The Map of Chaos (20 page)

After that she would remain silent, in expectation of those who it would seem never turned up. Could they be the same ones she herself had referred to as “those from the Other Side,” for whom the book was apparently intended? And who was the strange creature who had tried to steal it? How had he managed to appear during the séance, and how had he suddenly vanished in the middle of the street, leaving a trail of blood that had become visible only moments later? More important still, how had the old lady disappeared from a room that was locked on the inside? Too many questions without any answers.

Although they were frustrating questions, they distracted him, saving him from himself. He needed those questions because they were the barrier that kept at bay that other ferocious hoard of thoughts, which if they invaded his mind would end up destroying it. And so he had no other choice but to keep his fainting fits secret. None of his superiors must ever find out, not even Captain Sinclair. And if that also meant no more dreaming about Valerie, he would have to accept that, he told himself, as he fingered the gold-edged card that had been languishing in his coat pocket for the last six months like a treasure at the bottom of the ocean, until he had rescued it a week earlier.

The sound of a door clicking open and the gentle murmur of female voices announced that the session of the patient before him had ended. Clayton fixed his eyes apprehensively on the door of the waiting room. When he had arrived at Doctor Higgins's consulting rooms an hour earlier, a plump nurse had guided him there along a corridor lined with doors, inviting him to leave his hat on the stand and to take a seat in one of the small armchairs. Noticing his ashen face, she had assured him that no one would disturb him while he was waiting, as no two patients were ever asked to wait in the same room, thus guaranteeing absolute discretion. Afflictions of the soul were apparently very delicate matters, Clayton reflected when she had gone. After standing rigidly for a few moments in the center of the room, he finally took off his hat and ventured to sit down, wondering about his fellow patients in the adjoining cells, which seemed to stretch out forever, like a hall of mirrors: neurasthenic gentlemen overwhelmed by the intolerable pressures of business; ladies suffering from chlorosis, their skins a delicate greenish hue, like forest fairies in which some child had stopped believing; hysterical young girls in desperate need of a husband, or possibly a lover? What the devil was he doing among this display of deviant behavior? But now it seemed it was too late. The murmur of voices had taken on the habitual inflection of departures, and the sound of a door gently clicking shut told Clayton that Doctor Higgins was done healing that particular patient's soul. The tap of approaching footsteps followed, and the waiting room door opened, framing the nurse.

“You may go in now, Mr. Sinclair!” Clayton silently cursed himself for his complete lack of imagination when it came to giving a false name. “Doctor Higgins is waiting for you.”

•  •  •

W
HILE HE SPOKE
, D
OCTOR
Higgins was in the habit of tugging his goatee between his thumb and forefinger, a gesture that possibly betrayed an incurable affliction of the soul, and which didn't exactly help Clayton to feel at ease. Indeed, it had the opposite effect on him, and so he had to take his eyes off the doctor and cast them around his spacious office. He studied the volumes lining the bookshelves, so thick they seemed to hold all the wisdom in the world between their pages; the engravings of body parts covering the walls; the uncomfortable couch; and the display cabinet in a corner, containing a few human skulls with deranged smiles lying on a bed of scalpels, syringes, and other sinister-looking instruments.

“So you would describe them as a kind of, er . . .
journey.
Is that correct, Mr. Sinclair?” the doctor inquired.

“Yes . . . more or less.” Clayton fidgeted impatiently in the uncomfortable leather armchair, unable to find a position that made him feel more relaxed. He decided to cross his legs and lean forward slightly, fixing his gaze a few feet beyond his shoes. “I don't really know how to explain it. You see, the fact is, I know my body isn't there—even when I am completely unconscious I know that I'm not completely there—and yet somehow I don't feel I am dreaming either, and when I wake up I don't even remember it as a dream . . . It is as if that place really existed and I am able to travel there with my mind—or my soul.” He shrugged, despairing at how all this must sound. “Does what I'm saying appear stupid to you, Doctor?”

Doctor Higgins smiled reassuringly. “If I devoted myself to treating stupid people I would have a full practice, and I would be a wealthy man.”

Clayton gazed at him in silence for a few seconds but decided it was best not to tell him that, to judge by the nurse's excessive precautions, Dr. Higgins did have a full practice, and by his watch, his ring, and his flamboyant spectacles, all evidently solid gold, he was indeed a wealthy man.

“So tell me, Mr. Sinclair, this place you dream of, is it always the same?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it to me,” the doctor said, removing his spectacles and placing them on top of one of the piles of books on his desk, where they perched like an eagle on a rock.

“Well . . . it's not easy.”

“Please try.”

Clayton heaved a sigh.

“It is a strange yet familiar country,” he said at last. “In my . . . dreams, I arrive in a place that could be anywhere in the English countryside. In fact, I could be in one of those serene meadows with babbling brooks that Keats described, or at least that's how it feels when I am there. But at the same time, everything is different. It is as if someone had taken everything around me, placed it in a dice cup, and shaken it before throwing it over the world again. That place would be what came out. There everything is . . . all mixed-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . people aren't just people, or perhaps they are, people like you and me, but they are also something
else.
It is as if they had animals inside them, or maybe it is the other way round: they are animals with human souls . . . Sometimes I see them in their animal guise, and the next moment I find myself contemplating a woman, a man, or a child. The whole of Nature is mixed-up, merged: the creatures in that place are both animals and humans, and possibly plants too. There are bat-men, fish-women, butterfly-children, but also moss-babies and old people who are snow . . . Only when I'm there, none of that surprises me. Everything flows harmoniously and naturally; I never think it could be otherwise. I myself am many things, a different thing each journey: sometimes an animal, or wind, or rain . . . When I am wind, I like to blow on her haunches, rippling her coat, and she runs over the hill, turns, and passes through me; sometimes I am the dew on the grass, and I soak her fur when she lies down on me; other times I run with her; she is swift and I can only outrun her when I am a wolf too . . . and sometimes we talk and drink tea in her elegant drawing room, and she picks a piece of fruit from my arm and bites into it joyously, for I am a tree, and sometimes a bird soaring in the sky, and she howls with rage because she can't reach me—”

“You always dream about the same place, yet all your dreams are different,” the doctor broke in.

“Yes,” Clayton replied, both irritated and unsettled by the interruption. “I always go to the same place, and I always encounter the same, er . . . person.”

“A woman?”

Clayton hesitated for a moment.

“She isn't exactly a woman. I already told you that the definitions we use here are impossible to apply there. Let's say she is . . .
feminine.
”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully and stroked his goatee, a smile flickering on his lips.

“But each journey is very different from the others,” Clayton went on, trying to change the subject.

“That's odd,” mused the doctor. “Recurring dreams usually present few variations . . .”

“I already told you they aren't like dreams.”

“Yes, so you did.” The doctor gave his goatee a few gentle tugs, like an actor making sure his false beard is firmly stuck on. Then he glanced down at his notes. “You also told me they started approximately six months ago.”

“That's right.”

“And that nothing like this has ever happened to you before.”

“No.”

“Are you positive you never suffered from any childhood episodes of sleepwalking, or other disorders such as insomnia or nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“And please try to remember: Have you at any other time in your life experienced any of the following symptoms: migraines, phonophobia, or digestive disorders . . .”

Clayton shook his head.

“. . . apathy, fatigue, depression, loss of appetite . . .”

“Well, lately there are days when I feel tired and have no appetite—”

“No, no! I'm only interested in the period leading up to six months ago, before you started having these . . . dreams.”

“Not as far as I can remember.”

“Hallucinations, mania, dizziness . . .”

“No.”

“. . . sexual dysfunction?”

“I fear I have led a rather dull life up until now.”

Doctor Higgins nodded and, giving his beard a rest, put on his spectacles before absentmindedly scribbling a few lines in his notebook.

“And what exactly happened to you six months ago, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked without looking up.

Clayton stifled his surprise.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor? I'm afraid I didn't quite hear what you said.”

The doctor glanced at him over the rims of his gold spectacles.

“Clearly something must have happened to you. The sudden onset of this symptomatology with no previous history can't have come out of nowhere, don't you agree? Try to think back. It could have been something you considered trivial at the time: a slight blow to the head or some other seemingly harmless incident. Perhaps during a trip you ate some rotten food; blood infections can produce strange symptoms. Or was it something of a sentimental nature, a trauma that affected you deeply . . . ?”

Clayton pretended to straighten the cuffs of his jacket to gain time. For some stupid reason it hadn't occurred to him that he would have to speak to Dr. Higgins about what had happened at Blackmoor, even though he knew (he had always known, without any need to express it in words) that everything had started there. Something of a sentimental nature? Yes, you might say so . . .

“Seven months ago, something happened that . . . ,” he began, “that affected me deeply. But that is all I can tell you. It is a professional matter of the strictest confidence that I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“Of the strictest confidence?” The doctor glanced at his notes again. “I see you are a . . . locksmith by profession, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Er . . . yes, that's right.”

“And you lost your hand . . .”

“Due to that confidential matter that I'm not at liberty to discuss.”

“I understand,” the doctor said, leaning back in the chair as he observed Clayton patiently. “But, Mr. Sinclair, you must understand that I cannot help you unless—”

“Please, that's enough!” Clayton cried. His sudden outburst caused the doctor to look offended, and the inspector instantly regretted having raised his voice. What would he do if the man threw him out of his consulting room and refused to treat him? He didn't think he had the courage to find another doctor and submit himself to a similar interrogation. And so he took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly, but the words poured out in torrents. “Forgive me, Doctor, but I don't need more questions. What I need are answers. I told you I am not at liberty to discuss what happened to me. You will have to find out what is wrong with me without that information. Consider it a challenge, like a criminal investigation where there are only a few clues and the rest depends on your imagination. It isn't so difficult; in my work I . . . well, many of the locks I have to open are like that, believe me.” The doctor regarded him in silence, as though considering his appeal. “Are there no other tests you can give me? Blood tests, for example? Prescribe whatever you want. I'm willing to try anything, I assure you. I'll be your guinea pig if you like. Feel free, I don't care . . .” Clayton ran his trembling hand over his face and then looked straight at the doctor. “Do whatever you want. But I need this to stop . . . I beg you.”

Doctor Higgins continued to contemplate him for a few moments more, then stood up and went over to the cabinet on the opposite wall. While he was rummaging about in it he said: “Roll up your shirtsleeve, please, Mr. Sinclair. I'm going to take a blood sample, and then I'll test it for several things: creatinine, potassium, chlorine, sodium . . . and a few other things besides. I'll also do a red blood cell count.” The doctor spun round with a grin, brandishing a syringe, which Clayton thought looked enormous. “Who knows, maybe we'll discover something interesting.”

I
NSPECTOR
C
ORNELIUS
C
LAYTON CAUTIOUSLY
turned up the collar of his coat, peering with a complete lack of caution around either side of the doorway, then plunged into the gentle jaws of the fog slinking along Taviton Street. But we are not going to follow him. Instead, we shall leave him to disappear among the crowded Bloomsbury streets while we remain in front of number 10, mesmerized by the soft golden glow of the X above the door, which, as on pirate maps, seems to mark the spot where we should dig for treasure. Moments later, our patience is unexpectedly rewarded, as Dr. Higgins hurries out of the house. Yes, despite having a full consulting room, he abandons his patients to their fate and dives into the freezing fog, taking the opposite direction to Clayton, which leads me to conclude that the reason why he has suddenly absconded is not precisely in order to trail the inspector. Where can he be heading in such a hurry? Let us follow him.