know that most modern reports of haunting are from council-house tenants?’

‘Why on earth is that?’

‘Because if you’re the owner of a ordinary house with a mortgage and a family to support and you find you’ve got a haunting on your hands, the best thing to do is shut up about it. Just sell up, get out and leave the problem to the new owner.’

‘I see. So there could be a history of strange happenings and the previous owners are not letting on.’

‘It happens a lot. Might be worth trying to trace the earlier residents. But at the moment I’m more concerned about Mr Abercrombie and why he came to be outside on a cold morning.’

‘Do you think that’s got anything to do with Matthew?’

‘I don’t know. We can’t rule anything out.’

‘Drew says strange things happen in the Fens.’

‘Oh, yes, this area certainly has its fair share of mysteries. Haunted houses, witchcraft, Black Shuck—’

‘What’s that?’

‘An enormous black dog. Sightings of it are supposed to portend terrible events. There have been similar reports all over England, only nowadays people describe what sounds more like a panther. Over the last couple of centuries, Black Shuck has been appearing around the Burwell area. That’s not far from here, is it? Then there’s ghosts seen along the roads and crossing open fields. Crop circles—’

‘I visited one of those yesterday.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t get excited. Turned out to be a do-it-yourself job. What about people disappearing?’

‘Of course, this place was full of hidden bog holes, to say nothing of muggers. If you wanted to drown or get your throat cut, this was the place to visit. Nothing remarkable in more recent years, so far as I know. Although you may be in a better position to access that sort of information.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I was planning to look up local crimes and reported incidents. That’s something I’d have to do via the office computer, because certain sites have restricted access. I may even drop in there tomorrow.’ Lacey drains the last of her coffee. ‘What about the city itself? Some of the old buildings go back centuries, don’t they? Cambridge must be full of ghosts.’