Brother Fuliginous took the abbot’s hands and placed a cup of tea in them. “In a manner of speaking,” said the abbot. “We always like to give the seekers a cup of tea before they start. Part of the ordeal for us. Not for you.” He sipped his own tea, and a beatific smile spread across his ancient face. “Rather nice tea, all things considered.”
Richard put down his teacup, almost untouched. “Would you mind,” he asked, “if we just began the ordeal?”
“Not at all,” said the abbot. “Not at all.” He stood up, and the three of them walked toward a door, at the far end of the room.
“Is there . . . ” Richard paused, trying to decide what he was trying to ask. Then he said, “Is there anything you can tell me about the ordeal?”
The abbot shook his head. There really was nothing to say: he led the seekers to the door. And then he would wait, for an hour, or two, in the corridor outside. Then he would go back in, and remove the remains of the seeker from the shrine, and inter it in the vaults. And sometimes, which was worse, they would not be dead, although you could not call what was left of them alive, and those unfortunates the Black Friars cared for as best they could.
“Right,” said Richard. And he smiled, unconvincingly, and added, “Well, lead on, Macduff.”
Brother Fuliginous pulled back the bolts on the door. They opened with a crash, like twin gunshots. He pulled the door open. Richard stepped through it. Brother Fuliginous pushed the door closed behind him, and swung the bolts back into place. He led the abbot back to his chair and placed the cup of tea back in the old man’s hand. The abbot sipped his tea, in silence. And then he said, with honest regret in his voice, “It’s ‘lay on, Macduff’ actually. But I hadn’t the heart to correct him. He sounded like such a nice young man.”
TWELVE
Richard Mayhew walked down the underground platform. It was a District Line station: the sign said BLACKFRIARS. The platform was empty. Somewhere in the distance an Underground train roared and rattled, driving a ghost-wind along the platform, which scattered a copy of the tabloid Sun into its component pages, four-color br**sts and black-and-white invective scurrying and tumbling off the platform and down onto the rails.
Richard walked the length of the platform. Then he sat down on a bench and waited for something to happen.
Nothing happened.
He rubbed his head and felt slightly sick. There were footsteps on the platform, near him, and he looked up to see a prim little girl walking past him, hand in hand with a woman who looked like a larger, older version of the girl. They glanced at him and then, rather obviously, looked away. “Don’t get too near to him, Melanie,” advised the woman, in a very audible whisper.
Melanie looked at Richard, staring in the way children stare, without embarrassment or self consciousness. Then she looked back at her mother. “Why do people like that stay alive?” she asked, curiously.
“Not enough guts to end it all,” explained her mother.
Melanie risked another glance at Richard. “Pathetic,” she said. Their feet pattered away down the platform, and soon they were gone. He wondered if he had imagined it. He tried to remember why he was standing on this platform. Was he waiting for a Tube train? Where was he going? He knew the answer was somewhere in his head, somewhere close at hand, but he could not touch it, could not bring it back from the lost places. He sat there, alone and wondering. Was he dreaming? With his hands he felt the hard red plastic seat beneath him, stamped the platform with mud-encrusted shoes (where had the mud come from?), touched his face . . . No. This was no dream. Wherever he was, was real. He felt odd: detached, and depressed, and horribly, strangely saddened. Someone sat down next to him. Richard did not look up, did not turn his head.
“Hello,” said a familiar voice. “How are you, Dick? You all right?”
Richard looked up. He felt his face creasing into a smile, hope hitting him like a blow to the chest.
“Gary?” he asked, scared. Then, “You can see me?”
Gary grinned. “You always were a kidder,” he said. “Funny man, funny.”
Gary was wearing a suit and tie. He was cleanshaven, and had not a hair out of place. Richard realized what he must look like: muddy, unshaven, rumpled . . . “Gary? I . . . listen, I know what I must look like. I can explain.” He thought for a moment. “No . . . I can’t. Not really.”
“It’s okay,” said Gary reassuringly. His voice was soothing, sane. “Not sure how to tell you this. Bit awkward.” He paused. “Look,” he explained. “I’m not really here.”
“Yes, you are,” said Richard. Gary shook his head, sympathetically. “No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m you. Talking to yourself.”
Richard wondered vaguely if this was one of Gary’s jokes. “Maybe this will help,” said Gary. He raised his hands to his face, pushed at it, molded, shaped. His face oozed like warm Silly Putty.
“Is that better?” said the person who had been Gary, in a voice that was jarringly familiar. Richard knew the new face: he had shaved it most weekday mornings since he had left school; he had brushed its teeth, combed its hair, and, on occasion, wished it looked more like Tom Cruise’s, or John Lennon’s, or anyone else’s, really. It was, of course, his face. “You’re sitting on Blackfriars Station at rush hour,” said the other Richard, casually. “You’re talking to yourself. And you know what they say about people who talk to themselves. It’s just that you’re starting to edge a little closer to sanity, now.”
The damp, muddy Richard stared into the face of the clean, well-dressed Richard, and he said, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to do. But you aren’t even very convincing: you don’t really look like me.” He was lying, and he knew it.
His other self smiled encouragingly, and shook his head. “I’m you, Richard,” he said. “I’m whatever’s left of your sanity . . . “
It was not the embarrassing echo of his voice he heard on answering machines, on tapes and home videos, that horrid parody of a voice that passed for his: the man spoke with Richard’s true voice, the voice he heard in his head when he spoke, resonant and real.
“Concentrate!” shouted the man with Richard’s face. “Look at this place, try to see the people, try to see the truth . . . you’re already the closest to reality that you’ve been in a week . . . “