The Bridge Page 8

  'Bet he wishes he'd taken the flying lessons now. Just look at that view, would you? Ridges and hills, all those forests ... streams like veins of quicksilver; quite breath-taking. Even with breathing equipment, I should think. No, you wouldn't need that I suppose; not much chance of you suffering from oxygen starvation; I guess you could probably get by on a couple of molecules a day, at a pinch. God man, look at you; becoming a vegetable would be promotion.

  'Still, to give you your due, I must say you did despatch those rather loudly offensive carnivores pretty calmly. They very nearly had me frightened, but you just waded in there quite happily, didn't you? Yes, you've got guts me lad. Pity they're where your brains should be, but you can't have everything. Including a clue, it would seem. Personally I didn't think that throne looked quite right. There doesn't appear to be any way from this storey to the next, but there has to be one, and if I was a monarch I'd want a pretty fast and handy one too, if things ever did get a bit sticky in the throne room. Funny that, you don't normally see a join-line between a throne and its dais. Not the sort of detail I'd expect you to pick up on though, oh brain-dead one.'

  Wun day this fukin things goantae drive me right up the bleadin waw, so it wull, oll this mindless chatur in ma erehoal. Id get rid of the gleakit litul basturt if I could, but how? Ats the qwestchion. I go an have a wee sit doon on the big mukle chare thinmyjig; the throan or whitever ye call it, an start presin an prodin bits aw it, just on the offchants, ye ken? When low and fukinbehold the dam things jumps up into the ayr, just like that, wi me stil sittin in it an the bleadin familyar still goan on an on in ma ere.

  An a right funy bit aw touwur this is jimmy, I'll tell ye.

  'Well what a surprise. Unconventional elevator, what? Seventy-ninth floor: ladies' lingerie, leather wear, beds and vestments.'

  Whit a weerd bludy playce; ye wooldnae bileeve it. Big bludy room wi aw these wee beds and coutches an things, an these wimin on them, only the wimin arnae hole; thayve aw got bits misin.

  Thayre aw liein thare on these wee beds, and thers a helluf a smel aw sents an perfyooms, an thers this huge grate bugir cums runnin up wi neerly nae close on, an oll shiny wi this ouil and a funy litul hi voyce like a woomun. He was bowin an scrapin an rubin his hands aw ovir each uther an singing at me in this daft woomuns voyse an greetin like a lassy to, teers driblin doon his facye, so I sat thare fur a bit, getin ma breth back, then went fur a look roun this weerd playce with this big fat basturt follwin me an him jibberin away ora time to, an stil greetin.

  These wimin wiz all alive, right, but thayd been chopt up; nane aw them had an arm or a leg, just torsers an heids. Lookt like thayd been in sum big battul or sumhin, only they didnae have eny skars on thayre faces or bodys; some cunt had dun a right neet job on them. They were aw bonny, to; big tits and great riggers an right butefull faces. Thay wiz tied doon wi straps an stuff an sum aw them had this lether stuff on, or wee bitty flimzie goonies an that laycey gecr, ye ken. Sum aw them wer greetin to.

  Fuk me, a thoaught, sum bugirs got right weerd taysts. Speshlly if oll this wiz for the kween, but then ye hear sum aw these whiches and worloks hav right kingky taysts right enuoph. Certinly wiznae this big fat basturt follwin me aroun that was shaggin these lassys, I thot. Enyway, I was gettin a bit fedup wi old tuby, so I kilt him and then behind this big curtin I found oll these gys; fukin granfaithers evry wan an dresd up in these stupit-lookin roabs.

  Shoolda seen them; jumt a fukin mile when they saw me an started bendin over an tutchin the flare in front uv me wi thayre hands an howlin. I askd them whare the kween an her gold wiz, but aw a got wiz mair bludy jibberin. Coodnae unerstand a bleadin word they sed but gess who did.

  'Ah the merry men. Still stoic in defeat I see. Your fat friend out there - you know, the one pruned of his prunes - collided with my muscular chum's sword a moment ago; an even unkinder cut than his original wound. I think this lad's patience is wearing a little thin, and it's only micron-thick at the best of times, so if you don't want to end up like fatty out there - as he was alive, or the way he is now- I'd co-operate. So: which way to see the queen? Ah Molochius, yes; you always were the talkative one, weren't you? Yes of course you'll go free. You have my word. Mm-hmm. I see. The mirror. Just plastic I suppose. Hardly original, but still.'

  I slit the miror behynd the old gys an there wiz stares on the far side of it leeding up the way. Grate, I thawt.

  'Very well, you of the minced cortex; do what comes so naturally to you and let's get on with it.'

  I kilt the old gys. Just skin an boan so thay were. Hardly got ma sord dirty. Just as well. I wiz gettin tyred an ma arm wiz soar, furby. Found the qween in the very tap uv the touwir, in this wee widin room, open tae the wind. Ded wee it wiz an just aw these tyles slopin doon the way aw roond; widnae huv dun to be skayrt aw hieghts up thare, let me tell ye. Enyway, thare she wiz, in a sorta blak wedin-dres, sittin thare qwite the thing huddin this wee baw in her hand an lookin at me like I wiz a lumpa shite. No a very nyce lassy, but no as old as Id excpected her tae be; she wooldiv dun up a cloase on a dark niyht. Truth tae tell thogh. I wisnae certin whit tae dae next; there wiz sumhin funy aboot her eyes; cooldnae take mine aff hers an I new she wiz usein yon majic on me but a cooldnae move or anythin or open ma mooth; even auld skely-feetchers wiz qwiet fur a whyle, then he sez, 'Poor, my girl. I expected a better fight than that. Just a moment while I have a word in my friend's ear.

  'Ever hear the one about this man going into a bar holding a pig with a red ribbon tied round it? The barman says "Where did you get that?" and the pig says - '

  'Nevir mind him,' the qween sez. Tokin tae the fukkin familyar! An I canny even moov a bleadin mussel! See you hen, I thogt; your fur the chop, soonza can moov. 'How did yoo get owt?' she sez.

  'Old Xeronisus was stupid; hired this brute and then tried to avoid paying him. I ask you; outsmarted by this moron. I always said the old fraud was overrated. He must have forgotten which box he put me in; stuck me on this dingbat's shoulder thinking I was one of his cheap familiars with the two-day guarantee and perspicacity of a bunion.'

  'Idayit,' the qween sez. 'I dont no why I entrustid you to him in the furst playce.'

  'Just one of your many mistakes my dear.'

  Ill giv the basturdin wee shite mistayks if I get the use aw ma fukin sord hand! These two basturds jibberin away like I wisney heer! Bludy cheek, eh?

  'So, cum to reeklaim youre ritefull playce, hav you?' The kween sez.

  'Indeed. And not a nanosecond too soon, it would seem; things appear to have got quite out of hand here under your expert misguidance.'

  'Wel, you taut me oll I know.'

  'Yes, my lovekin, but luckily not all that I know.'

  (An ahm thinkin aw cum on; this is rite outa order, so it is; let us moov sumthin fur fuksaik.)

  'What do yoo intend to do?' The qwean sez, kwiet like, like she wiz goantay start greetin soon.

  'Get rid of that little menagerie downstairs, for a start. Yours?'

  'For the preests. You know how I taik my sustinince. The littil laydays get them excited, and then I ... milk them.'

  'You could have chosen younger studs.'

  'Nun of them are ovir twenty, actchilly; its a very drayning prosess.'

  'I think they found my friend's sword even more draining.'

  'Wel, cant win them orl,' the qween sez, an looks sorta sad like, an size and wipes a teer away frae her cheek, an Im standin thare like a toatal bampot, rivitid tae the spot an thinkin pair lassy, and whit the fuk's goon on enyway? when aw of a suddin she cums jumping oot the chare riyht at me like a fukin big bat or sumhin, huddin the wee baw thing out in frunt of her an shuvin it strate at the familyar.

  Just aboot shit ma breeks so I did, but the familyar wiz afrits mark so it wiz; right affthe showder and right ontae the qweens face; hit her like a fukin cannin-baw; bashed her back intae the chair. She dropt the baw shed been holdin and it rolt away on the flowr an she startit tryin tae get the familyar aff her face; scree
min and bawlin and scratchin it and bashin it.

  Coodnae bileev ma gude luck. Got the wee basturd aff ma showder at last. Watcht the twa o them struglin fur a secind, then thaught naw; fuk this fur a gaim aw sodjers; am aff, I tried pikcin up the baw the kwean had drapt, but it wiz reed hot! So I went bak doon the stares an no a minit to soon eether; bludy grate bang frae up the sters noks me aff ma feet an sends aw this dust an big lumpsa wid an that crashin doon. Geeza fukin brake, I thoght, but it wiz okay coz I didnae get hit by enythin, so I had a wee peek up whare the sters had been but it was just open ayr up thare now; not a sign aw those too so-an-sos. Basturds.

  Never did find the basturdin gold. Just shagged the wimin insted an left. Toatal waist of time but at leest I got rid aw the wee familyar. Huvnae been so luky sinse, mind yoo, an I miss the wee bam sumtimes, but nevir mind. Stil majicjust been a sordsman.

  No no no no, it was worse than that (this later, this now, waking up to the watery grey light beyond the curtains, my eyes stuck and mouth gummed and foul, head aching). I was there, that was me, and I lusted after those crippled women and they excited me; I raped them. To the barbarian it meant nothing, less than one more streak of blood on his sword, but I wanted those women; I made them and they were mine. Disgust fills me like pus. My God, better a lack of all desire than one excited by mutilation, helplessness, and rape.

  I stumble from my bed; my head hurts, I feel sick and a sweat like dirty oil lies cold on my skin and my bones ache. I throw open the curtains.

  The clouds have come down; the bridge - at this level anyway - is wrapped in grey.

  Inside, I turn on all the lights, the fire and the television. The man in the hospital bed is surrounded by nurses; they are rolling him over onto his front. His white face shows nothing, but I know he is in pain. I hear myself groan; I turn the set off. The pain inside my chest comes and goes with a rhythm and a pace all its own; insistent, nagging.

  I stagger, like a drunkard, to the bathroom. In here all is white and precise and there are no windows to show the clinging fog outside; I can shut the door, turn on more lights and be surrounded by precise reflections and hard surfaces. I let the bath run and stare for a long time at my image in the mirror. After a while, it is as though everything becomes dark again, as if everything fades away. The eyes, I remember, only see by moving; tiny vibrations shake them so that the viewed image lives; paralyse the muscles of the eyes, or somehow fix something to the cornea so that it moves along with the eye, and vision itself disappears ...

  I know this; I learned it, somewhere, once, but I don't know where or when. My memory is a drowned landscape and I look from a narrow cliff, out over where there were once fertile plains and rolling downs. Now there is just the uniform surface of the water, and a few islands that were mountains; foldings produced by some unfathomable tectonics of the mind.

  I shake myself from my little trance, only to discover that my image really has disappeared; the bath waters are hot, and the swirling vapour has condensed on the mirror's cold surface, masking it, covering it, rubbing me out.

  Carefully clothed and groomed, well-breakfasted, and having discovered - almost to my surprise - that the doctor's office is still where it was yesterday, and my appointment neither cancelled nor postponed ('Morning Mr Orr! How nice to see you! Yes, of course the doctor is here. Would you like a cup of tea?), here I sit in the doctor's enlarged office, ready for my mentor's questions.

  I decided over breakfast that I would lie about my dreams. After all, if I can invent the first two, I can cover up the others. I shall tell the doctor I had no dreams last night, and shall make up the one I was supposed to have had the night before. There is no point in telling him the sort of things I have really been dreaming about: analysis is one thing, but shame is quite another.

  The doctor, all in grey as usual, eyes glittering like splinters of ancient ice, looks at me expectantly. 'Well,' I say apologetically, 'there were three dreams, or one dream in three parts.'

  Dr Joyce nods, makes a note. 'Mm-hmm. Carry on.'

  'The first is very short. I'm in a huge, palatial house, looking across a dark corridor to a black wall. Everything is monochrome. A man appears from one side; he walks slowly and heavily. He is bald, and his cheeks seem puffed out. I can't hear any sound. He walks from left to right, but as he walks past where I'm looking, I see that the wall on the far side of him is actually a huge mirror, and his image is repeated and repeated in it, by another mirror which must be somewhere to one side of me. So I see all these thick, heavy-looking men, in a great row, marching more precisely in step than any line of soldiers ...' I look up at the doctor's eyes. Deep breath.

  'The ridiculous thing is, the reflection nearest the man, the first one, doesn't mimic his actions; for a second, just for a moment, it turns and looks at him - it doesn't break step, only the head and the arms move - and it puts both its hands to its head, spread out like this - ' (I show the doctor) 'and waggles them and then immediately jerks back into position. The reflected line of fat men walk out of view. The real man, the original one, doesn't notice what has happened. And ... well, that's all.'

  The doctor purses his lips and clasps his pink stubby fingers together.

  'Did you also identify with the man in the sea at any point? As well as being the man in the robes who was watching from the shore, was there at any time a sensation of being the other one? Who, after all, was the more real? The man on the shore seems to have disappeared at some point; the man with the chain-lash stopped seeing him. Well; don't answer that now. Think about it, and the fact that the man you were had no shadow. Carry on, please; what is the next dream?'

  I sit and stare at Dr Joyce. My mouth hangs open.

  What did he just say? Did I hear that? What did I say? My God, this is worse than last night. I am dreaming and you are something from within myself.

  'Wh-I - I'm sorry? Wh- what? What - how did you ...?'

  Dr Joyce looks puzzled. 'I beg your pardon?'

  'What you just said ..." I say, my tongue stumbling over the words.

  'I'm sorry,' Dr Joyce says, and takes off his spectacles. 'I don't know what you mean Mr Orr. All I said was, "Carry on please."'.

  God, am I still asleep? No, no, definitely not, no point trying to pretend this is a dream. Press on, keep going. Maybe it's just a temporary lapse; I still feel odd, fevered; that's all it is, that's all it can be. Fog on the brain. Don't let it disturb you; maintain; the show must go on.

  'Yes I - I beg your pardon; I'm not concentrating very well today. Didn't sleep well last night; probably why I didn't dream.' I smile bravely.

  'Of course,' the good doctor says, putting his spectacles back on his nose. 'Do you feel well enough to continue?'

  'Oh yes.'

  'Good.' The doctor actually smiles, if a little artificially, like a man trying on a loud tie he knows doesn't really suit him. 'Please continue when your ready.'

  I have no choice. I have already told him there were three dreams.

  'In the next dream, in monochrome again, I'm watching a couple in a garden, perhaps a maze. They're on a bench, kissing. There's a hedge behind them, and a statue of... well, a statue, a figure on a pedestal, nearby. The woman is young, attractive, the man T- who is wearing some sort of formal suit - is older; he looks distinguished. They are embracing quite passionately.' I have avoided the doctor's eyes; it takes a considerable act of will to bring my head up and face him again. 'And then a servant appears; a butler or footman. He says something like, "Ambassador, the telephone," as the old distinguished man and the young woman look round. The young woman gets up from the bench, smooths down her dress and says something like "Damn. Duty calls. Sorry, darling," and follows the servant away. The old man, frustrated, goes over to the statue, gazes at one of the figure's marble feet, then pulls out a large hammer and brings it smashing down on the big toe.'

  Dr Joyce nods, makes some notes, and says, 'I would be interested in what you think the dialect signifies. But carry on.' He looks u
p.

  I swallow. There is a strange, high whine in my ears.

  'The last dream, or the last part of the single dream, takes place during the day, on some cliffs above a river inside a beautiful valley. A young boy sitting eating a piece of bread with some other children, and a beautiful young teacher ... they're all having lunch, I think, and there's a cave behind ... no, there isn't a cave ... anyway, the young boy is holding his sandwich, and I'm looking at it too, from very close up, and a big splash suddenly appears on it, then another, and the boy looks up, puzzled, at the cliff above; and there's a hand hanging over the edge of the cliff top, and it's holding a bottle of tomato sauce, which is dripping onto the boy's bread. That's all.'

  What now?

  'Mm-hmm,' the doctor says. 'Was this a wet-dream?'

  I stare at him. It is asked reasonably enough, and of course what is said here is completely confidential. I clear my throat. 'No, it was not.'

  'I see,' the doctor says, and spends some time making half a page of microscopically neat notes. My hands are shaking, I am sweating.

  'Well.' the doctor says, 'I feel we've come to a ... fulcrum in this case, don't you?'

  A fulcrum? what does the good doctor mean?

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' I say.

  'We have to go on to another stage of the treatment,' Dr Joyce tells me. I don't like the sound of this.

  The doctor issues a precisely weighted professional sigh. 'While I think we might have a ... well, quite a good deal of material here,' he looks back through several pages of notes, 'I don't feel we're getting any closer to the core of the problem. We're circling around it, that's all. You see,' he looks up at the ceiling, 'if we regard the human mind as - say - like a castle -'