Connected (6 page)

He jolted, and once again Peter found himself
sitting at the desk in Martin’s den. This too had been a dream, but hadn’t he
awoken already? That must have been part of the same dream. His heart was
racing. The PC screen now showed a screen-saver. Powering it down for what
seemed like the second time that afternoon, he swiftly left the room. In the
kitchen, he pulled a beer from the fridge and sat at the table, shaken. How
could he tell he was no longer dreaming? Ridiculous, he thought, of course he
wasn’t. But that was just it, the whole experience had been so vivid. He looked
around the kitchen. Everything seemed to be real enough. He studied the label
on the bottle of beer in his hand. He had read somewhere that if you look at
writing during a dream, turn away and then look back, the words invariably
change into something else. “Premium lager, brewed in the traditional way since
1885,” it read. He turned away, then looked back. It was the same. Of course he
was awake. He felt suddenly very foolish and quickly knocked back the remains
of the bottle, letting out a satisfied gasp. Opening the fridge to retrieve a
second beer, he noticed two salmon fillets lying on a plate and decided to
prepare dinner. Peter was far from talented as a cook, but without really
thinking, located some potatoes, cream, garlic and a few other ingredients, and
somehow transformed these into a convincing attempt at pommes dauphinoise. To
accompany the salmon, he prepared a white wine sauce with a little
Cabernet Sauvignon, that had already been opened, topped and tailed a handful
of mange-touts and washed up. He hardly ever cooked at home, but as
surprisingly appetising aromas filled the kitchen, he now wondered why not.

An hour or so later, Isabelle poked her head round
the door, still looking sleepy. “Something smells good!” she said. “What a
lovely surprise.”
“Well, yes I rather surprised myself actually.” He couldn’t remember the last
time he had made a white-wine sauce - or pommes dauphinoise for that matter -
but somehow he had put it together without a second thought. “But I suppose we
should reserve judgement until we’ve tasted it.”
Isabelle laughed. “You know, I don’t usually sleep in the afternoon, but after
that little walk we had, I couldn’t resist a quick siesta.” She glanced at him,
smiling. “I dreamt about you actually.”
Peter blushed, remembering his own rather disturbing ones. Seeing his reaction,
she blushed also. “No, don’t worry, it was nothing like that. It was a bit
weird actually. You were standing in a darkened room, looking around as though
searching for something. I tried to turn on the lights for you, but they didn’t
work. I asked you what you were looking for, but you just stood there like you
hadn’t heard me. Then I wondered if it really was you. You seemed to be
changing into someone else. As I continued watching, I realised this someone else
was Martin. Then I woke up.” She stopped and started setting the table. “Funny
things, dreams. Do you think they mean anything?”
“No I don’t,” said Peter emphatically. “I believe they’re the result of the
semi-conscious mind trying to make sense of random thoughts.”
“But where do those thoughts come from?”
“Well, except under general anaesthetic, or in certain vegetative states, the
brain always has some activity. Clusters of neurons fire continually across
different parts of the brain, and what we refer to as conscious thought might
merely be the result of whichever cluster reaches a critical size at any given
point in time.”
“So our very essence is now reduced to some sort of random electrical storms in
the brain? I can’t believe that.”
“Well it’s only one of the many theories for how consciousness arises, but they
all – at least all the scientifically respectable ones – can still be reduced
to the brain’s electrical activity. I mean, what’s the alternative? We know the
brain is where it all happens, since when it gets damaged or affected by drugs,
our thoughts, feelings – even personalities - change also.”
“So, you don’t believe in a soul?”
“If there is such a thing, then it’s somewhere in the brain.”
“But then it would die when the body dies.” Isabelle looked simultaneously
shocked and saddened. Peter immediately regretted his insensitivity.
“No… well… that’s what I happen to believe,” he said, trying to undo the
damage. “I suppose there are still questions that haven’t been answered by science,
but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
“Do you really think that one day science will provide all the answers?”
He looked into her beautiful brown eyes, now fixed on him anxiously, as though
awaiting the verdict of a murder trial. He suddenly felt uneasy as though a
great weight of responsibility had been placed on his shoulders. “I honestly
have no idea, Isabelle. I like to think so. In a way, I suppose you could say
that the dead live on in the minds of the living – as memories, but I see no
good reason to suspect that they continue in any other sense - some
metaphysical realm of the soul for example. I think I’d like to believe in
heaven, and in life after death.” He paused. “It’s just that for me, the two
sides don’t seem to square up.”
“I think that’s why I was never any good at science; it always seemed to
contradict my Catholic upbringing. Perhaps it’s something you should discuss
with Roger.”
Peter was relieved at the opportunity to change the subject. “Oh yes, that’s
right, I said I’d meet him at the Fox and Hounds at eight. Shall we try out
this culinary masterpiece of mine then?”
The salmon was exquisite and Isabelle seemed visibly impressed. Between them
they finished off the wine and chatted about everything and nothing. Adhering
to the old adage, Peter would try to avoid the topics of religion and politics
from now on.

After dinner and with some trepidation, he phoned
Abigail.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said immediately, “it wasn’t fair of me to
blame you like that - especially right after Martin’s funeral - I feel
terrible.”
Peter felt a surge of relief. “I’m sorry too. How is Kate now?”
“Oh much better. They had a school outing to a farm today, and she’s been going
on about wanting a pony ever since I picked her up.”
“Well that’s a relief - unless of course, you agreed,” he added jokingly.
“No – well - not really.”
“Abigail?”
“Well, I said that we couldn’t have one here, but that maybe one day we might
move to a big house in the country, one with some land, and then we’d see.”
“Are you serious? I thought you hated the countryside.”
“No. Well - maybe once, but it’s different now we have the children. It’s not
healthy for them here anymore. You always hated suburbia, and for the money we
could get for this place, we could get something much bigger farther out.”
Peter couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s wonderful. I don’t know what to say. I
never imagined you felt this way.”
“Well don’t say anything. Let’s talk about it when you get back. When is that
likely to be by the way?”
“I don’t know - I mean I haven’t really decided. I’m sorting out Martin’s den
and helping Isabelle with the paperwork.”
There was silence - then “How is Isabelle?”
“Oh fine. At least - she’s as well as can be expected under the circumstances.
I thought that while your mother was there, I might stay on for a few days - try
to answer some questions - you know - about Martin.”
There was a pause and Peter at once felt uneasy.  “Abigail?”
“No - don’t worry, that’s fine. Take your time. I’m sure she’s very grateful
for your help.”
Peter tried to determine whether there had been a tinge of sarcasm in Abigail’s
voice, perhaps not. “I’m sure it’ll only take a few days.”
“It’s fine, really!” She sounded marginally more sincere now. “Look, I’m just a
bit tired and I need to get the kids into bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”  
After they’d hung up, Peter replayed the conversation in his mind, trying to discern
any hidden meaning between the words. If there had been any jealousy of
Isabelle, she had never before let it show, and he was pretty sure he had never
given away the fantasies secretly harboured over the years. Even if she did
have suspicions, surely she knew he would never act on them – especially under
these circumstances. But at the same time, his mind jumped back to the dreams of
that afternoon, and he wondered if perhaps he was in love with Isabelle. But
was it love or lust? After twelve years of marriage, how would he know the
difference? He still loved his wife, didn’t he? There were aspects of Abigail’s
character he had always found hard to come to terms with. When on form, she
could be delightful, then at the drop of a hat, she could transform into
someone quite different altogether. This other person was moody,
uncompromising, and for the most part sad and frustrated with life. For many
years, Peter had felt at least partly responsible for these turns, assuming
that in some way he must have failed her, and letting himself be tormented by
thoughts of what he might do differently. Eventually however, he had come to
accept it for what it was - an aspect of her personality. If he wanted the
charming and bubbly character with whom he had fallen in love, then he would
have to accept this other, somewhat darker side as well. Of Isabelle, he would
just have to be content with fantasies. To do any more would be a cruel
betrayal of those he loved.

Doug and Brian locked arms
and knelt in the wet mud, their heads sandwiched between the buttocks of the
front row for what seemed like the hundredth scrum that afternoon. Essex Police
had always been a tough opponent, and this afternoon they were on home turf.
Big men, mostly in their mid-twenties to early thirties, the coppers had a
reputation for rough play. By contrast, the students were mostly under
twenty-one, but what they lacked in size and weight, they made up for in
fitness. Today the rain had turned most of the pitch into a quagmire preventing
the police scrum from exploiting their weight advantage, and the students were
leading seventeen points to three. Needless to say, the police, who never much
liked students at the best of times, were less than happy with the situation.

The front rows slammed together and everyone
jostled to find some purchase in the mire. The scrum-half launched the ball
into the fray, to a deep growl of “Heave!” from the front row. Doug’s studs
found some grip, and he locked his legs. He could see the feet of Taff, the
student hooker, desperately trying to reach the ball, when a fist flew up from
one of the opposing props. Suddenly the ball was gone and the police had
possession. As Doug broke loose, he could see blood pouring from Taff’s nose.
The police tight-head was smiling conspiratorially at one of his team-mates.
Their possession was short-lived though. By the time the ball was half way down
the line, the students were all over it, forcing a hasty kick into touch, and
presenting them with a line-out just twenty-five yards from the try-line.

As the ball was thrown back in, Brian rocketed
into the air, caught the ball easily with both hands, and as he came down,
drove his elbow hard into the right eye of the police tight-head, sending him
flying backwards into the mud. “Serves you right you fat git!” muttered Doug as
he bound onto Brian, head down and started to push once again. They were now
twenty-yards from the police try-line and slowly gaining ground. Doug, spotting
a gap on the inside,  slipped his arm around the ball and broke free.
Summoning the very last reserves of energy, he charged. From the corner of his
eye, he could see the police winger closing from the outside. Adrenaline surged
through his body, forcing aside the exhaustion he had felt only seconds before.
He pumped his legs harder, feeling powerful, invincible. Unlike the rest of the
squad, the police winger, whose boots could be heard slapping in the mud behind
him, was match-fit and closing fast. Doug glanced over his shoulder. The
policeman was gaining. He looked around for support, but there was no easy
pass. Ahead, the police back was now converging on the gap for which Doug was
aiming. It was going to be tight, but he reckoned he could still squeeze
between him and the goalpost. With one last grunt, he lunged for the line.
 As his feet left the ground, the winger’s shoulder slammed into his
thighs, setting his body into a mid-air spin. He thumped the ball down over the
line, but kept spinning. He saw the post looming rapidly and then everything
went black.

Out of the darkness came a voice, “Doug!” It
sounded like Kal’s voice. “Be very careful! - Leave it be! – Don’t use it!”

“Careful now! Leave him be! Don’t move him! Doug!
…Doug! … Doug!”
A ring of blurred faces peered down at him.
“Kal?”
“What? …He’s coming round!”
He began to sit up trying to make out where Kal’s voice had come from.
“Just lie still.” said another voice, this time from a man kneeling at his
side. The man was feeling around Doug’s neck. Gradually his vision started to
clear. It was Dean the coach, a slim, powerful man of about thirty five with a
shaved head and Essex accent. He peered into each of Doug’s eyes then held up
three fingers. “How many fingers can you see?”
“Three!”
Dean curled the third finger and presented a “V”-sign. “Good, and now?
“Same to you, ya bastard!”
“Good! Do you know where you are?”
“Barbados?”
“Very funny. Do you know what just happened?”
“I think I scored a try didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Dean smiled. “You finally chalked one up for us, you big ape.” His face
turned serious again. “Your head hit the post though, and you blacked out for a
bit. Can you move your head?”
Doug raised his head off the mud and rolled it from side to side. “Feels okay”
There was a throbbing coming from his left temple. He touched it with his
fingers and then inspected them for traces of blood. There were none.
“You’re going to need to go down the hospital and get checked out,” said Dean,
“better safe than sorry.”
Dean held out his hand. “Come on, get up! Let’s get you off the pitch so we can
convert it and put these bastards out of their misery.”
As he got dizzily to his feet, some of the players started to clap.
Standing on the touch line, Doug could see Taff holding a wet sponge to his
nose. “How’s the hooter?” Doug asked, “Broken?”
“Not sure!” said Taff, his lyrical Welsh accent booming across the pitch. He
removed the sponge and ran his thumb and forefinger up and down the bridge.
“Think it might be all right actually.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still ugly as sin.” Dean shouted.