Cold Skies: A Psychological Thriller Page 7

  “I know a couple of things that will help you get a good night’s sleep,” Dr. Aslett responded brightly.

  “I didn’t really mean sleeping pills. I was looking for… I was wondering if you could tell me what to do… if there’s anything that could make the dreams stop,” he ended lamely.

  Aslett looked at him shrewdly. “You’re talking about dreams you’ve been having since the accident, aren’t you?”

  Gareth nodded, his throat tight.

  “I understand. It’s perfectly normal for your mind to be a bit shaken up… After all, you were in a life-threatening situation. It takes time for the mind to recover, like it does for the body. These things will pass, as they say, and gradually you’ll get back to feeling tip-top. Of course, if you really are worried…”

  The doctor sat down at his desk, ripped a sheet of paper off his notepad and began to write something.

  “There’s a colleague of mine I can recommend. He’d be able to help you.”

  “Is he a psychiatrist?”

  “He’s a psychologist,” Aslett said, on his feet once more. “Attached to St. John’s College. Now you look like a man who wants advice, Mr. Manning. If you’re really serious about this, then by all means, make an appointment with him. Don’t feel put off. There really is no shame in getting your mind checked up after an accident like that, as well as your body.”

  Gareth looked at the note, carefully folded it and put it away in his wallet.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  *

  At lunchtime the next day, Gareth was sitting at one of the more attractive venues in Cambridge, the riverside café-bar known as Henry’s. Spring was coming to East Anglia piggyback on winds scything out of Siberia, or that was what it felt like, but behind the wood-paneled double doors, the overheated and overdecorated interior of Henry’s was a good place to relax. Men and women in suits sipped cappuccino or quaffed Grolsch, oblivious to the rows of empty punts outside the window floating and nudging each other gently on the frosty Cam.

  Like the river, Lynval Price was in full flow.

  “So this guy I saw was on his mobile phone at the airport when he reached the security check. They said, you have to put your phone through the machine. So he said, ‘hang on a minute’, put the mobile on the conveyor belt and passed it through the security X-ray – without turning it off, mind you – then picked it up at the other end and carried on talking like nothing had happened!”

  Gareth sniggered into his milky tea. “What a poser.”

  “I know I’m bad with the old mobilio, but I don’t think I’m that bad, am I?”

  “You never turn it off when you’re in the bar.”

  “I might as well do. No bastard’s rung me today.”

  Price was in his mid-forties, a wiry man with receding tight curls of black hair that accentuated his bony forehead and shrewd, penetrating eyes. His face had a heavy jaw that tended to turn a smile into a sneer. The leather jacket he wore covered a faded denim shirt, and he drank Miller’s straight from the bottle. Born in Manchester – Manchester parish, Jamaica, not Manchester England – Lynval Price had lived in Northampton and Gloucester before setting up his agency in Cambridge, where he’d met Gareth.

  “I tell you, Gareth, sometimes I wished I’d stayed out there.”

  “In Rome?”

  “Anywhere in Italy. I mean, it’s not only the weather, because the winters are not much warmer than here. It’s the people, and – I don’t know – the attitude, I guess.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “They don’t tend to screw things up as much as we do, you see, Gareth. Have you ever been to Verona?”

  “No. Only Rome, Florence, Venice…”

  “Next time, man, you’ll have to see Verona. They care more about where they live than we do. They’ve got the second oldest amphitheater in Europe, and it’s fantastic. Really beautiful. Now they’ve got office buildings, construction sites and McDonald’s nearby as well, but they’re not obtrusive. The Italians know that people don’t want to see them, so they try to make the modern rubbish blend into the background as much as they can.”

  Price grimaced and waved a hand at the window and the river outside. “Can you imagine people doing that here? Not a chance. Look at what they’ve done to Cambridge, man. There are boarded-up shops on the high street because of the big superstores opening up on the edge of town. They’ve put bus routes through some of the smallest streets in the city center. They’ve got vibrations shaking the College buildings and making cracks in the walls, and the car fumes discoloring the stone. I mean, I love Cambridge, yeah, it’s a beautiful place. It just makes me seethe to watch it getting so screwed up.”

  Gareth nodded his agreement, and shifted in his chair to ease the discomfort in his leg.

  “When I was over there, Gareth, I was talking seriously to Miriam, I was saying, maybe we should hitch up and go abroad.”

  “You mean… for good?”

  “Yeah. But not Italy, it was New York I was thinking about, you see. There’s not much going on in this country and there are people I’ve been talking to recently, people saying, you should come out here, Lynval. Good offers, too.”

  “But you’re doing all right here, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah, but you know the score. Every agency’s the same as mine in this country. Two or maybe three people in a broom-cupboard office, with a bulging pile of freelancers on the make. And that’s the biggest agencies, mind. No… New York is more of a place where things are happening, much better than the Cambridge grind, or even London. Oh, I could handle that…”

  Gareth didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He had too much of his own future to worry about, and didn’t feel like giving Price advice on his. It was all right for Price; he didn’t seem to suffer from the bellyaching over mortgages and kids that other people his age had to go through. Lucky bastard, showing off like that. And anyway, what am I going to do, Gareth thought, if Lynval suddenly took off for fresh pastures? Do I really want to go through all that hustling for work and clients – again?

  As if sensing Gareth’s mood, Price changed the subject. “So anyway, man, you didn’t call up to hear me go on about this. You’re back out and fighting fit. What’s the story, eh? What really happened on that Fenlands jobbie?”

  Gareth took a manila envelope out of his briefcase. “My memories before the accident are a bit shaky… but I called you up at the end of that week, didn’t I? Told you I had something?”

  “That you did.”

  “Well, the American guy – you know, Bennings – he took most of the film back with him to the States, but he did send me these.”

  “Hmm.” Price slipped the prints out of the envelope, and held them up ostentatiously. “Interesting. How did you take these?”

  Gareth told him – falteringly – of the Skywatch, and the conditions under which the photos had been taken. As he went on, a smile spread slowly across Price’s face. Gareth wasn’t sure if that was a good sign.

  “So all of you saw these things?” Price said finally.

  “Yup.”

  “So what are they? Or what do you think they are?”

  “It’s a little early for that… but we did two Skywatches, remember. That means we might be able to repeat the experience, do a third one, capture them on film again, and get a firmer idea of what’s causing these lights.”

  “Hmmm…” Price returned his attention to the prints. He held them up to the bogus coach-lamp on the wall to get a better look. “Difficult to tell you anything. I’d need to get these in my studio to examine them properly.”

  “Could you do anything with them?”

  “Course I could! The tabloids love stuff like this. There are specialist mags, and subscription clubs and societies, too. Didn’t you say they couldn’t be published yet, though?”

  “That’s right. Apparently Doug has to get them checked out in the State
s.”

  “Pity.” Price brushed his fingers over the back of the prints, before replacing them in the envelope. “So what are you working on in the meantime, Gareth man?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about…”

  Price laughed a short, echoing laugh. “Ha! Come to see your old Uncle Lynval, have you? Yeah, we’ve all got to make a crust. I’ve got a couple of jobs lined up that you could do. I’ll do some asking around, as well.” He took another swig of Miller’s and handed the envelope back to Gareth.

  Later, as they prepared to leave Henry’s, Price leaned close to Gareth and muttered, “Now of course, Gareth, you can tell me, man. You can trust Lynval, so tell me one thing. Are those pictures fakes?”

  “Lynval!” Gareth said indignantly. “No, of course they’re not. Everything I told you is on the level.”

  “Fine, fine. Not that it matters too much, anyway. You could make quite a packet there, you know.”

  The two of them left the café, accosted by a biting wind blowing across the river.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday, March 16th

  Saturday night; the Barley Mow, Histon, in the Cambridge suburbs. The interior was full of piped Britpop, cigarette smoke, and youths alternating chants of “Happy Birthday” and “We’re all sorted out for E’s and Wizz”.

  Harold, Caroline’s dad, was looking on in a bemused way. Impressively tall, with a shock of grey hair and a bushy beard, he tottered drunkenly around the pub to administer grins to his drinking buddies.

  Gareth sat next to John, Caroline’s brother: the student. The trendy one. The one in a band. “In the middle of the night!” John suddenly bellowed, before belching, then getting to his feet to stagger away.

  Caroline came back, carrying a tray of drinks and crisps, smoky bacon and prawn cocktail flavor. “You know what Dad said to me?” she said.

  Gareth frowned. “What?”

  “He asked me when you were moving into my place.”

  Gareth snorted. “Your Dad’s drunk.”

  “I think you know what he means, Gareth. I wouldn’t be surprised if our friends are all thinking that, too. I mean, you never sleep at your place, do you? You’re always over at mine. The only time you go back to Oakington is to work in the dark room.”

  Gareth sipped his Greene King IPA then put it down on the table. “I thought you’d be glad to have me around the place,” he said carefully. “I haven’t thought about moving in – but now you mention it, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  “It’s not that, Gareth.” She leaned closer and he could smell the Bacardi on her breath. “I think you’re doing this because you don’t want to be on your own.”

  “You think I’m scared of the dark or something? That’s bollocks.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m talking bollocks! I reckon that’s where the nightmares are coming from. Don’t you get it? You had a really bad accident and the memories are still in your head, but you’re trying to avoid them. You’re getting better. You’re not an invalid. You’re not going to be frightened of this forever, but I do think going to that appointment next week is a good idea.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that shrink going to do? Wave a magic wand and make everything go back to normal?”

  “It’s better than brushing things under the carpet and pretending nothing’s wrong. Now where’re you going?”

  “For some air,” Gareth said, resting his weight on his crutches. “Let me get some fresh air. It’s so smoky, I can’t breathe in here.”

  There was a car park behind the Barley Mow, and beyond the stone wall bordering it, a section of disused railway line. Gareth stumbled out of the door, the pub exhaling mists of smoke and sound and warmth around him. He limped into the middle of the car park and breathed in a deep charge of night air, trying to clear his throat, fighting a blossoming headache.

  A lamp illuminated the wall directly ahead of him. To his left shone the streetlights of Histon Road. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he swiveled round. The tungsten element of one of the streetlights was burning out, and it crackled sporadically, a meaningless Morse code of fits and bursts.

  The flickering light grew brighter, making the throbbing pain in his head grow into a full-fledged headache. The buzzing of the lamp was getting to him, as well. The insect hum of power leaking out into the air. But can I really hear that? From across the car park? Or is it in my head?

  “Fuck! How long?” he yelled, into the empty air. “How long am I going to feel like this?”

  His face and hands suddenly went numb.

  His eyes were filled with white light and the electronic hum around him rose into a howl that drilled through his skull.

  Something rushed past him – it couldn’t have been a train, there were no trains any more–

  Then suddenly he was back inside the pub, surrounded by smoke, music, and screeching laughter, covered in sweat, his legs trembling as he sagged onto his crutches. He looked around for Caroline, and saw her talking to her father and some young guy Gareth had never seen before.

  He limped back to his seat before she could notice him.

  “Hey!” Caroline yelled, her face flushed, as she finally came over to see him a few moments later, holding a fresh bottle of Bacardi Breezer. “The wanderer returns!”

  *

  Monday, March 18th.

  It was disconcerting to see Dr. Ramkrishan Bhaskar sitting on his desk, instead of behind it.

  He also got up and walked around the room a lot while he was talking. If he wanted Gareth to stop feeling nervous, he wasn’t doing a good job.

  “I guess that Dr. Aslett already mentioned that these things are pretty common,” he was saying, in his smooth, measured way of speaking. “After an incident that puts an individual’s life in danger, that person’s perspective on their life often changes afterwards.”

  Tell me something I don’t know, thought Gareth.

  Dr. Bhaskar was a short, wiry man. Compared with Gareth, he could have been called ‘weedy’. He had one of those faces that made it difficult to guess his age, because of the boyish resilience of the olive skin and the light brown shade of the eyes. His dark hair couldn’t make up its mind whether it was receding or not.

  His body lethargic, his mind edgy, Gareth looked around the office while thinking about what Dr. Bhaskar was saying. Shelves filled with books on philosophy and medicine dominated two of the walls. A large African mask hung opposite the window. Framed certificates decorated the wall behind the desk: Madras Medical College; NIMHANS (whatever that was), Bangalore; Royal College of Psychiatrists, London.

  “Have you ever heard of NDE – a Near Death Experience?” asked Bhaskar, returning to a more conventional position, seated behind his desk.

  “Yeah. It’s what happens when you die for a few minutes and then the doctors bring you back.”

  “Not exactly… it’s a phenomenon where the individual passes through different stages of experience, before returning to consciousness. To be honest, nobody is quite sure what’s going on during an NDE.”

  The doctor leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Let’s put it this way. People who’ve undergone what we call NDEs usually report the same sequence of events. They are thrown into shock, and they lose consciousness. Then they witness a life-review period, that feeling when ‘your whole life flashes before your eyes.’ After that, they leave their physical body completely, and often have the sensation of looking at their own body from a point outside and above. For example, they can see their own body on the operating table, as if they’re suspended somewhere near the ceiling.”

  Gareth shivered.

  “The next stage,” Bhaskar continued, “is entering a tunnel. There is the feeling of traveling – sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly – down a long, dark tunnel with a light at the end, a light even stronger than the sun…”

  Bhaskar paused, and Gareth nodded enthusiastically, thinking that was the
action required.

  “So when the individual finally arrives at the light, a number of possible things can happen. Some people report seeing beautiful gardens. Most describe meeting parents, relatives and friends who had previously passed away. Almost all mention a feeling of perfect bliss and happiness. There is also a presence… a benevolent presence that some call an angel, but others call God. The presence says that the person has to go back, because their life has not finished yet. The time is not right. So back through the tunnel they go – very unwillingly, in most cases – and eventually they return to their own bodies. They feel themselves drifting down from the ceiling into the bodies occupying the hospital bed, and they wake up,” Bhaskar concluded with a little flourish of his dark eyebrows.

  “I saw a film like that once,” said Gareth. “Stairway to Heaven, I think it was called, with David Niven. An old black and white movie. Well actually, it wasn’t quite like what you said.”

  Bhaskar frowned. “You don’t mean the Led Zeppelin song?”

  “No, it was a movie… Anyway, I see what you’re getting at, and that could have happened to me, but the things you said aren’t like the things I’ve been dreaming about.”

  “No, that’s what intrigues me. But some of the dreams are familiar enough. For example, you said that you often see yourself lying on an operating table.”

  “Yes.” It made Gareth’s skin crawl to think about it, even in the warmth of a sunshine-filled surgery. The image floated, unstuck, in the back of his head, something he tried to erase but couldn’t.

  “The interesting thing is, there is no tunnel. You told me you often find yourself in a room, a big room in a large old house. Then there are the lights…”

  And the girl, Gareth thought. He hadn’t mentioned her yet. He didn’t want the doctor… to get the wrong idea.

  “So is this or was this a near-death experience, then?” Gareth asked. “If it is, why is it different from the others?”