Is It Safe? Ch. 03

Day 2, Wednesday

Next morning, it was of little surprise that I woke in Monté-Carlo.

I was alone. Giselle, my dream girl had left. It wasn't unforeseen, nor was it that she wanted to leave, it was the way things were. I closed my eyes as I imagined how I wished it to be. I clung to the last fleeting memory of her embrace as it slipped away, thoughts of her body resting against mine, sweet breasts teasing my side ...

The previous day, her arrival was an impromptu surprise, however her departure wasn't unexpected.

Our day was carefree. As we wandered the town, we abandoned dignity and lost ourselves in fits of giggling over childish and nonsensical stories. A typical romantic couple. At dinner we were quieter, awash with anticipation as we picked at our food. Later that evening, in virtual silence, we sat in the lounge and looked out at the lights of the town, bodies tantalisingly close as we sipped wine interspersed with kisses. Throughout the night, until I fell asleep, she was with me, vivacious, capricious and so tender.

In the morning, all that was left were brittle memories. I yearned for her, so why had I forced her to leave?

I slid out of bed as I crushed regrets in my mind. I had other, more mundane things to consider.

In the lounge, next to the landscape window, was a spiral staircase and, at its top, was the flat roof. Plants and shrubs, housed in terracotta pots, were scattered around the garden furniture. As I ate breakfast, I studied the 360 degree panorama. It was phenomenal. Below and in front, the town and harbour basked in the morning sun and behind, towered the sheer cliff sides of Mont des Mules.

After I'd eaten, I lay back on a lounger, head at rest in my hands, while I admired the blueness of the cloudless sky. My memory reached back to an unforgettable day and from then, it retraced the events which led me to Monaco.

Fate is remarkable. One seemingly insignificant event is able to change a person's life. Destiny may be reversed and sent in a different direction by an unscheduled act, such as meeting one's life partner or the start of a new career. The single twist of fate that led me there was a news item in a 19th century newspaper.

There is a branch of the British Museum in the North London suburb of Colindale. Unlike the buildings in Central London, it isn't grandiose, but a modest two storey construction, plus basement.

Colindale is a reference library which stores millions of newspapers. Its prime purpose is to file and to make available for research, every periodical published in Britain. If you wished to read, say a Daily Mirror from 1940, a man in a brown cow gown will collect the leather bound run from the basement and deposit it at your viewing desk.

In addition to the British newspapers, the underground vaults store a stockpile of leading American newspapers. It was a casual chance that changed my life when I opened one of them. It was the New York World, which under the later proprietorship of Joseph Pulitzer, was to be a pioneer of yellow journalism.

In an October 1863 edition, I read a story which, I later discovered, caused considerable investigation at the time.

By modern journalistic standards, the language was stilted and the headline was hardly an eye catcher. The banner read:

'Woman crosses sea dressed in night-gown.

'New York, Tuesday. EXCLUSIVE.

'The City of Limerick steamer set sail from Liverpool on 3rd October, bound for New York. Amongst the passengers were Mr Wilmot, a businessman, and a librarian, Mr Tait. These two gentlemen shared a state room, although they were strangers before the voyage.

'The crossing was hindered by fierce North Atlantic storms which commenced almost directly the ship put to sea. As a result of the tempest, Mr Wilmot was kept awake. Ten days after embarkation, the gale moderated slightly and finally, he was successful in his endeavour to sleep.

'During the night, he dreamt he was visited by his wife, who should have been at their home in New York. He told me she came to his state room and stood in the doorway, hesitant and concerned. "After a while," Mr Wilmot tells me, "she came to me, bent down and kissed me." Afterwards, he fell asleep.

'Next morning he was upbraided by his fellow passenger, Mr Tait, who threatened to report him for entertaining a woman in their cabin during the night.

'This remarkable story does not end here, for when Mr and Mrs Wilmot were reunited in New York, she asked him if he had received a visit from her on the night of the 13th. He was surprised, he'd thought it a mere dream. Nevertheless, he confirmed the visit and, to authenticate her statement, she described in great detail the cabin he shared with Mr Tait.

'When I interviewed her, she repeated the story. She told me she had read of another ship, The Africa, which left Liverpool earlier and had been wrecked in the storm.

'Worried for her husband's safety, she was in despair and lay awake thinking of him. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, she slept and felt herself leave her body and fly to the ship. She went straight to the cabin, where she found two berths. In the upper was an unknown man who glared at her. This startled her, but although she hesitated, she went to her husband's berth, bent down and kissed him. Immediately afterward, she returned home.

'Later, I spoke to the other gentleman in Mrs Wilmot's dream, Mr Tait, the librarian ...'

Although the reporter's narrative continued, I'd read the substance of the incident. On the Museum viewing desks, requisition forms were provided for the loan of the newspapers. On the back of one, I scrawled my initial thoughts.

I repeated those thoughts, as I relaxed on my roof top. The requisition form was elsewhere, although I didn't need it. I would always remember those scribbled words which were to alter my life.

There were four:

'Significant points of report -

1. ESP (t) between the Wilmots.

2. ESP (t) between Mrs W and Tait.

----

3. OBE - Mrs W did not physically travel.

4. All happened during respective dreams.'

When I finished reading Dad's hand written note, I replaced it, plus the photocopy of the newspaper report inside his notebook.

I slid from my bed and opened my bedroom door to check the hallway. It was empty - no Charlie. I didn't want her to pry, couldn't trust her to keep her mouth shut. I returned to my bed and re-opened the book.

The news item was fascinating, but it was the requisition slip that excited me. It was obvious what Dad had stumbled upon. I went over his observations and an idea assembled in my mind and, as it built, I was certain that he must have thought of the same concept at Colindale. For well over an hour, I scanned his notes and, by the end of that first session, I trembled with excitement.

I fumbled under the bed for the books and folders to ensure they were safe. I'd found an old school satchel into which I stuffed Dad's research material. I thought it unlikely Charlie would ever go through it. Most of the time she exhibited a severe aversion to school books, in particular during holidays.

The previous afternoon, Mum resumed our three-some around Dad's bed to 'sort out the practicalities and logistics,' although by that time, Charlie and I figured it out for ourselves.

"Your father isn't ill. Despite that, care and regular observation will be essential. During his examination this morning, Colin and I agreed he should be relocated to our home."

Charlie and I smiled. The family was reunited. Not the way we would have chosen, but better than a nursing home. Most people have a spare bedroom, perhaps two, whereas Colin's house accommodated six spares and one of them was to be home for Dad.

"I've produced a rota of observation periods. We'll employ an agency nurse who will be under my supervision and Colin will do regular health checks. You girls will be required to help from time to time.

"Any comments?"

"No," we said.

"Right girls, we must pack. Charlie you bundle your things, then start on Sam's." She handed me a list. "Sam, you'll package his essentials. I'll return here at least once a week to arrange cleaning, so I've restricted the list to the bare necessities."

I walked away, studying the inventory, as I sung Bear Necessities. I spied Mum over my shoulder and she was shaking her head in defeat. Most of the time she was concerned I didn't take life seriously. She was correct, I hadn't - not until then.

I set to work and, when I was sure it was safe, searched his study for the books and papers.

It was easy. My father is organised, everything alphabetically catalogued. Books, records, CDs, videos, even his credit cards were systematically arranged in his wallet. He really is a sad man, a complete anorak. I'm forced to admit it was his logical way of thinking, combined with a love for mathematics which made him successful in both writing computer programs and in managing a business. Can you believe anyone would love maths?

I found a line of books stacked in sequence, starting at Blackmore, Sue and ending with Wambach, Helen. By the time Mum entered his study, the majority of them - and the folders - were packed.

She was wary. "What are you doing, Sam?"

"Sorting out books to read to Dad." While I held her eyes, I added Catch 22 and Catcher in the Rye to the top of the pile to hide the titles of the books underneath.

"That's a first-rate idea, Sam. You assume he will be able to hear us whilst he's asleep?"

"Sure he will."

"I hope you're right. Don't be too long though; it's not a high priority."

"OK," I said, "Five minutes, maximum."

She left. It was fortunate I was able to finish bundling the complete package into two holdalls, after which I piled further innocent titles on top to act as camouflage.

At 5.00 sharp, two of Colin's juniors arrived at Dad's house with suitable transport and a stretcher. By dinner time, we were relocated in Colin's home. In less than a day my world had grown dark and unfriendly. The tight grasp with which I held onto my youth was loosened over subsequent days. Innocence was replaced by an enforced maturity and new obligations.

----

London / Monaco

I finished the New York World narrative, left Colindale and, within minutes was on the M1, heading back to the Midlands. Normally, I used the M40, but that time I wasn't going home. I had things to do. Once the traffic thinned, I was on my mobile. As an avid book reader, I already had 'Waterstones, Birmingham,' in the phone's memory. I buttoned the key.

"Good afternoon," said a polite voice, "Waterstones."

"Hello. I'm looking for books on dreams and ESP."

"Thank you. I'll put you through."

Saturday afternoon is probably the worst time to ring a busy shop in central Birmingham. The extension rang out without a reply and my mind wandered.

Somewhere, years earlier, I'd read we used a little over ten percent of our brain and, as a business man, I held a mild fixation with productivity. A mere tenth resembled inefficiency and that bugged me; there must be a purpose for the remaining ninety percent. Over time, I developed a simple, probably naive, belief that there was a latent use for the surplus grey matter and, what better, than ESP to occupy this portion? Once I convinced myself the extra sensory perception existed in my brain, the next step was to use it. Had I found the way?

A young woman answered. "Sorry to keep you waiting." This was my introduction to Nina, although at the time, she was only a voice. "Hello," she said, "may I help you?"

"Hope so. I need to source a book on dreams."

"Interpretations?"

"No. Er, I don't know how to describe what I want."

She chuckled. "That may be a problem then. We have a wide range. It's a popular subject."

I struggled for the words. "No doubt, you're busy, but would you mind if I explain in detail?"

"No, please do."

"Years ago, Freud I think, wrote that a dream was the ideal occasion for telepathy. If I use that basic idea, it suggests a normal dream wouldn't work, after all, the last thing ..."

"Lucidity!"

"Sorry?" I said, confused.

"Lucid dreams. With a lucid dream, you have control."

I didn't know what she was talking of, but she knew and that was good enough for me.

"Great. Do you have any books on ... on ..."

"Lucid dreams? Yes, Sir."

"Fine. I'll call in. What time do you close?"

"Six."

I checked the dashboard clock and estimated I would have little time to find the books. I was like a child anticipating a new toy; I demanded it then, that moment.

"I hope you can help," I said, "I'm in urgent need of these books, and others, but I'm on the motorway. I'm pushed for time. Would you source them for me?"

She hesitated. "What are the other books?"

"Telepathy and OBE. Do you know what an OBE is?"

"Yes, Sir. I don't suppose we have separate titles on those subjects. You may be obliged to purchase a book dealing with all aspects of ESP."

"That's alright. No problem. Would you do that for me ... please?"

She laughed. "It is Saturday, you know." She laughed again. "But I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks. My name's Burbank, Adam Burbank."

"I'm Nina. The department is on the second floor."

"Thanks Nina. See you later."

"Bye."

When I arrived at the city outskirts, incoming traffic was fast moving since the shoppers were driving home in the opposite direction. There was plenty of space in the multi-storey car park at New Street Station, and I reached the rear entrance of Waterstones ahead of time.

A minute later, I exited the lift on the second floor. On the counter were stacked two piles of books.

I approached the sales assistant. She appeared to be in her mid twenties, dressed in the standard attire, straight skirt, pin striped and functional blouse.

"Hi, I rang you earlier. Burbank."

"Hello," the girl said. It was obvious she was tired. She pointed toward the books. "This is everything we were able to find. There's a table if you want to peruse them." She directed me to a spot by the window.

I scanned the spines and most of the titles were promising. "No, that's alright, I'll take them all."

She was surprised and pleased, presumably as she didn't have to re-shelve them. Nevertheless, she gestured towards the wall clock. "You're earlier than expected. If you wish, you have time to look."

"No, it's fine. I'm happy."

"Thank you," she said.

Nina flashed the bar codes to enter the prices and grimaced at the total. "£545.57, Sir."

I handed over my credit card and, while an older woman authorised the payment, I helped Nina to bundle the books into black trade marked bags.

I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go. "Do you still sell stationary in the basement. I need a notepad, one with hard covers that will last."

"We did sell a small range, but not nowadays."

She saw my disappointment and smirked. "However." She crouched behind the counter and reappeared with an A5 pad with dark blue covers. "Will this do?"

"Perfect. Thanks." I went for my wallet. "How much?"

She waved away the request with the back of her hand. "We have plenty." She slipped it into the top of the nearest bag as her colleague returned with my card and receipt.

"Thanks for your help," I said. "I appreciate it."

Nina gave a broad smile and a dimple appeared in her left cheek. "Goodbye Sir."

The weight of books is deceptive, they were heavier than expected. I lifted the first two bags from the counter and knew I wouldn't be capable of carrying four in one journey. With my hapless face, I implored both in turn, as I attempted to guess who was in authority. "May I leave them here while I bring my car around to the door? It's in the car park at the back of the shop. I won't be long."

The older woman inspected her watch and frowned. "I'm sorry, we must close in five minutes."

Nina spoke. "I could lend him a hand, Joan."

Joan considered the proposal for a moment. "Very well," she agreed.

My new friend winked at me and imparted another dimpled grin. "Give me a minute. I'll get my jacket from the back."

And so it was, loaded with a mini library, we made our way to my car. She was slim, not quite bony with apparently, no more than the rudiments in muscle, thus our progress was irregular. We were on the second landing in the stairwell when she stopped for another breather. She checked her watch and her face dropped.

"Problem?" I asked.

"It's my train. It's leaving in five minutes. I'll never catch it."

"Where do you live?"

"Solihull."

"Good, so do I. I'll give you a lift."

She appeared uneasy.

I put the bags down, pulled out my wallet and handed her my driving license, plus my mobile. "Here, you'll need these."

Nina held a blank expression.

"Check the license for my identity and when we reach my car, phone the registration number to Joan. Tell her I'm giving you a lift home. If you were in danger, I wouldn't be stupid enough to make a move after identifying myself."

"No, it's OK, I'll catch the later train." She half-heartedly offered to hand my things back.

I smiled. "I insist."

"Alright, but I don't need to check you out."

"Nina, I have a daughter who is nearing your age. I would hope in similar circumstances, she would take precautions."

With a pinch of persuasion, she agreed and, when we reached my car, made a whispered call, while I loaded the bags into the boot. I slammed the lid and rested against the car.

She was a short distance away, talking into the phone. She removed her glasses and one-handed, smoothed through the waves of her mahogany brown hair. Under her dark brown eyes and across her peewee nose was a sprinkling of freckles. She was the ideal girl-next-door and pretty, although not my type. If she was my type, I wouldn't have dared to offer her a lift.

A short while later, we approached the M6 junction.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Woodville Way."

"I know it. Handy for the station."

"That's right," she agreed, "a ten minute walk and I'm home."

We chit-chatted of places we both knew, in and around Solihull before she queried my purchase.

"Tell me if I'm being nosy, but why do you need so many books?"

"Mainly because I don't know what I'm searching for. One of them must have the answers."

She chuckled. "Perhaps I may help."

"In what way?"

"I have a BA in experimental psychology and, in my final year, I worked on an advanced option course on ESP. That's why I chose that particular department at Waterstones."

Promising, I thought. "Do you accept the existence of telepathy?"

"Oh, yes, for definite," she said in an animated voice, "it will be a natural evolution in the way we communicate with one another. One day, it may bridge the gap between the species."

"If we could talk to the animals?"

"That's right," she agreed, "but so much more. Mostly I consider the benefits to mankind. Telepathy is the most efficient means of communication and would make other methods virtually redundant. Just think, we wouldn't merely deliver words, as in speech, but a mental picture with intricate detail and colour." She was warming to the idea and her voice became excited. "We wouldn't require faxes and e-mails. Scrutinise a whole gallery of pictures, item by item and, click! the recipient's mind has the images in memory storage."

"Sounds great. The major question is how we do it."

I glanced around to see her nod her agreement.

"Adam, have you thought of the benefits of an out of body experience?"

"Yes. I scuba dive in France each summer. With OBE I would stay at home and let my mind travel to Australia, where for years I've wanted to explore the coral of the Great Barrier Reef. To remain submerged underwater without air tanks for days on end would be incredible."