Out of Reach Read online

  ELEVEN

  The Great Room at The Royal Inn on The Park was anything but great. A huge private function room, it was the only part of the pub that hadn’t been renovated. It took up most of the first floor and was a throwback to when the building had been a grand old house. An ancient chandelier hung in the centre of the room, flanked on either side by two mutilated fittings where two siblings had once added to the room’s grandeur. The missing chandeliers had probably been taken around the same time the room had been stripped of its other valuable fittings; wood panelling, shelves, brass work and cornices. Robbed of its heritage, The Great Room clung to its grand past with solid oak floorboards, four large sash windows that opened onto the park, and an old Chesterfield that was so worn and stained not even the local charity shop wanted it. Apart from the sofa, a few filing cabinets and boxes of junk, the room was empty, the musty, dead air a stark contrast to the bustling pub downstairs.

  Schaefer could hear the muffled hubbub of chattering drinkers as he settled into the sofa and opened the box file Mathers had given him. He leafed through the papers and selected a set of stapled photocopies that Mathers had marked with his distinctive handwriting: Patient mentions The Collective.

  The pages were an extract from a book entitled Concerning Childhood Illnesses, which, according to the preamble, had been privately published in 1864 by Doctor Alfred Stern, a neurologist at the Birmingham and Midland Free Hospital for Sick Children. Schaefer poured himself a brimming glass of rum and started reading.

  *

  Patient Jones was admitted on March 12th 1863. Jones, a young male of approximately thirteen or fourteen, had suffered multiple contusions and lacerations to his limbs, torso and head. He had been discovered, insensible, in an alleyway in Digbeth. No explanation was provided as to the source of his injuries, nor was the person who delivered him to hospital properly identified. We have since changed our procedures to facilitate proper inquiries, should there be evidence of criminal activity.

  With no means of identifying him, patient was assigned the Jones moniker, and given treatment for his physical injuries. I was first called to examine him on March 13th 1863, when he regained consciousness. The nursing staff had removed Jones to a secure room and bound him to his bed. When I entered, he was still raving. His words were an incomprehensible gabble of French, English, and Latin. He strained at his bonds with such savage ferocity that I feared he would do himself further injury. I sedated by the administration of morphine hypodermic needle, and Jones quickly became drowsy. Calmed of his violent lunacy, I could see that Jones was a young man of average build. The curvature of his limbs signified evidence of malnourishment in his formative years. His alabaster pallor suggested a lack of sunlight, perhaps he had been a mine worker. His teeth were beginning to show the signs of rot that so afflicts the lower orders, and his brown hair was wild, dry and straw-like. What lay before me was a young body already showing signs of neglect.

  I asked the patient to give me his name. His reply was inaudible, and I asked him to repeat it.

  “Tenebris advenire,” he said.

  The body of the boy was not commensurate with that of a person who has received a classical education, and I was surprised to hear him reply in Latin. I surmised that the words, meaning darkness approaches, were obviously significant to the patient due to the fact that he repeated them a number of times. I tried, without success, to get the patient’s true name, however, my efforts proved fruitless, and within a short time, he had drifted off to sleep.

  The following day, March 14th, Jones was awake and alert when I made my rounds. He had refused to answer the nursing staff’s questions, and by all accounts had been silent since my visit of the previous day. I completed my physical examination, checking dilation, reflex response and visual acuity, and concluded that the patient was unlikely to have suffered any damage to his brain as a result of his injuries. I found nothing to suggest that he would further benefit from my specialist expertise, and was about to leave, when he spoke.

  “I see you,” Jones said. “I see inside you.”

  I was startled to hear his voice, for he had said nothing throughout my examination.

  “Do not be startled. Your secrets are but an open book before my eyes. The light of truth shines wheresoever I may cast my gaze. And of this moment I look upon your heart. I see great sadness, unfulfilled longing. For all your searching, you are lost. Your questions about our true purpose remain unanswered, and, as you travel through life, you have pushed the need for answers to the back of your mind until it is nothing more than a dimly lit memory.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “You stand there doubting me. Tell me about your wife. How did she leave you?”

  I tried not to betray any emotion. How could this boy know about Mary? Had his admission to this hospital been planned? Had he overheard the nurses gossip? Had a third party, for some unknown reason, given him details of my personal life?

  “Now you begin to understand that you are not in the presence of normality. As you accustom yourself to the idea, you will come to realise that we are the true source of power in the world.”

  “We?”

  “The Collective,” Jones continued. “We shape the world according to our wish. Everything within it is known to us.”

  I found the conversation unnerving. If, as I suspected, the patient was delusional, he had unsettled me to a sufficient degree that I found myself starting to believe that he might be more than an injured child. I reminded myself of my training, and my unwavering belief in the power of logic and science.

  “Fascinating,” I observed. “But why don’t we talk about you? What’s your name?”

  The patient smiled knowingly. It was a patronising expression that I realised I had used many times when trying to explain something to a child, or mentally subnormal patient.

  “My name is Jones,” he said. “Take your time, doctor. We expect resistance when we near the truth. But ask yourself this; what hand did you have in your wife’s departure?”

  I had not been prepared for this and recognised that I had lost control of what should have been my examination of the patient.

  “I think I shall continue my examination another time,” I said, and withdrew.

  Jones made no effort to strain against his bonds, but I could feel him watching me as I walked away.

  “I look forward to our next talk, doctor.”

  *

  I conferred with my colleague and mentor, Sir Benedict Usborne, who has extensive experience with delusional individuals. I recounted my conversation with Jones, and Sir Benedict immediately recognised the hallmarks of cold reading.

  “Think about it, my dear fellow,” he said. “Who hasn’t asked themselves searching questions about the meaning of life? It’s a general preamble stage magicians and clairvoyants use to set themselves above their audience. Did he say anything specific? No. He merely tapped into the innate human desire to answer the deeper metaphysical questions that trouble us all. And by so doing, he tried to make you believe that you were inferior to him, because he might have the answers which you seek.”

  “What about Mary?” I asked.

  “How do you know what he might have overheard the nurses saying? People treat those who are mute as though they are deaf. It is a very effective way to encourage people to talk freely. Or perhaps he simply noticed your hand.”

  Sir Benedict’s nod towards the fourth digit on my left hand immediately reminded me of the permanent fleshy indentation, the loving scar that was a consequence of having worn a wedding band for so many years.

  “Perhaps he was sharp enough to spot that you used to wear a ring?”

  I thanked Sir Benedict for his insight, and left his office wishing I’d had the presence of mind to challenge the boy and pierce his self-aggrandising façade. I borrowed a pair of books from the hospital library, and passed the evening reading about the parlour tricks used by clairvoyants and other supposed mystics.

 
*

  When I returned to see Jones the following day, he continued where he had left off.

  “Have you thought about your role in your wife’s departure, doctor?”

  “No. Instead, I devoted my evening to considering the subject of specificity. The discipline of being specific is one that is inculcated into every notable scientific mind from the very earliest days of their training. We are taught to observe, to categorise, and, most importantly, to question. It is the questions we ask that are most important of all.”

  “I see that you have decided to fall back on the old crutch of knowledge,” Jones began. But I cut him off.

  “How did my wife leave me?” I asked.

  Jones hesitated.

  “It suddenly occurred to me that you never said how she left me. If you can see that I played some role in her departure, then surely you can tell me how she left me.”

  For the first time since I had encountered the patient I saw the uncertain hesitation of a child flash across his face.

  “Or is it possible that you noticed I used to wear a wedding band?”

  Jones composed himself, but it was too late; the illusion had been broken.

  “You seem determined to stay trapped in your little world, doctor. We can help you. We can give you everything that you have ever wanted,” Jones said.

  “And what if there is nothing I want?” I asked. “Unhappiness stems from discontent with one’s circumstances. From believing that happiness comes from without, that your answers to the mysteries of life, that the return of my wife, that the alleviation of my persistent hip pain will somehow engender a new found satisfaction with existence. It may trouble you deeply to know that others do not suffer in the way you obviously do, but I am content. I am content not to know the answers to life’s mysteries, I am content that my wife is no longer with me, and I am content with my hip, the pain of which has diminished to the point where I now consider it nothing more than an irritating old friend. And through my contentment with life, I have found happiness.”

  “You’re lying to me, and to yourself,” Jones replied. “The Collective can give you everything you want.”

  “That’s the second time you have offered me everything. And for the second time I decline. Instead of everything, give me one. Tell me how my wife departed.”

  Jones looked at me with a mix of anger and uncertainty.

  “If you don’t, then I will know that you are nothing more than a charlatan who has learned some clever tricks.”

  “Aqua est sordidum,” Jones mumbled, as he went into some sort of trance. “Aqua est valde sordida.”

  Jones’ eyes flashed open.

  “I see pain. I see much pain.”

  I remained impassive and betrayed no emotion.

  “I see suffering. I see great sadness,” Jones continued. “Your wife is dead.”

  “Whoever has trained you should be congratulated on an excellent job. You almost convinced me, but I’m afraid my wife divorced me three years ago.”

  “You’re lying,” Jones suddenly raged.

  “It caused quite a scandal. She left me for another man. The role I played in her departure was that of a neglectful husband with a compulsive devotion to his profession. I left a void in her life and someone else filled it. But enough of me. Let’s talk about you.”

  Jones turned his head away from me.

  “I see,” I observed. “Judging by the physical evidence, I would surmise that you spent your formative years on the streets, and that you did whatever it took to survive. Open your mouth, please.”

  Jones was still.

  “If you fail to comply with my instruction, I shall summon orderlies who will force you to comply. I’d rather avoid any unpleasantness.”

  Jones opened his mouth, and I examined his teeth.

  “A number of your teeth have a pronounced ridge of staining, which suggests to me that your diet improved two or three years ago. I would hazard a guess that was when someone took you off the street.”

  Jones turned to look at me, but said nothing.

  “Now, on the matter of your parlour trick.”

  Jones’ mouth curled into a slight snarl.

  “Or your ability, if you prefer,” I continued. “Someone has trained you to speak rudimentary Latin, a language which impresses the common man with its connection to antiquity. That same person has given you the burden of perception. Those sharp eyes are now always on the lookout for a person’s vulnerability. Something that you can exploit to place yourself in a position of power. Once you have power over a person, you can offer them your instruction, which really means recruiting them for whoever has trained you, doesn’t it?”

  Jones remained silent.

  “Your injuries are consistent with a beating. Perhaps you failed in some aspect of your training, and were chastised. Perhaps, given your age, and the tempestuous feelings suffered by all young men of your years, you were aggrieved at your treatment and were compelled to escape. In the course of your escape, you eluded your pursuers, but were injured in the process, which is how you came to be found, unconscious and helpless. Which is when you were brought here.”

  Jones’ expression softened, and his lower lip trembled as though he might cry.

  “I imagine your present feelings are somewhat confused, which is why you sought to revert to your training with me. It is what you know best. But you no longer have to pretend to be something you are not.”

  Finally I saw the young boy at the heart of the pretence, as Jones broke down crying.

  “Help me,” he pleaded. “You’ll keep me safe when they come. Promise me.”

  I promised Jones that he was safe and asked his real name.

  “Duncan Olmsworth,” he replied.

  “Is there someone we can contact for you? Your father? Your mother?” I asked.

  “Father’s dead. Died when I was a baby. Last I knew, mum was on the street,” Duncan replied.

  I told Duncan that he had been through a difficult and tiring experience and that he needed rest. We would continue our conversation the following day. When I left, Duncan’s face was flooded with the relief of someone released from a great and terrible lie. I informed the nursing staff of Duncan’s true identity and suggested that attempts be made to trace his family.

  The following day I hurried through my rounds in order that I might spend additional time with Duncan. His promised to be a fascinating story. When I arrived at his room, his bed was empty and there was no sign of him. Sister Cole informed me that Duncan had been discharged first thing that morning. His father had come to collect him.

  I instantly regretted my decision to inform anyone of Duncan’s true identity, and was almost certain that was how they found him. I made immediate and urgent inquiries with the police, but they had neither the resources nor the inclination to search for a missing urchin. Driven by my possible role in his disappearance, I scoured the streets of the city for weeks, searching for any sign of the boy, or this ‘Collective’. I could find none.

  In the months that followed I found myself starting to question the source of my guilt. The boy had told me his father was dead, but it was impossible for me to verify that fact. Given his troubled past, it is more than conceivable that he did not want to be associated with his father, and had long treated him as dead. A lie which he would tell any figure in authority lest his unwanted father be reintroduced into his life. I told myself that the existence of an organisation that abducts children and trains them in mystical trickery would have been noted by the authorities or the local community, and that this ‘Collective’ was nothing more than the product of an adventurous imagination. Each day I try to convince myself that I have allowed fanciful speculation to get the better of me. But then I remember Duncan’s trickery. Trickery that had almost convinced me he was possessed of supernatural talents. Trickery that must have been taught over a period of months, if not years, by someone with considerable expertise in such matters.

  Wherever D
uncan is, I pray he is in good health.

  TWELVE

  Schaefer came round to find the room sparkling, as hazy sunshine caught specks of dust that drifted through the lazy air. Mathers’ papers were strewn around the sofa, and the empty rum bottle lay on the bare boards like a spent lover. Schaefer dragged himself to his feet and staggered into the corridor. Schaefer tried to help his mind through its increasingly sluggish booting-up process by shuffling through the routine that was one of the few remaining façades that he was a member of civilised humanity. He stumbled into the staff bathroom, stood over the avocado green toilet and sprayed the bowl with the sticky orange effluent that had come to pass for his urine. Schaefer flushed away the evidence of his excessive drinking and encroaching ill-health and washed his hands and face with icy cold water from the chipped taps. He stared at himself in the old mirror, noting the wrinkled bags under his eyes, the grey-tinged skin, and yellow hued sclerae, and wondered how long he’d be able to live like this before his body simply gave up. Schaefer wasn’t stupid; he knew what drinking was doing to him, but he also knew that he needed it to get through the ugliness of his life. Without something to dull his senses, the naked horrors of the world would probably shatter the last vestiges sanity. As he got undressed, Schaefer was reminded of the one benefit of excessive drinking; a lean body robbed of flab inducing food. The regular physical requirements of Schaefer’s work had kept him muscular, and his predominantly liquid diet ensured he stayed lean. His chest and back recorded his miserable quest; the pocked scar of a bullet, three ragged cut-throat razor lines of smoothly slashed flesh, two jagged mounds of tissue healed over near-fatal knife wounds, and the burning lines across his back where he had been flailed with barbed wire.