Dreams of Origami (4 page)

‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure. Don’t worry. You’d better get going or you’ll be late. I’ve taken up most of your day as it is.’

‘Least I can do. Well, all right then, if you’re quite sure.’ She turns to Lacey. ‘Now don’t you go upsetting her. Reporters! Last thing she needs.’

As the woman closes the door behind her, Triss smiles, but it is a weak gesture that never reaches her eyes. ‘Audrey Stanton. She’s a neighbour. I hardly know her really, but she’s been wonderful.’

‘Reminds me of a pack leader I once had in the Girl Guides.’

This time Triss manages a slight laugh. ‘Yes, I had one like that, too. Would you like some tea? I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Yes, but let me make it. Mrs Stanton’s right. You look all-in.’

‘No, it’s all right, gives me something to do. I feel so useless.’ Triss’s eyes swim with tears, and her hands are shaking as she turns on the tap. Lacey realizes how fragile the woman is, how close to an emotional cave-in.

‘I passed a police car on the way in.’

‘Yes, that was the sergeant who lives locally. He came yesterday. There were some other officers here earlier. I think they’re starting to believe me now, or at least they said they would follow it up.’

‘Once it becomes official they’re obliged to follow it up, whether they believe you or not. Look, I’m here to help if I can. An article in
tonight’s paper, perhaps a photo, it might just jog someone’s memory. It could make all the difference.’

‘Yes, I realize that. I’ll tell you everything, although there’s nothing to tell. They’re just gone, that’s all.’

‘They?’

‘First it was our baby, now Matthew.’ The tears win, and Lacey helps Triss into a chair at the kitchen table, locates the tissue box and takes over the making of the tea.

‘Here, try to drink some. I know you’re probably awash with hot drinks, but it does help.’ She slips into a chair close to Triss and cradles her own cup. ‘Would you like to tell me about the baby?’

‘SIDS…silly name, makes it sound so trivial. Sudden infant death syndrome. That’s a fancy way of saying they don’t know what happened or why. He was three months old. He looked just like Matthew, had his smile. Then one morning we found him…He was so cold. We called an ambulance. I thought if only they could make him warm again he’d be all right. But of course it was too late.’

Lacey covers Triss’s hand with hers. ‘It must have been awful.’

‘At first it was like a physical pain. I thought I would drown in it. Then, for a long time, I just sort of went numb. Some sort of depression. That’s why we moved here. We used to live in Norwich, but we always planned to move out to the country. The right place to bring up a child, Matthew always said. After…Well, we thought we should go ahead and move anyway. Matthew said it would do me good. And he was right. I was starting to…well…not get over it exactly, but there were times—just odd moments—when I looked around at the fields and the sky and thought it might be worth living. And I still had Matthew, of course. Now I’ve lost him, too. You’ve no idea until you have someone taken from you. I can’t go through this again.’

‘Yes, I know what you’re feeling.’

Triss recoils. She’s heard it all before, the clichéd words of comfort, the hollow consolations. But then she sees the stricken look in Lacey’s eyes.

‘It must have been about this time of day when the call came.’ Lacey leans back in her chair. ‘We’d both gone off to work as usual that
morning, only Michael, that’s my husband, he said he wasn’t feeling too well. “Probably some bug you’ve picked up at the school,” I said, and told him to go back to bed. But he insisted on going in anyway. He was like that, stubborn, pig-headed. If he’d gone back to bed, I might have called the doctor, they might have been able to do something in time. I was at a District Council meeting when I got the message. I made it to the hospital half an hour before he died. They said it was a congenital weakness, as if it were our fault, as if we should have known. Perhaps if I’d paid more attention, made him take the day off. I should have…should have…You can’t explain it to people, can you? It’s as if your whole life has been ripped in half.’

They sit in silence for what seems a long time. The ticking of the clock fills every corner of the house, wind rattles the old window-frames and, outside, a thrush hammers a snail on the concrete path. Their tea is cold and untouched, and eventually Triss gets up to make a fresh brew. This time they do drink it, and Triss tells Lacey about Matthew and their baby. Christopher, they called him, after his grandfather. She tells how her depression took over their lives, how they nursed and nurtured it, almost like a substitute child. ‘I still feel like an invalid. And I feel guilty about that, too, as well as everything else. That’s another part of it: the guilt.’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about the guilt,’ says Lacey. ‘Totally irrational, of course.’

‘For a time I almost forgot that Matthew was grieving, too—something else to feel guilty about. Maybe looking after me was his way of surviving. In the end, moving here seemed the only way out. It was supposed to be for my benefit, but, ironically, it forced Matthew to get out of teaching, which was absolutely what he needed to do.’

‘What did he teach?’

‘Technical drawing and woodwork. Hence the business: Caxton Restoration.’

‘Strange. Michael was an English teacher. And so was Drew, that’s my friend. He used to teach maths. He got out and started a business, too. Reckons it’s the best thing he ever did.’

‘So does Matthew. I can’t say we’re exactly happy here—I’m not
sure I know what that means any more—but I was beginning to feel I might survive. And I still think of Christopher all the time. Is that wrong?’

‘No, it’s not wrong. Hold on to your baby. Never let him go. There’s not a day you won’t think about him, like there’s not a day I don’t think about Michael. But eventually the pain subsides. One day you’ll find you’re remembering and it won’t hurt so much. Then you’ll even look forward to the memories. At least, that’s what they tell me.’ Lacey looks out of the window. ‘Not the best place to recover, I’d have thought. You don’t find it lonely out here? Isn’t it cold?’

‘Yes, it’s cold and bleak and stark. But people have lived out on the Fens for hundreds of years. They survived. It has its own beauty. A rawness. And then there are the skies; they stretch from horizon to horizon, skies like you’ve never seen.’

‘That’s what Drew says. Actually, you might know him—he lives over the road in the end cottage. He loves it here.’

‘Oh, the builder, you mean? Yes, we know him. Well Matthew does, they both play for the Covington Eleven.’ Triss looks down at her hands. Her voice is no more than a whisper. ‘Where is he? He wouldn’t leave me, not like this, would he?’

‘No, I think you’re right. I think something’s happened to him.’ Lacey pulls the knot out of her hair and tosses it loose around her shoulders.

‘So where is he, then?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll do everything I can to help you find him.’ Lacey gets out her notepad. ‘Now, start at the beginning. What happened yesterday?’

An hour later she is back at Drew’s place, having made a tactful exit when Audrey returned. This time, Drew is at home. He’s even made some lunch for her, sandwiches and coffee. Slipping her shoes off and putting her feet up on the sofa, she explains where she has been and why.

‘Yes, I noticed the lights on when I got home last night, but thought nothing of it.’

‘Triss said you and Matthew knew each other. Hey, thanks for this, I’m starving.’

‘I guessed right then.’ He smiles and looks at her for a moment. ‘Matthew Caxton? Yes, I sort of know him slightly, her as well. Just as neighbours, you know, and he recently joined the cricket team. I’ve met him down the pub a few times—he sometimes calls in for a swift half. He doesn’t stop long, usually keen to get off home. More coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’m a bit full of tea. What did he talk about?’

‘Oh, the usual stuff. Houses, furniture. In fact only a few days ago he was asking me if I’d take a look at his roof. He reckoned there’s something wrong with the set-up of the weather vane.’

‘What, that thing on their chimney that looks like a pigeon?’

‘It’s supposed to be a cockerel. It ought to swing with the direction of the wind, but it seems to have a mind of its own. And the old school bell, it’s in a sort of tower over what’s now his workshop. Apparently it’s rung a few times of its own accord. He was concerned about it disturbing the neighbours.’

‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’

‘Nah, must be out of balance. He was worried that the roof beams may have shifted, it being such an old place. I said I’d check it out for him.’

Lacey takes another bite of her sandwich, talking with her mouth full. ‘So you don’t think there’s anything wrong with them, as a couple I mean?’

‘Who can tell? They’re quiet, but friendly enough. I can’t imagine him running out on her.’

‘No, neither can I. In fact, I don’t believe that’s what’s happened at all.’

Everything you have ever experienced happened inside your head.

Think about it. (Yes, that happens inside your head, too.)

You believe you are seeing the page you are now reading. It is an illusion. What you are actually experiencing is an electrochemical reaction occurring inside your brain.

Consciousness resides inside the body (although it is not confined there; we will come to that later), while your sensory organs collect signals—light, sound, smell, touch and taste—from the external world and from the body itself. These signals are converted into electrical impulses which are fed, via the nervous system, into the brain where they are unscrambled and processed into comprehensible data. Our minds and bodies train us, from the moment of birth, to respond to these mental impressions as if they were the real thing. They are not.

The page in front of you, the words you are now reading, are an interpretation of the light signals received by your eyes. What you are experiencing is an illusion.

This is not an easy concept to grasp, so give yourself a few minutes to think about it.

The only experience you ever have of the world around you happens inside your head. The same goes for everyone else. How, therefore, do we know that what we think we see, hear, touch, smell and taste bears any relationship to what is actually going on out there? And how do we know that we are experiencing the same thing as everyone else?

Think about it.

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

P
ATCHES OF SUNLIGHT
have stretched across the floor, enriching the room with deep contrasts. Gideon realizes he has been working most of the afternoon. A new addition to a long line of publications on metaphysical philosophy and the supernatural, this one will bear the title
The Cosmos of Illusions.
It is a concept that intrigues him, concerned as it is with the convergence of modern science and Eastern religious philosophy. However, that is enough for today. It is summertime and the sun will be lingering low over the horizon until late into the evening. He is invited to dinner with friends at a charming house by the river, and there will be the company of a particular delightful woman, whom he suspects has also been invited with his presence in mind.

But that is several hours away, and he discovers that he is hungry and that his back is stiff from hunching over the keyboard. Perhaps a stroll in the late afternoon and something to eat? While he is out he can get a copy of the afternoon paper and see if there’s anything in it about last night’s talk.

The afternoon sun has warmed the city a little, although it’s certainly not shirtsleeves weather. Still, it’s good to be outdoors and among people. Writing is an isolating occupation. The noise of the traffic, even the smell of diesel fumes, reminds him that he is connected to the world. Not that he doesn’t have plenty of friends; the very nature of his subject has brought him into contact with many fascinating people. And yet…

There have been women, of course. There are a few now. Nothing serious, nothing lasting. This is of his own choosing. He is a normal man with normal energies, and he loves women, loves their company,
the way they move, the lilt of their voices. Cassandra has taught him that, although he is sure that was not her intention. There have even been times when someone special has accompanied him on holiday, or moved in with him for a while. Cassandra has withdrawn during these times. No, that’s not quite true. Perhaps he has kept her away, blocked her out. And sooner or later he wanted her back, and so the relationship had to end. So…keep it casual, keep it light, that’s the way he always plays it. Like tonight and the woman he is to partner at dinner. At the end of the evening he will offer to escort her home. But he will not go in, even though she will invite him, even though he knows he could stay the night as he has on other occasions. But not tonight. Last night, he had one of the dreams. Tonight, he needs to think about Cassandra.

Magdalene Bridge is only ten minutes away. There are several cafés to choose from, their tables spilling onto the pavements to accommodate the sightseers who congregate around this famous spot. He is forced to negotiate a path through flocks of bicycle-riding Japanese teenagers, gleaming and twittering like starlings under the careful eye of their tour guide. Heaps of cycles block the pavements while their owners try their skills in the hired punts. Gideon finds a vacant table near the railings. He can hear screams of laughter from the water below, and frequent splashes as yet another tourist loses their punting pole. He smiles, remembering, then lays his copy of the
Fenland Herald
on the table and orders Earl Grey and a sandwich to hold him over until dinner.

Last night, she looked as she always did. It is strange, he thinks, how she never ages. And yet not so strange, considering she is a product of his imagination. When he first encountered her, she seemed much older than he; a grown-up, like one of his teachers or his mother’s friends. Over the years it seems as if he has caught up and eventually overtaken her. He is now heading for forty and she, in comparison, is a younger woman, late twenties, perhaps thirty. It is hard to consider her as belonging to any ethnic group. Small-boned and small-featured, her almond-shaped eyes would suggest some Eastern origin, Thailand perhaps, or Malaysia. But her skin is cream and pink like an English
rose, and the deep violet of her eyes defies any genetic classification. Her clothing would also suggest some exotic culture, always a high-necked, tight-fitting top and a loose sarong or softly draped trousers. Her colours are creams and pale yellows; her materials, silks or satin, and often heavily embroidered. She wears no jewellery or other ornamentation, and her hair falls in a straight sheath, the colour of burnt wood.

The waiter arrives and arranges a cup and saucer, a teapot and milk jug. Gideon unfolds his paper and scans the front page. Another drugs scandal, this time a local footballer. He turns to the second page, and it is as if a sudden, unseen fist has dealt him a blow to the stomach.

Last night was different. Last night, she did not smile. The expression in her eyes was sharp and serious. They walked by the river and talked for a while about the ideas for his next chapter. She spoke lightly about the principles of quantum physics, drawing his attention to the way the river flowed, how it is constantly moving away yet is always there. An illusion. They came to their usual bench and sat down, as was their custom. She produced a sheet of paper and began to bend and crease it. He watched carefully, as there was usually a lesson in this. A lotus flower appeared from the folds, which she gave him to hold for a moment. Then she took it back and unfolded it, smoothing the paper flat.

‘And now, Gideon, tell me: where is the lotus?’ She has asked him this riddle before, many times, laughing, almost as a joke. This time she is serious, pressing.

‘Where is it? Gone, I suppose. It no longer exists.’

She smiled, her mouth tight, barely moving. He knew this was not the answer she was looking for. ‘All right, Gideon. You may turn the paper over.’

He had already seen it turned numerous times in the folding of the flower. It was clean and clear on both sides, he knew that. But he did as she bade him, and was startled to find a photograph on the reverse. A young man with a mop of fair hair and brown eyes, smiling and posing on the beach, trying to look comfortable in front of the camera. At his back, the sea curled in a white-crested wave, forever poised above the sand line.

It is the same man who is now looking out at him from the pages of the afternoon paper, the same wave poised forever above the shore. The breath is knocked out of him. His gaze runs over the words.

missing…Matthew Caxton…disappeared from his home yesterday afternoon…police are appealing to the public…if anyone has seen him, please contact…

‘Yes,’ he murmurs out loud. ‘I’ve seen him. I have seen him.’