Great Divide
- Thread starter reiver33
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A bit wordy this bit...
Five
Walker looked sceptical, obviously torn between assessing my supposed abilities logically and dismissing the whole thing out of hand. He pulled a tissue from his jacket and wiped his face, while still keeping me covered.
“Back up a bit, Kelso. You said you traced this Hanesh, so you’d be able to find who was behind this latest explosion?”
This was the tricky bit and I tried not to shrug.
“Not directly, no. Not like I could give you an address. With Hanesh it was more like I could get a sense of the man, what was important to him, that kind of thing. I could produce small objects that were significant to him, like I did with your Glock. All these clues were turned over to the true investigators, and they were able to put together a picture of where Hanesh was in the real world. They found him. He died.”
Walker snorted.
“You sound like some kind of psychic skip-tracer. So why can’t you do the same bloodhound act now?”
“The big advantage with Hanesh was having access to his dreams. When they raided his address in London they found a Sony Dreamcatcher down the side of the sofa. Just a short sequence on it, some kind of empty nightclub interior, but it was enough to use as a starting point.”
“So you’re saying you already need to know the who before coming up with an idea of where? Not really that useful, and I can see why the British let you walk. Except that you obviously do know who the next terrorist will be, right? Which is why you’re top of someone’s hit list, apparently.”
Walker holstered his gun and flexed his neck, looking a good deal more relaxed.
“Anyway, Kelso, this is all just supposition. If you can’t be of any direct use to us I’m inclined to send you packing, regardless of what the RCMP want. Are we clear?”
I cleared my throat. There was one last card I could play, but I very much doubted it would increase my credibility in Walker’s eyes.
“Ah, Hollis and Barnes, the two officers who died at the scene, they confirmed the blast wasn’t accidental. Two explosions, one in each fuel tank.”
Walker frowned and flipped open the file again.
“I was given to understand they died instantaneously. Are you now saying they survived long enough for you to reach them? Can Anderson confirm this?”
“No, no, it was, ah, more in the way of a port-mortem conversation.”
He looked at me.
“Now you’re saying you can talk to the dead? Which particular mental institution were you in, back in England? I just ask so I can write and tell them what a bang-up job they did prior to your release back into the community. Jesus!”
I knew this next bit would be hard to explain. If not downright impossible.
“No, no, not the dead per se, more the idea of who they were while alive.”
Silence.
Walker licked his lips.
“Is that supposed to make any kind of sense? Even in whatever version of reality you currently inhabit?”
I sighed and let my shoulders sag.
“Look, Walker, I’ll explain this once and you can believe me or not. There’s a version of everyone in the collective unconscious, a composite, an amalgam of who we believe ourselves to be and what others think of us. Obviously how close it is to reality depends on the trade-off between your ego on the one hand and public perception on the other. If you’re a high-profile media personality and the world in general thinks you’re a twat, then this idea of you will predominate.”
He sneered at me.
“So if you’re a worthless nonentity living in obscurity…”
I shook my head.
“Not necessarily. That’s why psychopaths, real out-and-out ego-maniacs, are so dangerous in the unconscious – but you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Everything which Hollis and Barnes experienced, including their own deaths, influenced, informed, their unconscious selves. I was able to reproduce this idea of them, for a short while, long enough to get some idea of what happened, at least.”
Walker drummed his fingers on the table, frowning.
“Not exactly evidence that would stand up in court. Unless you can summon up these apparitions at will?”
Again I shook my head.
“No, strictly a short-term window of opportunity. The version of someone in the collective unconscious continues to exist while others remember them, but once an individual accepts they’re dead it starts to, to atrophy. Gradually the dead become a collection of knee-jerk reactions and predictable aphorisms. Sad but true.”
“And if someone refuses to accept that they’re dead, regardless of all evidence to the contrary?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“Well, I suppose…”
“Kelso? You feeling all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
I felt sick to my stomach at the idea forming in my mind.
“Look, Walker, there have always been rumours of objects materialising, just popping into being. Objects that were the focus of intense and widespread belief, as if the very concept of them was so real they became real.” I wiped my mouth. “If someone was egotistical enough, and enough peopled believed in him, I suppose…no, it can’t be.”
Some of the fear in my voice obviously rubbed off and Walker lapsed into an aggressive posture, leaning towards me, eyes fixed on mine.
“What can’t be? Out with it, man!”
I felt helpless, my mouth filled with the taste of ashes.
“Vigo Hanesh. It’s the idea of Vigo Hanesh, making itself real.”
Five
Walker looked sceptical, obviously torn between assessing my supposed abilities logically and dismissing the whole thing out of hand. He pulled a tissue from his jacket and wiped his face, while still keeping me covered.
“Back up a bit, Kelso. You said you traced this Hanesh, so you’d be able to find who was behind this latest explosion?”
This was the tricky bit and I tried not to shrug.
“Not directly, no. Not like I could give you an address. With Hanesh it was more like I could get a sense of the man, what was important to him, that kind of thing. I could produce small objects that were significant to him, like I did with your Glock. All these clues were turned over to the true investigators, and they were able to put together a picture of where Hanesh was in the real world. They found him. He died.”
Walker snorted.
“You sound like some kind of psychic skip-tracer. So why can’t you do the same bloodhound act now?”
“The big advantage with Hanesh was having access to his dreams. When they raided his address in London they found a Sony Dreamcatcher down the side of the sofa. Just a short sequence on it, some kind of empty nightclub interior, but it was enough to use as a starting point.”
“So you’re saying you already need to know the who before coming up with an idea of where? Not really that useful, and I can see why the British let you walk. Except that you obviously do know who the next terrorist will be, right? Which is why you’re top of someone’s hit list, apparently.”
Walker holstered his gun and flexed his neck, looking a good deal more relaxed.
“Anyway, Kelso, this is all just supposition. If you can’t be of any direct use to us I’m inclined to send you packing, regardless of what the RCMP want. Are we clear?”
I cleared my throat. There was one last card I could play, but I very much doubted it would increase my credibility in Walker’s eyes.
“Ah, Hollis and Barnes, the two officers who died at the scene, they confirmed the blast wasn’t accidental. Two explosions, one in each fuel tank.”
Walker frowned and flipped open the file again.
“I was given to understand they died instantaneously. Are you now saying they survived long enough for you to reach them? Can Anderson confirm this?”
“No, no, it was, ah, more in the way of a port-mortem conversation.”
He looked at me.
“Now you’re saying you can talk to the dead? Which particular mental institution were you in, back in England? I just ask so I can write and tell them what a bang-up job they did prior to your release back into the community. Jesus!”
I knew this next bit would be hard to explain. If not downright impossible.
“No, no, not the dead per se, more the idea of who they were while alive.”
Silence.
Walker licked his lips.
“Is that supposed to make any kind of sense? Even in whatever version of reality you currently inhabit?”
I sighed and let my shoulders sag.
“Look, Walker, I’ll explain this once and you can believe me or not. There’s a version of everyone in the collective unconscious, a composite, an amalgam of who we believe ourselves to be and what others think of us. Obviously how close it is to reality depends on the trade-off between your ego on the one hand and public perception on the other. If you’re a high-profile media personality and the world in general thinks you’re a twat, then this idea of you will predominate.”
He sneered at me.
“So if you’re a worthless nonentity living in obscurity…”
I shook my head.
“Not necessarily. That’s why psychopaths, real out-and-out ego-maniacs, are so dangerous in the unconscious – but you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Everything which Hollis and Barnes experienced, including their own deaths, influenced, informed, their unconscious selves. I was able to reproduce this idea of them, for a short while, long enough to get some idea of what happened, at least.”
Walker drummed his fingers on the table, frowning.
“Not exactly evidence that would stand up in court. Unless you can summon up these apparitions at will?”
Again I shook my head.
“No, strictly a short-term window of opportunity. The version of someone in the collective unconscious continues to exist while others remember them, but once an individual accepts they’re dead it starts to, to atrophy. Gradually the dead become a collection of knee-jerk reactions and predictable aphorisms. Sad but true.”
“And if someone refuses to accept that they’re dead, regardless of all evidence to the contrary?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“Well, I suppose…”
“Kelso? You feeling all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
I felt sick to my stomach at the idea forming in my mind.
“Look, Walker, there have always been rumours of objects materialising, just popping into being. Objects that were the focus of intense and widespread belief, as if the very concept of them was so real they became real.” I wiped my mouth. “If someone was egotistical enough, and enough peopled believed in him, I suppose…no, it can’t be.”
Some of the fear in my voice obviously rubbed off and Walker lapsed into an aggressive posture, leaning towards me, eyes fixed on mine.
“What can’t be? Out with it, man!”
I felt helpless, my mouth filled with the taste of ashes.
“Vigo Hanesh. It’s the idea of Vigo Hanesh, making itself real.”
Just getting the last of the 'set up' out of the way...
Six
Walker slapped me, the sound gunshot-loud in the small room. I jerked in my seat, half raising a hand to my cheek, blinking rapidly.
“Enough of this nonsense, Kelso. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake. You were becoming hysterical.” He switched to a rational, encouraging tone of voice. “Look, are you quite sure that Hanesh is dead?”
I nodded.
“Oh yes. I killed him.”
Walker looked at me for a long, hard moment.
“Really? I didn’t have you down as a field operative. There’s nothing in your file to suggest you were employed in anything other than an intelligence gathering role.”
I felt my hands tremble at the memory and clenched my fists to quell them.
“Hanesh turned up on my doorstep one evening, in London, with a bottle of champaign to celebrate tracking me down. I ended up stabbing him through the eye with a corkscrew.”
“And the authorities were quite happy this was the real Hanesh? Not some stand-in or close relative? It’s a damn sight easier to believe he faked his own death than the idea of a larger-than-life ghost stalking you, intent on revenge.”
Walker sat back and rubbed his eyes.
“Don’t bother answering that, I’m sure my British and American counterparts are competent enough. Look, at this moment I’m inclined to hand you over to our psych boys and let them sort out fact from fantasy. It’s obvious you can pull some kind of mental slight-of-hand, but I’m not going to issue an all-points for someone who, in all probability, is safely dead and buried. I just don’t see how the memory of someone, no matter how vivid it might be in the minds of others, can possibly affect us here in the real world.”
I could almost hear the ‘case closed’ suffix to that statement, a finality ripe with the promise of institutionalised hell. It had been a real struggle to avoid a lifetime of padded rooms and restraint, and I didn’t relish the prospect of going through it again on this side of the Atlantic. I held up a hand.
“No, please, just listen for a moment! Even the idea of Hanesh can pose a threat, a deadly threat. That’s what I meant when I said that psychopaths can be dangerous. Their ego, their sense of self, can transcend death and create a kind of bubble of reality in which they’re still alive. A true ego-maniac simply refuses to accept the world can exist without them and so they-“
“Do you actually listen to what you come out with?” Walker cut across me, his patience clearly exhausted. “Transcending death? Bubbles of reality? Give me something concrete to work with or I’ll skip the funny-farm and ship you back to the British, air-freight.”
I hesitated, knowing how this was going to sound.
“Let me sleep on it.”
“What?”
“Let me sleep on it. Let me see if the memory of Hanesh is just that, a memory, a fixed idea, or something more.”
Walker stared at me.
“You want to have a nap? In the middle of a murder investigation with potential terrorist involvement?”
“It’s what I do, it’s how I do it. Directed dreaming. It’s how I can trace someone through the ideas they consider important. If the memory of Hanesh is, is alive, for want of a better term, then he’ll be bloody easy to find. It’ll only take an hour or so, and if he’s not real I’ll get out of your hair ASAP. Hell, I’ll even pay for my flight back to the UK. Sounds fair?”
“It sounds ludicrous. Directed dreaming? It’s no wonder your case file was so heavily censored or we’d never have touched you in a million years.”
He paused, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Thirty minutes. I can give you thirty minutes and then you’re out of here, one way or the other.”
“Thanks, I-“
A raised hand cut me off.
“But you can forget flaking out in what passes for hotel accommodation here. It’ll be a cell, under guard.” He smiled, “After all, you’re still in protective custody.”
Walker stood and raised his voice.
“King! Tell Sergeant Muldoon I want to speak to him.”
I tried to tune-out the next few minutes, not exactly a Zen state but simply ignoring my surroundings as far as possible. Muldoon, a corridor, a blank-walled cell, a cot, the door closing.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on the images inside my eyelids. Letting them lead me down a route I knew from memory…
I started near the bar, with its long under-lit glass counter to my right and the row of floor-length windows to my left. There was very little in the way of other illumination apart from down at my left ankle where a steady source, diffused by the gauze curtains, filled my peripheral vision. I assumed this was from a street light rather than passing traffic and I wasn’t conscious of any vehicle noise despite it being early evening.
The blonde woman in the pale grey halter-neck dress passed me and I started walking away from the light, still conscious of the windows beside me and the dark, empty space of the seating area now stretching out opposite.
The memories of Vigo Hanesh, as recorded on his Dreamcatcher. Memories I had accessed so often they were now mine, a way to access whatever trace remained of the man in humanity’s collective unconscious.
The lights came on.
I stopped, shielding my eyes at the sudden brilliance. Confusion and surprise swept over me, as this sequence had never, ever, changed all the times I’d been here before.
“He’s waiting for you. Through the door at the end of the corridor.”
I turned. It was the blonde woman in the pale grey dress. She was standing by the bar, smiling, toying with the cherry from a half-empty martini glass. There was a barman behind the counter, replenishing the supply of bottled mixers from a crate. Beyond him I could see several staff cleaning tables that stood in a semi-circle around the dance floor. The slight sense of unreality you usually get in a dream was noticeably absent; this was pixel-perfect clarity, complete with the background smell of stale cigarette smoke and last nights sweat.
“Thanks. This way?”
She nodded and I began walking, feeling almost like an bit-part actor with a walk-on role. A speaking role, but one limited to banalities. The carpet felt slightly tacky beneath my shoes and the whole establishment, obviously a seedy nightclub, made my skin itch. The door at the end of the corridor was quilted in red leather and brass studs, which matched the over-all feel of a low-rent dive, firmly mired in the 1970’s. The bouncer on the door, wearing a car coat and roll-neck sweater, nodded as I approached and stood to the side.
The door opened. I stepped through. It closed behind me.
“Hi Donald, glad you could make it. Glass of champaign?”
Six
Walker slapped me, the sound gunshot-loud in the small room. I jerked in my seat, half raising a hand to my cheek, blinking rapidly.
“Enough of this nonsense, Kelso. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake. You were becoming hysterical.” He switched to a rational, encouraging tone of voice. “Look, are you quite sure that Hanesh is dead?”
I nodded.
“Oh yes. I killed him.”
Walker looked at me for a long, hard moment.
“Really? I didn’t have you down as a field operative. There’s nothing in your file to suggest you were employed in anything other than an intelligence gathering role.”
I felt my hands tremble at the memory and clenched my fists to quell them.
“Hanesh turned up on my doorstep one evening, in London, with a bottle of champaign to celebrate tracking me down. I ended up stabbing him through the eye with a corkscrew.”
“And the authorities were quite happy this was the real Hanesh? Not some stand-in or close relative? It’s a damn sight easier to believe he faked his own death than the idea of a larger-than-life ghost stalking you, intent on revenge.”
Walker sat back and rubbed his eyes.
“Don’t bother answering that, I’m sure my British and American counterparts are competent enough. Look, at this moment I’m inclined to hand you over to our psych boys and let them sort out fact from fantasy. It’s obvious you can pull some kind of mental slight-of-hand, but I’m not going to issue an all-points for someone who, in all probability, is safely dead and buried. I just don’t see how the memory of someone, no matter how vivid it might be in the minds of others, can possibly affect us here in the real world.”
I could almost hear the ‘case closed’ suffix to that statement, a finality ripe with the promise of institutionalised hell. It had been a real struggle to avoid a lifetime of padded rooms and restraint, and I didn’t relish the prospect of going through it again on this side of the Atlantic. I held up a hand.
“No, please, just listen for a moment! Even the idea of Hanesh can pose a threat, a deadly threat. That’s what I meant when I said that psychopaths can be dangerous. Their ego, their sense of self, can transcend death and create a kind of bubble of reality in which they’re still alive. A true ego-maniac simply refuses to accept the world can exist without them and so they-“
“Do you actually listen to what you come out with?” Walker cut across me, his patience clearly exhausted. “Transcending death? Bubbles of reality? Give me something concrete to work with or I’ll skip the funny-farm and ship you back to the British, air-freight.”
I hesitated, knowing how this was going to sound.
“Let me sleep on it.”
“What?”
“Let me sleep on it. Let me see if the memory of Hanesh is just that, a memory, a fixed idea, or something more.”
Walker stared at me.
“You want to have a nap? In the middle of a murder investigation with potential terrorist involvement?”
“It’s what I do, it’s how I do it. Directed dreaming. It’s how I can trace someone through the ideas they consider important. If the memory of Hanesh is, is alive, for want of a better term, then he’ll be bloody easy to find. It’ll only take an hour or so, and if he’s not real I’ll get out of your hair ASAP. Hell, I’ll even pay for my flight back to the UK. Sounds fair?”
“It sounds ludicrous. Directed dreaming? It’s no wonder your case file was so heavily censored or we’d never have touched you in a million years.”
He paused, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Thirty minutes. I can give you thirty minutes and then you’re out of here, one way or the other.”
“Thanks, I-“
A raised hand cut me off.
“But you can forget flaking out in what passes for hotel accommodation here. It’ll be a cell, under guard.” He smiled, “After all, you’re still in protective custody.”
Walker stood and raised his voice.
“King! Tell Sergeant Muldoon I want to speak to him.”
I tried to tune-out the next few minutes, not exactly a Zen state but simply ignoring my surroundings as far as possible. Muldoon, a corridor, a blank-walled cell, a cot, the door closing.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on the images inside my eyelids. Letting them lead me down a route I knew from memory…
I started near the bar, with its long under-lit glass counter to my right and the row of floor-length windows to my left. There was very little in the way of other illumination apart from down at my left ankle where a steady source, diffused by the gauze curtains, filled my peripheral vision. I assumed this was from a street light rather than passing traffic and I wasn’t conscious of any vehicle noise despite it being early evening.
The blonde woman in the pale grey halter-neck dress passed me and I started walking away from the light, still conscious of the windows beside me and the dark, empty space of the seating area now stretching out opposite.
The memories of Vigo Hanesh, as recorded on his Dreamcatcher. Memories I had accessed so often they were now mine, a way to access whatever trace remained of the man in humanity’s collective unconscious.
The lights came on.
I stopped, shielding my eyes at the sudden brilliance. Confusion and surprise swept over me, as this sequence had never, ever, changed all the times I’d been here before.
“He’s waiting for you. Through the door at the end of the corridor.”
I turned. It was the blonde woman in the pale grey dress. She was standing by the bar, smiling, toying with the cherry from a half-empty martini glass. There was a barman behind the counter, replenishing the supply of bottled mixers from a crate. Beyond him I could see several staff cleaning tables that stood in a semi-circle around the dance floor. The slight sense of unreality you usually get in a dream was noticeably absent; this was pixel-perfect clarity, complete with the background smell of stale cigarette smoke and last nights sweat.
“Thanks. This way?”
She nodded and I began walking, feeling almost like an bit-part actor with a walk-on role. A speaking role, but one limited to banalities. The carpet felt slightly tacky beneath my shoes and the whole establishment, obviously a seedy nightclub, made my skin itch. The door at the end of the corridor was quilted in red leather and brass studs, which matched the over-all feel of a low-rent dive, firmly mired in the 1970’s. The bouncer on the door, wearing a car coat and roll-neck sweater, nodded as I approached and stood to the side.
The door opened. I stepped through. It closed behind me.
“Hi Donald, glad you could make it. Glass of champaign?”
J Riff
The Ants are my friends..
Champagne?
I identify with this character. Hope he can make it out of canaduh!
I identify with this character. Hope he can make it out of canaduh!
And just to wrap up this little idea...
Seven
It was a large room, all discrete lighting and lava lamps, with a sunken seating area in the middle. A man sat there, facing me, sprawling back against the upholstery and saluting my entrance with a raised champagne glass.
Not Vigo Hanesh.
I let out a sigh of relief and felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. This man was a stranger to me, but however strange the setup it was preferable to confronting someone who should be dead. My host waved me closer.
“Sit, sit, have a drink. I’m sure you’re finding this a bit strange and the alcohol will help, I assure you.”
I walked over. The seating area was a series of semi-circular sofas divided by short flights of steps. The centre was dominated by a circular Perspex table which surrounded an open fire, the flue being one of those free-standing burnished copper funnels which extended from the ceiling. It was like being in the lounge area of a Bond villain’s lair. The only thing missing was an exotically clad hostess, or perhaps a homicidal butler.
Three steps down and I sat, lifting the glass waiting for me. I’d planned on acting cool, maybe even trying for suave, but the champagne bubbles caught in my nose and I sneezed, snorted, and coughed. My host just laughed.
“Nice to finally meet you, Donald. I’m Alexander Neel, but call me Alex.”
I set my glass down and blew my nose, using the action to look at Alex more closely. He was English by the sound of him, but with a slight oriental cast to his features. Mid thirties, with straight, slicked-back dark hair and a wide smile of perfect teeth. The clothes and dentistry reeked of money, but there was an unmistakable air of violence about him I found unsettling.
“Ah, well, Alex, this place, I’ve never seen them quite like this before.”
“This is the…” he paused, as if mentally translating, “…Mariners Club, in Vladivostok. It catered for Soviet officers, both Red Banner fleet and merchant marine. A bit down-market, but it suits my tastes.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling the glow of what little champagne I’d managed to swallow.
“Look, I associate these surroundings with-“
“Vigo Hanesh?”
“Vigo Hanesh, yes. Did you know him? Did he come here?”
Alex smiled, ignoring the question and draining his glass.
“To you know the term ‘tulpa’, Donald? From Tibetan mysticism?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I created who you knew as Vigo Hanesh. Sent him out into the world, the real world, to do my bidding. Come now, the consummate mercenary, acting for some shadowy terrorist organisation with a grudge against the United States? Didn’t you find him just a tad stereotypical? I created him in the same way you make real those mementos of the imagination.”
I felt confused, flustered, as if reality had taken a wrong turn. It was like listening to a foreign language you understood along with a real-time translation into English, but the two versions didn’t match.
“You made Hanesh? You can’t make a person-“
“You pulled up Hollis and Barnes, yes? Same principle, but Hanesh was always just an idea, an idea in the minds of hundreds. There’s a mosque in Damascus which venerates him, offers up prayers for his well-being. With that kind of belief to work with it was simple enough to fashion the real thing.”
Alex refilled his glass while I sat there, trying to make sense of his words.
“And to answer my own question, Donald, a ‘tulpa’ is a being or object which is created through willpower, visualisation, attention and focus, concerted intentionality and ritual. In other words, it is a materialized thought that has taken physical form.” He raised his glass, “God bless Wikipedia!”
There was a gloating edge to his voice and I needed to say something that would steer the conversation back to the real world.
“But Hanesh, I killed him for God’s sake! That was real enough, believe me.”
“Yes, you did. Best thing all round, in the long run. That’s the trouble with these thoughtforms, they take on a life of their own, start acting independently. Hanesh became obsessed with you, once he realised who was tracking him, and thought you could fill in some of the blanks, as it were.”
“Fill in the blanks?”
“I had some ex-Soviet contacts create a background for Hanesh, a legend, as it’s called, so that intelligence agencies would find out enough about him to believe he was real. Trouble was, Hanesh believed he was real as well, and the gaps in his memory bothered him. Well, not gaps exactly, more a lack of detail. He came up with the idea that you had in some way stolen these memories, and decided to confront you.” Alex shrugged. “Oops.”
I stared at him, aghast.
“Oops? That’s all you have to say? I killed him with a bloody corkscrew, for Christ’s sake! I stood and watched him die on my kitchen floor, so don’t you tell me he wasn’t real!”
“He was as real as you are, Donald, and that’s the problem. Some of us are able to walk both sides of the fence, to live in the realm of imagination as fully as the real world. You weren’t that strong, but your subconscious obsession with Hanesh was in danger of bringing him back, giving him a second chance at life. Now that was potentially embarrassing for everyone concerned, so I decided to remove me from the equation.”
The room suddenly felt really cold.
“Remove me from the…You were behind the explosion?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Mea culpa! But you’re still here. I should have guessed that would happen, Hell, you even look a bit like Robert Powell, now I see you close up. Even the memory of Hanesh tried to save you, by alerting the authorities. God knows why.” I struggled for a reply as he looked at his watch, a Rolex, of course. “And our time together is about up. I’m not sure what you’ll do now, but don’t try and find me again. It would definitely be another case of ‘oops’, understand?”
I blinked.
The cell was crowded; Walker, his two associates, three RCMP filling the doorway and corridor. Everyone had a firearm trained on me and Walker tossed an unsealed manila envelope on the cot beside me. I sat up, bemused, and began to open it.
“I’ve received the initial forensic report, Kelso, and it makes interesting reading. They’re recovered four bodies at the scene; Hollis, Barnes, Anderson…and you.”
The envelope contained black-and-white glossies of four bodies. There was little or no burn damage, and my face was clearly recognisable.
It wasn’t a survivable explosion.
Seven
It was a large room, all discrete lighting and lava lamps, with a sunken seating area in the middle. A man sat there, facing me, sprawling back against the upholstery and saluting my entrance with a raised champagne glass.
Not Vigo Hanesh.
I let out a sigh of relief and felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. This man was a stranger to me, but however strange the setup it was preferable to confronting someone who should be dead. My host waved me closer.
“Sit, sit, have a drink. I’m sure you’re finding this a bit strange and the alcohol will help, I assure you.”
I walked over. The seating area was a series of semi-circular sofas divided by short flights of steps. The centre was dominated by a circular Perspex table which surrounded an open fire, the flue being one of those free-standing burnished copper funnels which extended from the ceiling. It was like being in the lounge area of a Bond villain’s lair. The only thing missing was an exotically clad hostess, or perhaps a homicidal butler.
Three steps down and I sat, lifting the glass waiting for me. I’d planned on acting cool, maybe even trying for suave, but the champagne bubbles caught in my nose and I sneezed, snorted, and coughed. My host just laughed.
“Nice to finally meet you, Donald. I’m Alexander Neel, but call me Alex.”
I set my glass down and blew my nose, using the action to look at Alex more closely. He was English by the sound of him, but with a slight oriental cast to his features. Mid thirties, with straight, slicked-back dark hair and a wide smile of perfect teeth. The clothes and dentistry reeked of money, but there was an unmistakable air of violence about him I found unsettling.
“Ah, well, Alex, this place, I’ve never seen them quite like this before.”
“This is the…” he paused, as if mentally translating, “…Mariners Club, in Vladivostok. It catered for Soviet officers, both Red Banner fleet and merchant marine. A bit down-market, but it suits my tastes.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling the glow of what little champagne I’d managed to swallow.
“Look, I associate these surroundings with-“
“Vigo Hanesh?”
“Vigo Hanesh, yes. Did you know him? Did he come here?”
Alex smiled, ignoring the question and draining his glass.
“To you know the term ‘tulpa’, Donald? From Tibetan mysticism?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I created who you knew as Vigo Hanesh. Sent him out into the world, the real world, to do my bidding. Come now, the consummate mercenary, acting for some shadowy terrorist organisation with a grudge against the United States? Didn’t you find him just a tad stereotypical? I created him in the same way you make real those mementos of the imagination.”
I felt confused, flustered, as if reality had taken a wrong turn. It was like listening to a foreign language you understood along with a real-time translation into English, but the two versions didn’t match.
“You made Hanesh? You can’t make a person-“
“You pulled up Hollis and Barnes, yes? Same principle, but Hanesh was always just an idea, an idea in the minds of hundreds. There’s a mosque in Damascus which venerates him, offers up prayers for his well-being. With that kind of belief to work with it was simple enough to fashion the real thing.”
Alex refilled his glass while I sat there, trying to make sense of his words.
“And to answer my own question, Donald, a ‘tulpa’ is a being or object which is created through willpower, visualisation, attention and focus, concerted intentionality and ritual. In other words, it is a materialized thought that has taken physical form.” He raised his glass, “God bless Wikipedia!”
There was a gloating edge to his voice and I needed to say something that would steer the conversation back to the real world.
“But Hanesh, I killed him for God’s sake! That was real enough, believe me.”
“Yes, you did. Best thing all round, in the long run. That’s the trouble with these thoughtforms, they take on a life of their own, start acting independently. Hanesh became obsessed with you, once he realised who was tracking him, and thought you could fill in some of the blanks, as it were.”
“Fill in the blanks?”
“I had some ex-Soviet contacts create a background for Hanesh, a legend, as it’s called, so that intelligence agencies would find out enough about him to believe he was real. Trouble was, Hanesh believed he was real as well, and the gaps in his memory bothered him. Well, not gaps exactly, more a lack of detail. He came up with the idea that you had in some way stolen these memories, and decided to confront you.” Alex shrugged. “Oops.”
I stared at him, aghast.
“Oops? That’s all you have to say? I killed him with a bloody corkscrew, for Christ’s sake! I stood and watched him die on my kitchen floor, so don’t you tell me he wasn’t real!”
“He was as real as you are, Donald, and that’s the problem. Some of us are able to walk both sides of the fence, to live in the realm of imagination as fully as the real world. You weren’t that strong, but your subconscious obsession with Hanesh was in danger of bringing him back, giving him a second chance at life. Now that was potentially embarrassing for everyone concerned, so I decided to remove me from the equation.”
The room suddenly felt really cold.
“Remove me from the…You were behind the explosion?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Mea culpa! But you’re still here. I should have guessed that would happen, Hell, you even look a bit like Robert Powell, now I see you close up. Even the memory of Hanesh tried to save you, by alerting the authorities. God knows why.” I struggled for a reply as he looked at his watch, a Rolex, of course. “And our time together is about up. I’m not sure what you’ll do now, but don’t try and find me again. It would definitely be another case of ‘oops’, understand?”
I blinked.
The cell was crowded; Walker, his two associates, three RCMP filling the doorway and corridor. Everyone had a firearm trained on me and Walker tossed an unsealed manila envelope on the cot beside me. I sat up, bemused, and began to open it.
“I’ve received the initial forensic report, Kelso, and it makes interesting reading. They’re recovered four bodies at the scene; Hollis, Barnes, Anderson…and you.”
The envelope contained black-and-white glossies of four bodies. There was little or no burn damage, and my face was clearly recognisable.
It wasn’t a survivable explosion.
- Status
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