state which awaits us after death. Who knows if there is not some link between those two existences and if it is not possible for the soul to unite them now?’ I think I know what he means.
The Book of Transfiguration
‘Dr Kenbarry, please,’ Lorimer said to a suspicious porter. He always over-articulated the name, unused as he was to referring to Alan in this way. ‘Dr Alan Kenbarry, he’ll be in the Institute. He’s expecting me, Mr Black.’
The porter pedantically consulted dog-eared lists and made two phone calls before he allowed Lorimer any further into the Social Studies Department of the University of Greenwich. Lorimer rode the scuffed and litter-strewn lift to Alan’s demesne on the fifth floor, where he found Alan waiting for him in the lobby, and then they walked together through the dim passageways towards the double swing doors blazoned with the inscription (in a lower-case Bauhaus-style font) ‘the institute of lucid dreams’, and on through the darkened lab towards the shrouded cubicles.
Are we alone tonight, Doctor?’ Lorimer asked.
‘We are not. Patient F. is already installed.’ He opened the door to Lorimer’s cubicle. After you, Patient B.’ There were six cubicles side by side in two rows of three at the end of the laboratory. Wire rose from each to be gathered centrally at a metal beam in a loose braid which looped its way across the ceiling to the control area with its banks of tape recorders, stacks of winking monitors and EEGs. Lorimer had always used the same cubicle and had never encountered a fellow lab-rat. Alan liked it that way – no symptom-sharing, no exchange of placebos or special tricks. No gossip about that nice Doctor Kenbarry.
‘How are we?’ Alan asked, a solitary strip light somewhere turning his spectacle lenses into two white coins as he moved his head.
‘We’re quite tired, actually. The day from hell.’
‘Poor baby. Your jim-jams are ready. Do we need to go to the loo?’
Lorimer undressed, carefully hung up his clothes and pulled on the clean cotton pyjama trousers. Alan reappeared a moment later with a flourished tube of ointment and a roll of transparent sticking plaster. Lorimer stood patiently as Alan busied himself with the electrodes: one to each temple, one below the heart, one on the wrist at the pulse.
Alan taped down the electrode on his chest. ‘I think another little shave might be in order, before the next time. Bit bristly,’ he said. ‘There we are. Sweet dreams.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
Alan stood back. ‘I’ve often thought we should attach one to the patient’s cock.’
‘Ha-ha. Lady Haigh said you woke her up this morning.’
‘I was only putting the rubbish out.’
‘She was cross. She called you a jackanapes.’
‘The Jezebel. That’s because she loves you. Everything OK?’
‘Fine and dandy.’ Lorimer crawled into the narrow bed, while Alan stood at its foot, arms folded, smiling at him like an affectionate parent, the tableau marred only by his white coat – a complete affectation, Lorimer thought, wholly unnecessary.
Any requests?’
‘Waves on the beach, please,’ Lorimer said. ‘I won’t need an alarm, I’ll be out of here by eight.’
‘Night, Big-Boy. Sleep well. I’ll be here for an hour or so.’
He switched out the lights and left, leaving Lorimer in absolute darkness and in almost absolute silence. Each cubicle was thoroughly insulated and the noises that filtered through were so indistinct as to be unrecognizable. Lorimer lay in the dazzling darkness waiting for the photomatic flashes in front of his eyes to subside. He heard the tape of ocean breakers come on, the lulling susurrus of foam smashing on rock and sand, the plash and rattle of the pebbles in the undertow, as he settled his head deeper in the pillow. He was tired, what a disastrous day… He tried to keep his head clear of images of Mr Dupree and found instead that they were replaced by the unsmiling face of Torquil Helvoir-Jayne.
Now that was something else. A director, he had said, looking forward very much, challenging times, exciting developments ahead, and so on. Leaving the Fort to come to us. And he had always thought Hogg was the sole director, the big tuna – or at least the only visible one. Why would Hogg agree to that? It was Hogg’s show, why would he tolerate someone like Helvoir – sorry, ‘heevor’ – Jayne? He seemed all wrong. Embarrassing moment, that. Lazy speaker, elocution lessons required, especially with a name like that. Torquilheeverjayne. Arrogant sort of shit. Snotty. Ego at large. Strange having someone like