Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness by David John Griffin Page B
Authors: David John Griffin
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fingers on the metal catch at the top of the smaller pane to open it.
‘Say thank you to the nice person, Emily,’ the woman said before clasping one of her children’s hands in her own.
The young girl’s large eyes, as blue as cornflowers, dominated her petite round face. With delicate fingers she had hold of her fish-shaped toy. She wriggled her nose and looked to dimpled knees then to the countryside speeding past.
Her younger brother clutched a stick. On the end of the stick was a brightly-coloured bird made of plastic. The boy put the tail of it to his lips and blew it as a whistle, a pleasant chirruping produced amidst the dull rapping of the wheelsalong a dull landscape with its dull bushes, then a valley of dull pint pot houses and winter-ravaged trees.
Clement blinked slowly. If only we could wish to remain as we were in our early years, he thought. Instead, minds and bodies are contaminated, innocence stolen; victims of fate and time.
It was not the physical aspects of ageing he detested, more the forgetting of wholesome laughter, the purity and optimism. The ability to repel harmful rays without the need for tin foil. Children should be admired for these things – he reasoned – and we should be allowed a little envy.
Wondrous stories of what should be, the real dream, free from hatred and malice; learn to be pure with love. As is the powerful love for my Bernadette, he explained to the remembered psychiatrist.
Still the world appeared to Clement as if seen through dark glasses, rendered gloomy and dismal. Sooty-barked trees with limp leaves, grey parks strewn with rubbish and lakes like sores, pylons striding across a sombre landscape. Then a factory complex with its zig-zag roofed warehouses, walls of dun-toned corrugation surrounded by joists and piles of gravel. And forklift trucks moving here and there between canisters, looking like yellow beetles, nest-building. More sterile stretches of concrete, barren streets, anonymous houses with stark slips of unkempt garden.
Clattering of wheels on the track; tiredness, the oppressive heating…
The window tapped, perhaps with a metal object.
This mindroom is hazy. Not certain it should be active. It’s only with a forced effort that I’m able to see. Eyelids are somehow connected to a titanium mask fitted over face and scalp. And as my swollen eyes open they activate a vacuum. This tightens the mask giving me an acute pain. It seems to be making my brain ache – a pounding as though a heart pumping blood. Now I’m seeing properly: it’s Bernadette. Have to fumble for the key to open the car window. But she’s screaming at me.
‘Don’t open the window, open the damned door you drunken fool.’
Please Bernadette, change that line.
She is pushing me towards the passenger seat. I’ll have to climb over the gear stick. She’s out of the car again and opening a rear door, flung two shopping bags into the back. Lights from The Neptune Hotel are throwing a yellow stain over the forecourt. The sea is listening from the seafront behind the hotel.
Bernadette’s bottom lip quivers as she holds out her palm for the ignition key. Searching in my pockets, still drunk and having great difficulty in coordinating my actions. A halfwit here, I know. I’ll make it better next time.
You can be a wise night owl, doctor. Follow us.
The car is coughing, moving up the incline away from the town. Engine is roaring against the pull of gravity on this steepcountry road. Bernadette changes down to second gear. She’s gripping the steering wheel tightly and staring ahead without a single blink. We’re at the zenith of the hill. The road has levelled out. This night is crowding us and becoming a weighted load. The headlights are cutting a white channel ahead. A segment of pastey moon casting weak illumination. Bernadette still silent. I’m trying to speak but my tongue is made of papier-mâché; lips have desiccated. Must close burning eyes but the seat is
‘Say thank you to the nice person, Emily,’ the woman said before clasping one of her children’s hands in her own.
The young girl’s large eyes, as blue as cornflowers, dominated her petite round face. With delicate fingers she had hold of her fish-shaped toy. She wriggled her nose and looked to dimpled knees then to the countryside speeding past.
Her younger brother clutched a stick. On the end of the stick was a brightly-coloured bird made of plastic. The boy put the tail of it to his lips and blew it as a whistle, a pleasant chirruping produced amidst the dull rapping of the wheelsalong a dull landscape with its dull bushes, then a valley of dull pint pot houses and winter-ravaged trees.
Clement blinked slowly. If only we could wish to remain as we were in our early years, he thought. Instead, minds and bodies are contaminated, innocence stolen; victims of fate and time.
It was not the physical aspects of ageing he detested, more the forgetting of wholesome laughter, the purity and optimism. The ability to repel harmful rays without the need for tin foil. Children should be admired for these things – he reasoned – and we should be allowed a little envy.
Wondrous stories of what should be, the real dream, free from hatred and malice; learn to be pure with love. As is the powerful love for my Bernadette, he explained to the remembered psychiatrist.
Still the world appeared to Clement as if seen through dark glasses, rendered gloomy and dismal. Sooty-barked trees with limp leaves, grey parks strewn with rubbish and lakes like sores, pylons striding across a sombre landscape. Then a factory complex with its zig-zag roofed warehouses, walls of dun-toned corrugation surrounded by joists and piles of gravel. And forklift trucks moving here and there between canisters, looking like yellow beetles, nest-building. More sterile stretches of concrete, barren streets, anonymous houses with stark slips of unkempt garden.
Clattering of wheels on the track; tiredness, the oppressive heating…
The window tapped, perhaps with a metal object.
This mindroom is hazy. Not certain it should be active. It’s only with a forced effort that I’m able to see. Eyelids are somehow connected to a titanium mask fitted over face and scalp. And as my swollen eyes open they activate a vacuum. This tightens the mask giving me an acute pain. It seems to be making my brain ache – a pounding as though a heart pumping blood. Now I’m seeing properly: it’s Bernadette. Have to fumble for the key to open the car window. But she’s screaming at me.
‘Don’t open the window, open the damned door you drunken fool.’
Please Bernadette, change that line.
She is pushing me towards the passenger seat. I’ll have to climb over the gear stick. She’s out of the car again and opening a rear door, flung two shopping bags into the back. Lights from The Neptune Hotel are throwing a yellow stain over the forecourt. The sea is listening from the seafront behind the hotel.
Bernadette’s bottom lip quivers as she holds out her palm for the ignition key. Searching in my pockets, still drunk and having great difficulty in coordinating my actions. A halfwit here, I know. I’ll make it better next time.
You can be a wise night owl, doctor. Follow us.
The car is coughing, moving up the incline away from the town. Engine is roaring against the pull of gravity on this steepcountry road. Bernadette changes down to second gear. She’s gripping the steering wheel tightly and staring ahead without a single blink. We’re at the zenith of the hill. The road has levelled out. This night is crowding us and becoming a weighted load. The headlights are cutting a white channel ahead. A segment of pastey moon casting weak illumination. Bernadette still silent. I’m trying to speak but my tongue is made of papier-mâché; lips have desiccated. Must close burning eyes but the seat is
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