Transmigration (17 page)

 

 

--We must?

 

 

--There is a purpose. There is an aim, an end. It wasn't just an accident
that you became Judy, then Ross, then me.

 

 

--It wasn't even an accident that I died.

 

 

--Then you agree?

 

 

--I flatly refuse to let you try to test what's left of me.

 

 

--That's not what I want to do.

 

 

--What do you want to do, then?

 

 

--Go to Edinburgh.

 

 

The suggestion came as a complete surprise to Fletcher.
--What on earth for?

 

 

--To trace your background. You know virtually nothing about it.

 

 

--I remember nearly everything about it. The university, before that
the schools, before that the Homes . . .

 

 

--And then nothing. You know nothing of your parents. Nothing before
you were about four years old. That's strange. I'm older than you,
and I remember quite a lot that happened before I was four.

 

 

--I've told you about that. However this thing works, I'm not allowed
to take all the memories of John Fletcher with me. What I remember is
like a photograph of a photograph of a photograph.

 

 

Baudaker said firmly
--I believe that even as John Fletcher you knew little or nothing of
your very early life. So now we're going to find out about it.

 

 

--You make the decisions for us both now? asked Fletcher drily.

 

 

--You'll do this. You don't want to be probed. You don't want tests.
But you'll do this.

 

 

He was right, Fletcher realized, amazed at Baudaker's new perspicacity.
Rather than be examined, tested, weighed in the balance and found wanting,
he found himself quite prepared to make an ordinary inquiry into the
origins of John Fletcher, who scarcely existed yet could not die.

 

 

 

 

Baudaker arranged to take a week off with no difficulty whatever. Indeed,
it was practically arranged for him. Rather crossly Sam Connor said if
Baudaker didn't hurry up and take his spring week soon, it would interfere
with the summer holiday arrangements, and Baudaker said at once: "All right,
I'll take next week."

 

 

For a moment Connor, who was never friendly toward Baudaker these days,
was on the point of protesting that this wouldn't be convenient, but
realized in time he would make himself look ridiculous.

 

 

--That's a remarkable coincidence, said Baudaker later.

 

 

--You think so? Don't you know coincidences buzz round me like flies?

 

 

--No, you've never told me about that.

 

 

--The day before I died I just happened to run into Gerry and Sheila. That
was no coincidence at all, because I didn't know them. But I'd just
phoned you, and that night I saw Gerry leaving the department as I
arrived. Coincidence? It's nothing. The next day I tried to put myself
in the exact spot where a piece of masonry was going to fall. And a
little later I happened to lean on a gate which was unfastened for
the first time ever. Coincidence? When Judy and I chose to walk along
a balcony at night, the particular place we happened to choose was
where about twelve adjoining tenants all happened to be out for the
evening. Coincidence? When Ross wanted to speak to Anita privately, he
took her to a tennis locker room, and in a building crammed with students
of both sexes he found a completely private place. Coincidence? Well,
only a small one.

 

 

--What you're saying is you can control your environment.

 

 

--Oh, no. Don't start thinking again I'm a superman. No, I simply sense
things, I suppose. I was going to be involved with you again: I went where
your son was. I half wanted to kill myself: I tried to put myself where
I should be killed instantly, and at the third try, succeeded. A quiet
piece of balcony was necessary: I went to where the conditions I wanted
existed. I wanted to speak to Anita: I took her where I knew nobody else
would be. Quite small miracles really, hardly worth mentioning.

 

 

--But still miracles. Like Connor inviting me to take my spring week
exactly when I wanted it. If it had happened in the normal way, if I'd
gone to him and asked for it, he'd have made it as awkward as he could. So
you still have your special talents, even in someone else's mind?

 

 

---Obviously, or there would have been no repeat performance. If all
this came about because there was something special in Fletcher's brain
and nothing more than that, I might have made the jump into Judy's mind,
but never into Ross's.

 

 

--That's so. I never thought of that.

 

 

Unexpectedly, Baudaker was less concerned about leaving Gerry alone
in the house than Fletcher was. Perhaps it was because Baudaker was
more optimistic about his son. Given the slightest cause for hope, he
immediately believed, because he wanted to believe, that Gerry was once
more the lovable kid he had been.

 

 

--If it were up to me, I wouldn't leave him just now, said Fletcher.

 

 

--What can he do, anyway? He's still seeing Sheila. Perhaps he'll have
her here every night, but he sees her nearly every night anyway.

 

 

--There's some sort of crisis coming up in Gerry. At the moment he's
sullenly passive. But something's going to happen soon.

 

 

--You sense it?

 

 

--I know it.

 

 

--Do you know it will happen next week?

 

 

--No, it doesn't seem as close as that. But I'm not a fortune-teller.
Sometimes I know what is now, but I never seem to know what will be.

 

 

--All right, we needn't worry about it yet.

 

 

Baudaker had to work on Saturday morning. Anyone else would have finished
on Friday afternoon or even on Friday at lunch time, but Connor elected
to take Saturday morning off so that Baudaker wouldn't get away. Baudaker
didn't particularly mind; it would be Monday before a proper investigation
could begin in Edinburgh.

 

 

However, Doris Barry from the office called at the department to see
Connor and was surprised to see Baudaker there.

 

 

Doris was near retiring age and was one of those women who quietly
and efficiently take over and run a firm or a depot or a library
or a university, in an entirely unofficial way and with no official
recognition. Those who thought they administered the university, with
the possible exception of the Principal, would have been astonished to
learn how many important decisions which they thought they had made had
actually been made by Doris Barry.

 

 

"I thought you were going on holiday next week, Mr. Baudaker?" she said.

 

 

"That's right, Miss Barrye"

 

 

"Didn't you ask for this morning off?"

 

 

"I couldn't. Mr. Connor isn't here, and since the recent reshuffle one
of us has to be."

 

 

"Mr. Connor hadn't decided not to be here two days ago. He told me he'd
definitely be here."

 

 

Baudaker said nothing. The arrival of Fletcher had stiffened him, but had
not made him touchy or vindictive. Although Baudaker was aware that Connor
was being deliberately awkward about this particular Saturday morning,
he was also aware that no one going on holiday had any right whatever
to a free Saturday as well; it was merely a convention that he got it.

 

 

 

 

Catching an early-afternoon train, Baudaker reached Edinburgh that
evening. He had not smoked again and Fletcher had slowly accustomed him
to taking long walks. He was eating like a horse and enjoying his food,
but was actually losing weight because of the exercise he was taking
for the first time in many years.

 

 

After an excellent dinner at a modest hotel, Baudaker went out without
even consulting Fletcher, taking it for granted that Fletcher would want
to walk round old haunts.

 

 

--I'm not insisting on going for a walk tonight, said Fletcher.
--Stay in if you like and watch television.

 

 

--You were a student here. Don't you want to look around?

 

 

--Not particularly.

 

 

--Then let's start right away by going to the police.

 

 

The duty sergeant, as it happened, knew the name John Fletcher at once,
having been involved in a recent inquiry (another small coincidence). But
instead of becoming more cooperative, he went quite dry and reticent.

 

 

"A report has gone to your local police," he said. "You might have tried
inquiring there."

 

 

"To get more detailed information, I'd have had to come here anyway,"
said Baudaker.

 

 

"Maybe so. Maybe so. You say you're not a relative?"

 

 

"No, just a friend. But I could say a very close friend."

 

 

"I see. I'm afraid, Mr. Baudaker, I can't help you. Of course, there's
nothing to stop you making your own inquiries. If you knew Fletcher well,
you'll know where to start."

 

 

It was clear he knew something that he wasn't going to tell. His manner
made it obvious that he was not merely being negatively obstructive,
but that there was something quite significant which he was not going
to reveal to Baudaker.

 

 

However, he unbent enough to say: "It isn't difficult to find the facts,
Mr. Baudaker, and I believe you fully intend to try. I can save you some
trouble. Don't bother with the university or Fletcher's lodgings, or any
of the schools he attended. Try the Homes where he spent his early life."

 

 

"Thank you," said Baudaker.

 

 

As Baudaker emerged into the street, Fletcher said
--Midlothian Home for Boys. That's the one.

 

 

--You don't mind my going there?

 

 

--We either do this thing or we don't, I suppose, and we've decided to
do it.

 

 

--But you're not very interested?

 

 

--I'd like to know what that sergeant wouldn't tell you, Fletcher
admitted.

 

 

--Shall I go now?

 

 

--No, tomorrow is visiting day and the superintendent sees anyone who
calls on him. Go about three o'clock.

 

 

So the following afternoon Baudaker was shown into the presence of the
superintendent of the Midlothian Home for Boys. A glance showed that he
could not have known Fletcher personally. He was a young man, not more
than thirty.

 

 

The moment Fletcher's name was mentioned, the same wary look that they
had seen in the police sergeant's face showed in Mr. Curran's, and he
asked questions which showed he was not keen to divulge anything.

 

 

Baudaker therefore put some of his cards on the table. "This isn't an
idle inquiry, Mr. Curran. At the university I'm on the psychology staff,
and in the course of certain tests I discovered John Fletcher possessed
unusual talents."

 

 

"What kind of talents?"

 

 

Baudaker told him -- omitting any mention of the most remarkable talent
Fletcher had shown he possessed.

 

 

Curran was interested. "The police were here," he said.

 

 

"I know. They directed me to you." This was true, though deliberately
misleading.

 

 

Curran became more cordial. "But they didn't say anything about this."

 

 

"They didn't know. They were only making routine inquiries following a
fatal accident."

 

 

"Since Fletcher is dead, Mr. Baudaker, what can you gain from knowledge
of his background?"

 

 

"I'm an experimenter. Fletcher was a remarkable man. I want to find if
there is any clue in his history to his strange ability, his extraordinary
ability, I might say."

 

 

"There might be," said Curran quietly. "There very well might be."

 

 

Baudaker remained silent, his silence a whole dossier of questions.

 

 

"Very well," said Curran. "I never saw Fletcher, of course. He left this
particular Home before I was born. But I knew the old superintendent,
Mr. Compton. He gave John Fletcher his name. Fletcher had no name until
he was about four. He couldn't speak properly either."

 

 

Fletcher had known that: he could remember being taught to speak, a
thing few people remembered. But he was not very interested in this. As
Baudaker leaned forward eagerly, Fletcher mentally sat back. They seemed
to be talking of someone other than himself, someone he knew of but did
not personally know.

 

 

"What do you mean by saying he couldn't speak properly?" Baudaker
asked. "Was there some physical or mental disability?"

 

 

"None," said Curran positively. "He knew certain words, all highly
charged."

 

 

"What sort of words?"

 

 

"Really, Mr. Baudaker, you must remember this is all third or fourth hand,
and it was a very long time go."

 

 

"Nevertheless, I should be most grateful for anything you can tell me.
And it may be very important."

 

 

"It's difficult to see how it can be important now. Oh, very well
. . . The boy had strong emotional reactions to words like woman,
girl, sex, lust -- reactions of unrest, fear, and shock. He had strong
positive reactions to words like church, rightness, justice, goodness and
so on. When he came here, his early history was deliberately concealed
from him, which was not difficult, in the absence of language, and by the
time the boy could speak be was quite accustomed to his new circumstances
and incurious about the past."