Simulation - Chapter Two

Chapter Two

‘We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Thomas Herrick Foster. A beloved husband, son and landlord, adored by all who knew him. He was gentle; a man who lived to magnify the example set by our lord-‘

The vicar witters on with the usual fare, stumbling across his words as he tries to decipher the writing through his spectacles. From my bench, I can see his eulogy stretches three pages, written in old Mrs Foster’s looping calligraphy. Mrs Foster herself has positioned herself in front of me, purposefully I imagine, wearing her curled hair in a frightful opal clasp.

‘When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my neither head, Nor shady cypress tree:  Be the green grass above me-’

It sickens me how they are all dressed, wearing claps and slides depicting skulls with jewels encrusted into their eye sockets, black lace in every corner of my eye. A chosen few have been bestowed with a lock of Thomas’ hair, a piece of him that remains as it was in his life. When the cuttings were made last week, I watched his mother clip the lock intended for me into tiny bristled pieces.  But it is of no matter. As the mass and offerings go forth, my mind wanders back towards the day of his passing.

***

 It was a brisk Sunday morning. Thomas had sent me away to my own bedroom for the previous week on account of my monthly unavailability and summoned Nichola, his favourite companion for these times. I had arisen at eight, feeling quite sprightly if not tired by my own loneliness and decided to simply knock on his door. If he refused me again, there would be none who could say I had not tried.

 Words were exchanged and not for the first time I felt the crushing sensation of his hunter’s grip on my wrist for having a loose tongue. But as agreed, we were to have breakfast this morn for the first time in a fortnight. I remember we sat at opposite ends of the table, him decapitating his third boiled egg whilst I spun the empty salver that had held his fried bread.

It was this fiddling motion which had began to aggravate him. His habit of throwing whatever was closest to him at any frustrating factor was his downfall. Stuffing his mouth with the fairy cakes and sweetmeats, he picked up the saucer of tea and flung it in my direction, as well as a few terms that made me flush. I, being used to this fare, did nothing more than wince and duck. I made to retort but a violent guffawing silenced me. Thomas had taken more than he could chew, he swung around wildly, cursing and spluttering through his closing throat. Despite my hatred, I reached forward and tried to perform a manoeuvre I had learnt would clear his airway but he seized my neck and motioned to throttle me. He continued to retch and choke as I stumbled backwards.  I called out, screamed until my own lungs were burning. But by the time anyone had reached the dining room, his face had paled and took on a slight blue tint. Nichola and Laura had just opened the door when Thomas stopped suddenly, his body gliding in leisurely motion. With a scream from the women behind me and a firm crack, he fell, face first and impaled himself on the unlit candlestick. It was comical, almost unreal as I stared at the candle protruding out of my husband’s scalp. I recall slumping back into my chair and taking a swig of tea just to stem the flow of bile from my mouth.

***

By the time these thoughts had left my mind, the mass was over and I dabbed my eyes again to stop the glares of his family. The organ played the last verse of a familiar hymn I had forgotten the name of as the younger mourners in their white gowns proceeded out of the church first.  The hired mourners certainly lived up to their pay; weeping and kneeling at the open casket, looking distinctly more aggrieved than any of the real family. A few of the attendants expected me to follow suit and were openly disgusted when I hitched up my crinoline black gown and held my head up high, refusing to gaze at anyone as I headed down the aisle.

‘-hair as scarlet as her conduct, I should think-’

‘-the mother’s ordered an investigation, they say she was a woman possessed when they found him the dining room, all covered in-‘

The whispers did not bother me. Not even the wail of Mrs Foster Senior could sway me to pay my respects. I pushed a coin into the driver’s hand and boarded a carriage. The journey was shorter than before as I could stare out at the countryside and fancy myself flying alongside the coach, instead of just weep

ing against the leather cushions.

Soon I was back at the manor, almost alone in the horridly enormous maze that had been my home for two years. I was not a fanciful woman. I knew my Mother was right. It would only be a matter of time before the hordes of relatives and his former lovers turned on me.  No, I was not foolish.

It took me precisely twelve minutes to gather everything I needed. The house was empty as the servants had been given an hourly leave for the funeral, which served me well. I did not need another inquisition of my behaviour.

 I had found the suitcase I had taken on a trip to the seaside, loaded it with my more practical clothing and  other essentials, my savings, the latest journals and the item that worried me the most: the pistol Thomas kept in his study drawer. I must profess, I had no intention of using such an item but there was a knot in my chest that told me I needed protection. My heart juddered as I sat on my bed, stroking the linen and silk to soothe my. Of course, I would not miss the abuse, the loneliness and the numbing routine of married life but this had been my home. I’d had far more freedom here than at my parent’s estate, Thomas did not care whether I spent my days writing or sleeping, as long as I was a gracious host when he returned from his nights spent in the arms of another beastly woman.

And that was something I could do very well.

With my suitcase packed, travelling shawl and parasol over my shoulder, I decided it was time to leave. Unfortunately, as I motioned to twist the doorknob of my bedroom door, there was a rap at the front door and the scrabbling of hoof on stone. The mourners had returned, faces damp with real or forced tears and heartily awaiting the spoils of the wake, I presumed. I could not be seen leaving the house with a suitcase, not so soon after the ceremony, so what choice did I have?

I scampered out the door, across the drawing room and into Thomas’ study. This was much closer to the front door and not an obvious place for them to look for me. I found the spare key under his collection of glass paperweights and quietly locked the door.

They could be heard marching into the grand hall. A few distant wails told me that Mrs Foster had arrived. At this moment, I felt an impulse of such despair that I had never felt before. A man had died; my husband had died and I had not shown the slightest bit of sadness. Not even a touch of the melancholia.

Looking around the heavily panelled room for some sort of relief, I spotted the desk drawer was open, and out of love of order rather than curiosity, made to tidy the papers and close it. But before I could stop myself, I had spotted a stack of envelopes held together with twine, all bearing the same vivid green writing. A closer inspection made my stomach jolt.

Mrs. Eleanor Amelia Foster

Tetherdown Manor

Finchley Gardens

London, England

I counted the envelopes. Six, seven, eight, nine ten and more! A plethora of letters, all addressed to me. My excitement was replaced with anger when I read the date printed on the top letter. The 14^th of August, why that was months away, and Thomas had hid my letters from me, my private, personal-

I gritted my teeth and opened the first letter, astounded that he had the audacity to even read them.

Miss Eleanor,

Last Wednesday you attended a lecture on the procuring of hereditary material from amoeba specimens, at Kings College. I was unable to locate you afterwards and even less able to acquire your name or place of residence. However, by a serendipitous event I came across your portraiture in a UCL publication and it was only a matter of time before I became able to contact you.

I apologise for my boldness but I was intrigued by your statements about the possibility of a chemical substance that could be responsible for the reproduction process. As a specialist in the study of germ cultures, I would like to offer you a placement at my establishment. I have enclosed my card and details. If you are unavailable for such a venture, I would greatly appreciate correspondence in any manner you find fitting.

Yours faithfully,

Doctor Rupert Dartnell

The only way to explain my emotions at this moment would be to conjure an image of a poor peasant child in your mind and then place that child in a hall of the finest food. I could not speak for several moments; it felt as if my throat was now petrified wood. I had been overjoyed to be allowed to attend lectures and tutorials by some of the more lenient Professors but this was unthinkable. As a woman with little experience or power, to be offered employment, to even be commended for my ideas... It was an immeasurably wonderful thing. I knew Mother would not approve, but what could she do? What could anyone do? I was a widow; I had no children, no responsibilities. A strange feeling came upon me. I was at leisure to do as I pleased.

I opened the next two letters. These had the same sentiments as the first letter but Doctor Dartnell seemed more desperate to meet me than before. How my anger burned for Thomas and his intruding behaviour. The third was considerably longer and dated almost two months after the last.

Dearest Eleanor,

(Please forgive my loquaciousness. But of course, even my warning of such a quality has shown to be an example of it and I am rambling from the path already. Please ignore this.)

             I am writing to you from the deepest, darkest and most impenetrable depth of all that is physical. Most likely the greatest trap of mankind. It is utterly inescapable. We are both residing in this prison, albeit separate cells. I’m sure you’ve noticed the two little holes we use to see the image of freedom lying just outside. It is quite frustrating to say the least, unable to reach the paradise so close to our fingertips. The ones that take notice are those who constantly jangle the locks of the cell door. Some however, go further than mere ‘jangling’ and launch themselves at the door. Descartes? Socrates? Have you heard of them? Perhaps, if you have been paying attention. I believe you to be among the same calibre of those willing escapees.

Have you not noticed how every human being you encounter seems to be a spectre? A dream so misty?  Have you never felt the sweet stopping of time? When all but another seems frozen in a glassy sphere?

Eleanor, you must listen to me. You are close to escape. You can free yourself and you can free me, if you listen to me. You are at a crucial time. You are so close to the end of the experiment, can’t you see? I have been observing these changes for a number of months. I have written every fact, every tiny detail that I have been able to procure. I believe I have devised a plan that will lead to our rescue. I understand that this may come at an inconvenient time but it is not my decision, you must know.

 Alas, this brings me to the flaw in my escape plan. The only way to free our minds from our bodies is to kill them. The prisoner and the prison would collapse and die together. I wish it were not so, I truly do.

            We have no chance of ever escaping ourselves. I do not pretend to have any knowledge regarding this problem. How could we?  We hardly even notice the strange rift between our minds and our environment.

            Let us return to the prison and study it further. The mind can be separated into two distinct realms: reality and delusion. Reason is truth: unaltered, unbiased logic. Delusion is an unfortunate phenomenon. Delusion is the smothering vine in the flower bed of the mind. It clouds and distorts our intellect in a haze of cathartic want. Naturally, the mind does not possess a trowel to remove it and allow the steady growth of knowledge. So regrettably, we cannot the delusion ourselves. We are the weeds, Eleanor.

( I noticed there were a number of heavily crossed out words after this paragraph.)

Forgive me, I realise how it would be apparent to you that I am weak minded or stricken by lunacy. You must ignore my stupidity, for it is only my loneliness which causes such hysteria of the language.

            After so many years of believing that humanity should strive to remove this weed, the realization struck me promptly on the head. I too am subject to the whim and impulses of my desires. I crave and I want and I need the same as every human. I am sure you would agree, Eleanor that a mechanism works more efficiently if it is in harmony with itself. If we allow the weed to grow away from reason, both can flourish. So I must bring you to the true reason of our communication. The acquiring of companionship is something of upmost importance to this sector of my mind. There is likely to be a multitude of determining factors behind this desire, but all the analysis in the world cannot vanquish the fire. I have examined all possible benefits and drawbacks to this situation and after much deliberation, I have decided to ‘take action’, as it is said. I must offer my apologies again because I am sure that I confused you with my words that seem bereft of any sensibility.  

I put it to you as this. I know you have refused to reply to my previous correspondences but my mind strives to believe that you have been away or otherwise engaged. But I beg of you to respond.

 I can offer you sanctuary from any trouble in your life. I can give you money, housing, the employment I first promised. Anything you wish.

I end this communication with an invitation. I implore you to make yourself known to me as soon as possible. Enclosed are my details: again I have provided my address, business card, place of work and frequent haunts.

Live well, Eleanor.

I became impatient and skipped to the last of the letters. This was different to the others. It was small, creased beyond compare, the writing scrawled in black rather than the usual precise green.

Dearest Eleanor,

This will be my last letter for quite some time. I have said all that is necessary and that can be said. I implore, I beg, I plead; you must find me. You will understand.

There was no name this time and the end of the paper had been ripped off. I checked both sides, squinting as I looked all over the scrawled writing for some clue to what had happened. Grabbing the envelope again, I nearly sent the paperweights clattering to the floor. The address was different this time. My fingers trembled as I read the words again to check that my mind had not unwillingly deceived me. But they had not. Doctor Dartnell seemed to be residing somewhere other than his laboratory housing facility. He was now in the care of Foggs Asylum.