wytchcroft

phial 4

It is the pressure of a diving bell, the tension an adult feels watching a child make fists from adamant fingers and press them to its ears, the claustrophobia of a railway waiting-room on a rain-lashed warm spring day. It is the desire for air, for life, that grips the drowning man out at sea – or lost in the thick of a nightmare desperately clawing for wakefulness.

And in the grip of this invisible vice, we are of course, quiet, restrained, civilised beyond reason.

My name is Howard Grayling-Thomas and I have something of a reputation for philanthropy. It is important that you know this.

I tell you not out of pride, I seek no vain self-aggrandisement, nor do I present my charitable work as justification for my current situation or excuse for the events that may follow. I am old enough and experienced enough to be only too aware of my responsibilities.

I tell you this in fact so that when my tale is finished you will see me for what I am, in some sense as I view myself – hollow, a sham.

Harsh? Am I? We shall see… already I know at least one person who would hear these words and cry, “Self pitying maudlin rubbish!” Maudlin… ha – how apt. It is indeed she, Maud McKinney who would have no time for such things, such… weakness, more - she would view this as my attempt to deny her individuality. She would cry foul.
“I knew full well what I was doing when I decided to go along with this enterprise,” she would say – indeed she may have actually done so already.
“You are not in charge of me Mr Grayling-Thomas and my decisions – my interests – my reasons for action are, in all cases, mine alone.”

She has her pride… but she would not be wrong.

And yet, and yet… the thought torments me – what if it were my fault, what if she were as weak as I and come for – for companionship as much as…

“It may surprise you to learn, Mr Grayling-Thomas that you are not the centre of the universe, neither sun nor stars, nor planets orbit around you – and I am most certainly not your satellite. The world does well enough at turning on its own, it needs no behest from you – no order to revolve, no command to voyage the heavens. And I am of the world Mr Grayling-Thomas, as are you.”

Yes, those would be her words.

Look at her now, for she will not notice, will not turn her head, not gaze this way – she is measuring time, to the exclusion of all else, her eyes are entirely upon the clock. I wish I had her discipline.

My name is Howard Grayling-Thomas, Mr Grayling-Thomas, resident of 53 Chapel Terrace, father of Christopher and Geraldine Grayling-Thomas – and husband of Ursula Grayling-Thomas nee Mansfield. I have been married for eight years now.

I could count those years, the months, weeks, days, easily – as easily as counting the fine auburn hairs that have escaped their bondage and float upon the neck of Maud McKinney, I could…
But enough of that, it is the story after all that you will wish to hear.

Very well, a story you shall have.

Some years ago there was a man, of good breeding and background, whose career seemed certain after the release of a much lauded work upon the notion of organic material and its composition, showing the idea that cellular reconstruction, regeneration, was no mere idler’s fancy but rather a theoretical possibility – the reality of which may not be far off in our future.

There was much hype from the press and a successful lecture tour. There was demand for a follow-up and this was readily supplied in the form of a long monograph about the electrical systems of the brain and how they may be manipulated to advantage to enhance memory capacity and intellectual capability.

This too was greeted with respectful attention and somewhat lavish articles in the papers many of whom seemed fixated on a somewhat throwaway remark in one of the appendices stating that a portable device such as a helmet might be the way forward. Such a device was all too quickly dubbed ‘The Thinking Cap’ and featured in many speculative diagrams and illustrations not to mention satirical and pointed cartoons.

If not a backlash then certainly there were the first rumblings of discontent, murmured disapproval from the Church and from peers and letters or editorials taken to noting the fellow’s ‘pride’ and/or ‘pretension’.

Having succeeded in producing a sequel to the initial publication the pressure was off - but expectations high that a third work would serve to complete a trilogy of investigations and the hat-trick of popular success. Some few knives were sharpened.
And then – nothing.

Nothing? Nothing shall come of nothing.

Quite so.

The man toured abroad, was lost from public sight, reappeared as a Gentleman of noticeable charitable instinct who, in tandem with his handsome bride, took part in the many projects to advance, educate and improve the lot of the poor. “There being such a lot of them after all,” he was heard to quip at various dinner engagements. Thus he sank from journalistic interest and was forgotten save for the odd mention in parish magazines and the occasional scientific journal – filed under ‘Promise Unfulfilled’.

There were rare occasions when a few, a remarkable few, looked at him with narrowed yes – or accosted him under the guise of jocularity to ask; “And what of the great Work? We know you’re up to something!”

The great work indeed. The years of nights spent staring through a candles glow at fragmentary papers, the years we - those of us here - spent covering each others footsteps, chasing each others tails as we tried to track the path of Poliakov. The brooding seasons as we dreamt of what secrets such a man as he might once have possessed... and nurturing the strange hysterical joy that came from discovering that we, each of us, were no longer alone – that there enough of us to be considered a group.
We enjoyed the smug feeling that comes from elementary deception as we agreed to keep our little fellowship a secret for the while… and the realisation that there was more to it – for oh it was such an easy adoption of clandestine ways.
We could tell ourselves the research was unfinished, presenting any findings would be premature – and surely, our little group and being engaged in such a scheme… we would face accusations of occultism and worse. Charges not so easily dismissed given the nature of Poliakov and the damnable infancy of our science – of our understanding.

Yes, we could tell ourselves all of these things and meet like spies - I could tell myself all of these things and feel like…

Dear God, Maud! For if you too HAVE been weak – you whose strength I take for granted you who – and if after all you are like me then – could it, could it be so? I stare into the empty phial and taste the bitter acid on my tongue.

No.
I have been guilty of a grave injustice.

I did not come here just for her companionship – to say so is to blame her covertly for these unfolding events. I came to prove something – not to the world, not science – or at least, not first. But to her – to prove to her first and foremost that I was – that I am.... more. I have risked even the one I love best for the sake of – ego. I have placed in jeopardy all that is truly of worth in my world on the chance of some…

Well now I see myself clearly. This must be the moment, the dark mirror of which the Bible speaks.
This must be the secret of Poliakov’s phial – it reveals what is hidden, inert, disguised – the essence of a thing.

And now it is too late. Now the shadows cluster across my eyes and my throat tightens – the gleaming surfaces of the laboratory reflect a sickly light and I feel as I imagine a man like Houdini must have felt when he submerged himself one final fatal time in a tank, when the pressure increased, when the air went bad. When there was no hope. The roaring in my ears may be blood, but it might as well be the ocean. I am almost sure it is the grinding of gears and the shuddering that accompanies a descent by all of us and in this very room – down, down into the earth, down into the dark and the very bottom, into the kingdom of Nicodemus, into Hades, into Hell.