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Prologue: An Uncredited Extract from a journal found during March on the London Underground
Daylight today doesn't seem quite as bright as it should, the sun seems to have lost its lustre and I am tired. Perhaps by setting down these words I am sharing my guilt, lessening its deadening weight on my soul. A weight which threatens to overwhelm me even before the truth of the horror which I must recount. I am a betrayer, a betrayer of everything I ever held dear. Selfishness clouded my judgement and now everyone will suffer; either that or I am insane. Were it only so.
My failure lies in that I failed to abide by what I have considered the most sacred vows of my life; the ones I uttered to my wife on the day of our wedding. Not the facile ceremonials, but the underlying truth behind them. She was suffering and I turned my back on her - worse - I went against her, and was all too happy to see her finally locked away. Her sensitivity had sheltered me on many occasions, yet when it came her time to reach out for me; the time when she needed me the most, I turned my head in disgust. Yes, I have a lot to be ashamed about, and Helen has every reason to hate me. It was a breakdown that caught me by surprise, and I found myself unable to cope. One day she was fine, the next... It was beyond the scope of anything I could deal with. Gradually things grew worse, it became more than just a breakdown. She was plagued by nightmares and delusions, her behaviour became increasingly psychotic. And then, I regret to say, I had her admitted to an institution.
She had tried to speak to me, but I wouldn't listen, I saw mental illness and it frightened me. Scared me out of my wits. There was no support on offer, no one I felt I could turn to, so I just let her go.
So she disappeared from my life, and though I am ashamed to write this, at the time I was glad. I forgot her, blanked her from my life, rewrote my history as if she had never existed. And so it went on. Three years later they released her. Not because she was 'cured', rather through the 'Care in the Community' program. With drugs and support she could become a useful member of society again. I wasn't ready to have her back, not in that state, and the drugs were forthcoming but the support was not. What else could I have expected?
I put up with her for weeks - listen to me, so arrogant - before I made the decision that I wish I had made three years before. I sat and listened to her. She told me of her collapse, of what occurred on the day it took place, and gradually the truth came out.
It took me a while but now I understand. Helen's breakdown did not originate from within herself, it wasn't the result of emotional stress or an inability to cope with her life. Rather, it was something closer to an assault. A mind, floating somewhere in the future had sought and found the avenue provided by her great sensitivity. It was, she explained to me, as if her consciousness had been torn out by the roots and supplanted by another. She was flooded by a barrage of tightly packed images, a few weeks of someone's life passed into her over a matter of seconds and her mind had been unable to take the strain. For the duration of her breakdown her mind had been fighting against the transplanted thoughts; pushing against them and turning her waking life into a montage of confusions. Gradually though, as she recovered, she pieced the images together slowly. Making of them something approaching coherency. So when I was finally ready to listen she could tell me the story of this future person's life as easy as if it had happened to her. In effect it has; though this is not my wife's story, not a fabrication of her mind, neither is it mine. I offer it here in good faith, so treat it as you will, for I fear it doesn't really matter what you think.
I. A Story Presents Itself
I was a reporter, had been for years, still looking for that one big story that would push me into the big time. I had been searching for this story for so long that I was beginning to doubt it existed, at least for me. I had started with big aspirations. I was going to change things, but it quickly feel apart. I've had big breaks, but always find myself in the second rank. Perhaps it was because I had given up looking for that the story came looking for me. It came as a rumour at first, a tale of an artist living a secluded life somewhere in the country. He was apparently working on something big, his masterpiece, but no one had seen it and no one would see it until his death. The rumour was a fascinating one, but something I didn't really have time to dwell on, so I let it drift to the back of my mind. There was something about it that hooked me, even then, but I didn't really have an inkling of the fact until several days later...
I had woken up in a cold sweat after a fearful nightmare. Something unusual for me, my nights were rarely interrupted by any kind of night terror. It was so fragmentary, increasingly so as time went on, and I could only recall certain aspects. I had been walking through an everchanging landscape, looked down upon by a gigantic artist who was painting the land around me. I could not flee him, for he painted obstacles in my way, as well as strange nightmarish figures which followed me ceaselessly. I was frightened, but angry as well, and in my flight I called up at him, cursed him in languages my waking mind had no awareness of. I threatened him with death, oblivion, and he laughed; for he was already dead. Though dead he could still torment me. A flick of his brush and another nightmare appeared, a slithering figure with thousands of complex, intertwining legs. My flight was hopeless, I could not escape from that thing, and moments later it had me. As did my sudden escape into the cold light of day.
I realized the source of the nightmare, it was based on the rumour I had heard. Maybe my journalistic instincts were finally kicking in, shouting at me that this was going to be something, something very big. The story that would finally make me a big name. My usual doubts nagged at me but I set them aside. It was time I went out on a limb, and if this came to nothing then so be it - there would be other chances.
I cursed myself now for the exceptional amount of alcohol I had imbibed the night I first heard the rumour. I knew I had heard it from a paparazzi, and an almost familiar face hovered at the edge of my mental vision. But it was no good, the party was too obscured in my memory. Jackie was there, she would know who. He was a strictly second-rate paparazzi I knew that, I would have remembered him more easily otherwise. So I rang Jackie, a freelance who'd helped me out a couple of times. We were friends, or as close as you can get to being friends in our business. I'd tipped her off a while back, and she owed me a few favours. I could just call her and see if she knew the paparazzo's name. She was out when I rang first, so I left a message on her answering machine and waited for her to call back. I had time, I typed out the story I'd been working on before the party had put it on hold, and kept occupied until ten when the phone rang. It was Jackie and she reeled off the number virtually off the top of her head. I thanked her profusely and offered to buy her a drink at some point.
So, anyway, I rang Karl, and he was in. He agreed to repeat to me what he had said at the party, provided I do him a favour in return. I agreed reluctantly, he probably wanted me to help flog a couple of photos from last night to our Gossip columnist, though I can't think what he could have got of interest amongst the small fry on the night of the party. One the bartering was out of the way he repeated what he'd told me last night. "There's this artist guy called Griswold, Gingrich or something like that. He lives in this fortress of a house in Devon, has been in a coma for months, yet he claims to be working on some great piece of art, but get this. No one will see it 'til he's dead, in fact, it won't really exist until he's dead. And get this, he don't get paid until he's dead either, what an idiot, hell, he's probably rolling in it anyway."
That was the gist of it, if my journalistic instincts had it right, I was supposed to track down some loony, half-dead artist living in Devon; for a start it was miles away, and secondly, I don't really know where I could start looking for this 'artist'. He may not even exist. I was beginning to feel a bit stupid, but I was sure there was a story in this - somewhere. When I look back now, it feels as if somehow I was fated to track down this mysterious, solitary figure. That whatever I did, I was drawn back to this same path. When I'd rang Karl I'd expected more details, like "...in Devon," isn't quite as precise as I had hoped. Sitting, pondering this, a phone call had interrupted me, and picking it up I found the features editor from my newspaper on the other end. This time the facile man had decided the newspaper needed a bit of 'culture' to show it had some class.
Naturally it was more the controversy surrounding the art than the art itself he was interested in. He'd asked me if I remembered the bloke who put dead sheep in boxes, and I'd said yes, so he told me that this bloke went one better and wanted me to get down there as quickly as possible. Someone had already been there and taken loads of snaps, I just had to have a look and write something suitably horrified and scathing; the 'art as an attack on good taste' angle. So I went there; to the Tate of course, to have a good look at the pieces of art. The place was buzzing, I could barely get in the door. It was obviously something everyone was getting worked up about. The exhibition was called "The Inner Mind: A Postmodern Expression of Internalism against Externalism", so that was almost half the article gone already. The artist was there, Mr. Davy Kite, looking smug but quite self contained. The artwork, as I was soon to discover, consisted of variations on a single theme, that of a human brain. And when I looked at the first exhibit, the word 'pickled' sprang to mind. A brain, in all its grotesque reality, on a plate with a fork and spoon on either side. I must admit, I felt my guts reeling slightly. By the time I completed my tour of the exhibits I was feeling decidedly queasy.
I saw the artist, still standing where he had been when I came in, still looking smug. He saw mw approaching and I think he recognised me. "Oh dear me, if it isn't my ever newsworthy nemesis. Excuse me if I cannot remember the name of the rag you work for." I smirked at his typically droll attitude. "Do you mind if I call toy Davy, or just Mr. Kite?"
"It doesn't worry me, mister...?"
"Phil. Just Phil."
"Well, Phil, is there something I can do for you? Did you enjoy my exhibition?" He said and I could see he knew I still felt uncomfortable. He also spoke with an irony that suggested he was familiar with the rubbishing I gave his last exhibition. He stood with his arms crossed in a sharply cut suit, his dark hair short and bristly. His green eyes piercing and unnerving. "Enjoy? Well, I don't know if that's the way I'd put it. There's only so many times you can look at the inside of a human brain."
"Is that so? But they are eternally fascinating, so much contained within such a tiny organ. Still largely unexplored, but there are some of us that are willing to explore these dark, hidden places." He looked at me intently as he said this, and it brought to mind the artist in Devon. I queried him about it, maybe he'd know who I had in mind. "Is my work of so little interest to you? Oh, I should be hurt, but I shall forgive you this transgression. It is quite obvious of course. The only possible artist in Devon who could be of interest to a hack, excuse the term but it is appropriate, such as yourself. You mean Byron Glogaeur, the one who would face death in order to discover his art. A mentor of mine before we went our separate ways."
"Is he the one in the coma?"
"The coma? Oh yes, but that is a state fundamental to his work. Without that closeness to death, he couldn't create." I listened to what he said, watching how he said them, and got an innate sense of the shallowness of the man. His outward artistic appearance was a sham; a facade, his sole interest was in inflating his own ego.
"How can I find out more?"
"You wish...Of course you do, that is your job. Well, I can arrange for you to see him." He smiled, almost wolfishly. "But first you will of course allow me to give you a tour, explain the meaning behind my art. I can see you have little understanding of what you see before you." That was the first time I heard mention of the name Byron Glogaeur, and perhaps now I wish it was the last.
II. Something Concrete
My train left at eight-thirty. So early that I almost gave up the idea of going down to Devon at all; but I managed to get myself up in plenty of time. I even had a decent breakfast. It was a nice day as well, which helped. The early sun had allowed me to wake on time. The train was on time, and I carried my bags on board. I took two suitcases, enough stuff for a couple of days. I'd tried to talk my editor into letting me cover the story, but naturally he laughed it off. As far as he was concerned we'd already done our 'art piece'. So I made use of some of my leave, I had it coming, and my burning curiosity had the better of me.
I got into Exeter at about eleven-thirty and was bit unsure of how to proceed. I had an appointment at the residence of the artist at three in the afternoon. The place itself was near a village called Thirlston, somewhere between Exeter and Torquay. I didn't know Devon at all so I wasn't too sure about where to stay. I had planned on stopping in Exeter, but it was out of season, so I decided that I may as well find a B&B in Torquay. At least I could enjoy the sea for a few days if this turned out to be nothing. It was almost two in the afternoon before I was settled in my room in Torquay, it had taken me a great deal longer than I had assumed it would. I'd catch a taxi to Thirlston if I had any hope of getting there on time. It would be expensive, but I could charge it to the office. Lucky as I was, the taxi driver had never heard of Thirlston, so I had to give him the directions Mr. Kite had given me. He had warned me not to be late, and for some reason I felt nervous; I didn't want to be late either.
Still, it went better than I could have hoped, and we reached Thirlston at ten to three. It was easy to find Thirlston Manor, it being virtually the only inhabited place in the village. The place was so dead I was astounded, I hadn't seen a single person since arriving; it was unnerving. Especially for me, someone used to the hustle and bustle of city life. I know it is more fashionable to downplay your emotions, but I have to admit I was feeling almost a child's excitement when I strolled up the gravel driveway after leaving the taxi. The great gothic mansion loomed up on me as I approached, gargoyles gaping from the stylised buttresses. It was setting the scene for what was to come, and still I was completely unaware of the profound effect this e xperience would have on my life.
The huge brass knocker was entirely in keeping with the style of the building, and a boom reverberated about the building when it struck the door. The door was opened by Jill Fareham, the artist's wife. I admit to being slightly confused; I hadn't expected a wife, the idea didn't seem to fit with the reclusive artist line that I'd been thrown. "Come in. You must be Mr. Marlowe."
"Yes. Just call me Phil."
"Any relation to the..."
"No. My mother had a sense of humour, unfortunately."
"Not unfortunate at all. Would you like a drink, or would you prefer to see my husband first?" I was still feeling a bit strange, so I accepted the drink. It would hopefully help me relax a moment. Jill returned with the drinks and I tried to gauge from her conversation how she felt about her husband. It seemed odd that an outgoing thirty year old woman would be married to a secluded artist who, by all accounts, was intent on dying. She flicked her long black hair every time she mentioned his name, almost a nervous twitch, so I guessed underneath her seemingly calm exterior she wasn't quite as happy about her husband's condition as she appeared. She talked about his project, his last attempt at creating something great, though she never told me anything specific; instead waiting until I could witness her husband's progress myself. I finished my drink, a fine malt whiskey, and told her I was ready to see him.
Byron Glogaeur was laid out in the back bedroom, which was on the ground floor. It was like stepping into a hospital ward, the white- washed walls and the plain bed from which he 'created'. In life, Byron may have been a great artist, but he didn't make a good corpse. His forty-eight year old features looked tired and washed out, his hair almost completely grey and splayed out untidily over the pillows; though of course he wasn't really a corpse, he was really in a coma. Jill gave me a long, drawn out explanation of what his great work was about, too long and complex to repeat here, but the gist of it was this. Strangely, for an artist, Byron had begun his career in the sciences, though always on the fringe and constantly involved in outside artistic pursuits. He had studied cybernetics up to degree level at Brichester University, concentrating his areas of research to the human/machine interface. Some disagreements on his methods, and a constant transgressing of University policy had led to him being expelled, though the reluctance to lose such an awesome mind had allowed him leeway for a while.
From then on he concentrated on working as an artist, both as a painter and sculptor, but his work had never satisfied him. For him, neither of these paths nor materials were sufficiently primal. He had dreams, vivid dreams which he wished to represent, then when he woke up and tried to recreate the wondrous images from his subconscious, he found himself lacking. He had experimented, working with once living tissue - where Davy Kite had entered the picture - and dead vegetable matter. Byron wanted to work with the stuff of life itself as he saw it, dream-stuff, the wonderful substance which most connects us to our primal selves. So he had come up with this idea; combining his long experience of cybernetics and art, he would take certain drugs that would induce a coma and be kept alive for years by the machines which operated around him and a regular medical staff, drip fed to keep his body alive and his mind floating.
There was another machine, an unusual one of his own invention, something he had begun working on at Brichester University, but had left long discarded up until now. It connected his brain by a series of electrodes, this was where his great work was to take shape. Built out of the stuff of his dreams, it would be his final gift to Humanity on his death. Once this event occurred the function of the machine would change, it would become the vessel from which his masterpiece would flow. People had merely to seat themselves in a specially designed compartment and then find themselves immersed in it, within the work of art he literally died to bring the world. For two years he had lain supine on this bed, for two years kept floating on the verge of death. How much longer he was to lie like that I don't know, though from the state Jill was in by the time she finished explaining, I thought that maybe he would outlive her. She seemed to be teetering on the edge of nervous exhaustion, the two year ordeal was pushing her close to breaking point. I left after a few hours, I had enough to base a story on and it didn't look as if I needed to stay here as long as I had thought; but stay I did. For a few days at least, most of them spent on the beach.
Copyright © 1997 Peter A. Worthy
