There was something worrying its way up into his conscious mind. Something about a crystal…. A glowing crystal Somewhere, somehow, he had seen a tiny crystal that glowed coldly with an intense point of frozen fire at its centre. But perhaps that, too, was part of the dream….
He gave up the frail attempt at correlating thoughts and memories and deductions, and concentrated on the brandy and coffee. Something would sort itself out, sooner or later. It had to!
The brandy wasn’t so great, but the coffee was quite good. Avery smacked his lips appreciatively. Then he knew there was something missing. Something vital. He wanted a cigarette.
He fished in his pockets and found his gas lighter. But no cigarettes. Then he suddenly realized that somebody must have taken off his fleece-lined leather jacket. He looked round what he had already come to regard as his cell, but it was nowhere to be seen.
He went to the keyboard and tapped out: Cigarettes, please.
The response was immediate. There is a supply in the trunk under your bed.
Irrationally, Avery cursed himself for not having looked under the bed in the first place.
He hauled out the trunk. It was heavy and large and obviously new—the kind some travelling major or lower-echelon diplomat might buy for himself at the Army and Navy Stores. There were six heavy brass dips and a lock, but none of them were fastened. Avery lifted the lid back and peered inside. He was amazed.
There were several tropical shirts, three pairs of drill trousers and a couple of bush jackets—all new. There were two old pairs of leather sandals which he instantly recognized, and a couple of new pairs rather similar. There were vests and socks and a first-aid kit—all new.
His amazement became so great that it expired under its own weight. The whole thing was just too fantastic for words. He began to tip things out of the trunk untidily on to the floor as he delved deeper.
Together with his own toilet gear were some loaded razor-blade dispensers and about a dozen cakes of soap. Side by side with these was a small lightweight record player (mechanically operated as he discovered later) and a pile of new L.P. records. There were the Beethoven Fifths (symphony and piano concerto), the Bach Toccata and Fugue and Double Violin concerto, some Strauss waltzes, selections from My Fair Lady, several Chopin pieces, the New World symphony and a recording of ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’ that held too many memories because it belonged to a special world—the one that he had shared briefly with Christine.
Avery stared at the collection helplessly. Somebody must have done a pretty good job of reading his mind, because each piece was a favourite. Each was assigned for a special mood or a special occasion in what used to be the neat and tidy life of Richard Avery.
He was momentarily frightened. Whoever knew this much about him already knew too much. His unseen captors already held a majority of aces.
But then he realized that his fear was not only futile, it was—for the time being, at least—inappropriate. Although he was a prisoner, so far the indications were that he was a privileged prisoner. He could only hope it was not simply a case of fattening up the goose….
Some of the other things he came across surprised him even more. There was a tattered wallet in which he had kept a few photographs it seemed worth keeping— various shots of Christine, faded and rather formal shots of his parents, snaps of himself as a baby, child, youth and Second World War merchant seaman. There was a great quantity of tubes of oil paint, a palette, brushes and several canvas boards. There was a bundle of paperbacked novels, a couple of old diaries, about a ream of writing paper and a box of pencils.
And underneath everything were the cigarettes. Not just a packet. Not just a carton. But about five thousand. In fact the layer of packets—several deep—covered the entire bottom of the vast trunk. His favourite brand, needless to say!
Avery opened a packet, went back to his chair at the table, sat down and began to smoke in quick nervous puffs, surveying the debris by the bed.
Strewn about on the floor the contents of the trunk looked most incongruous. They gave the impression of either being impractical supplies for an absurd safari or the means by which a man might endure a stiffish prison sentence without going completely insane.
Avery poured himself a second cup of coffee, emptying the pot. As he sipped it he became aware of an intense weariness that seemed to crawl internally up his legs like some secret miniature alpinist, determined to reach the icy citadel of his brain.
Suddenly the cigarette tasted terrible, and he stubbed it out on his plate. He yawned and stood up, intending to put all the things back in the trunk just as he had found them—an exercise that at least might help to keep him awake.
He took two steps forward, yawned once more and realized that he was in no condition to start re-packing the trunk. The fatigue hit his brain with an almost physical impact. The room—the cell—began to ripple slightly. He knew that he would be very lucky if he managed to get as far as the bed.
He made it, but only just. Even as he slipped down the long tunnel of darkness he knew, oddly, that he had just remembered something important. But the memory and his awareness of it gently dissolved.
Avery was completely exhausted. Recent experience plus the after-effects of influenza had produced an overdraft of nervous energy that could only be reduced by sleep.
THREE
He awoke with the feeling that he was not really waking at all, that he was merely re-entering a dream within a dream. But, he asked himself, what was the original dream? Answer: Kensington Gardens, London, teaching, the monotony of years without meaning. This dream at least was more vivid. It had an element of the absurd that was beginning to appeal to him.
He got up and inspected the cell. The remains of the meal had been cleared away, the contents of the trunk had been re-packed, and the trunk itself was back under his bed! There was one small change, however. His toilet things had been placed by the wash-stand. He decided there might be some virtue in freshening himself up.
Having used the lavatory with some relief and the oblique satisfaction of performing such simple animal' functions, he stripped to the waist, gave himself a thorough wash in very hot water and shaved. After that, he felt ready for anything. More or less.
The packet of cigarettes he had opened was lying on the table. An ash-tray had been provided. He reached for the packet, took a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. He began to think back.
But thinking back didn’t seem to provide any useful information. He was at a loss. Eventually he seated himself beside the conversational typewriter, determined to get something out of it.
Question: How long have I been here?
Response: No comment.
Question: Who the hell are you?
Response: No comment.
Statement: I think you are mad.
Response: No comment.
Statement: I don’t really believe you exist.
Response: No comment. A series of questions has been prepared, to which it is hoped you will provide written answers. If you do, you will be rewarded.
Statement: To hell with your questions! I want a pot of tea. No food, just a pot of tea.
Response: It will be provided. Do you take sugar and milk?
Statement: Both.
Avery began to pace about restlessly. The joke—if it was a joke—or the dream—if it was a dream—was getting just a shade too elaborate. He glanced at his watch, then he held it to his ear. It had stopped, of course. He felt totally disorientated. He might have been in the cell hours or days. He had no means of knowing.