Seven Point Eight The First Chronicle - By Marie A. Harbon
Prelude to Odyssey
Room 104
October 1988
The London underground was a sinister place to be when being followed, especially for a woman travelling alone. Whoever stalked her always seemed ambiguous, amorphous, and at times almost inhuman, often fading into shadow.
Ava caught a train on the Victoria Line and instantly felt safer in a crowd, being surrounded by a heady concoction of commuters, tourists, and Londoners going about their daily business. The smell of sweat and perfume accompanied them, and their ignorance allowed her to feel anonymous. Trying not to appear shifty, she hid among them, focusing her eyes dead ahead.
Everything’s fine, no one can jump me here.
The busy hour meant a full train though, and she felt the bodies of the commuters press against her, some radiating formidable body odour. As the train rapidly accelerated and decelerated, Ava tried to maintain her balance. She distracted her worried mind by glancing over at someone’s book, attempting to ascertain what they were reading.
After the carriage rocked and screeched in the dark tunnels, making five stops along the way, she finally reached her destination. Pushing through the crowded station, she slid her ticket through the slot at the barriers and exited, wondering if her stalker had followed her.
I’m in a public place, so no one can kidnap me here.
The Tube station opened onto a main road, and she felt more exposed and vulnerable here. Glancing around, she crossed a street full of terraces, following her usual route. Often, she caught the scent of flowers at this point in the journey. A classical-looking matriarch with long, dark hair watered hanging baskets at the front of her house. She always smiled, giving Ava a pleasant reassurance, even though they didn’t know each other. Once or twice, there’d been children at the door too: a few in their teens and a younger boy who hid behind the mother, unsure what to think.
As Ava walked through a park, she encountered the same Afro-Caribbean man playing football with his two teenage boys. They were involved in a vociferous tackle, although generally they just dribbled the ball towards two trees, which were the goal posts. In the same park, an elderly gentleman walked a multitude of dogs. He normally tipped his hat to her. Finally, the same forty-something man sat on a bench, watching her intently, contemplating whether or not to approach, and perhaps afraid to initiate conversation. Always curious, he either partially hid behind a book or sipped tea from a polystyrene cup. Vague memories plagued her, suggesting she’d encountered this man before, but she couldn’t recollect where, when, or why.
He appraised Ava, this lithe young woman who often looked troubled, yet projected a quiet dignity with an introspective demeanour, as if internally preoccupied with some grand secret or purpose. She possessed an inviting sensuality, coupled with a compassionate aura. Untamed, golden hair shone in the autumn sun and cascaded down past her shoulders. With an olive tint to her skin, she looked a little Mediterranean, and her face had a soft, oval shape. A young student with spiked hair gave her a second glance as she walked past, but she paid no attention to him, being too consumed with the purpose of her journey. For a moment, she locked eyes with the man on the park bench, and noted the hint of affection in his eyes.
He’s too old for me, she thought, relieved he wasn’t too creepy though.
Did it comfort her, or was it just downright spooky that she encountered the same people on each journey? Were all these people actually acknowledging her, or was it just her imagination? She didn’t want to be extraordinary or to stand out; she merely wanted to contribute something extraordinary, something that stood out. In the near future, Ava would become involved in a critical project unprecedented in contemporary science, but how would these people know that? They wouldn’t. It had to be her imagination, surely?
As she drew closer to her destination, a disheartened emotion took over. She arrived at an austere building, which loomed over her like an architectural vampire, bleeding the positive energy from her soul. Even the design resembled fangs and it exemplified sobriety, bearing down upon the miniscule human ants that swarmed around its base.
This institution catered specifically for people with severe psychological problems, who’d been sectioned because they were a danger to themselves and to others. Furthermore, it housed a number of inmates who were certified as criminally insane. The fact that one of Ava’s relatives was a permanent resident here seriously unhinged her.
The place amplified her feelings of being watched and every fissure, every crack in its stone structure seemed to haunt her, harbouring some presence or aftershock of a catastrophe. Walls appeared to have faces, which were stark and non-human. Corridors felt active with amorphous people passing through as if it were a busy high street, even though the corridors were, in fact, empty. Light seemed to have a life of its own, dancing a cosmic waltz in a sinuous fashion, entwining with the dark shadows. Was it the people here or the place itself that was insane? Did its aura drive sane people crazy in insane places?
She reached the reception, where a matronly woman recognised her.
“Hi, I’m Ava Kavanagh, and I’ve come to see Maria Martinez.”
She signed into the visitors’ book, and the matronly woman escorted her to the low security wing. It sat at the end of a long corridor, illuminated by garish fluorescent lighting. Errant luminosity twisted acrobatically across the walls, as if projected by car headlights, and Ava focused ahead, ignoring the strange activity in her peripheral vision. She didn’t want to attract undue attention to her erstwhile grasp of reality.
The route to Maria’s room passed some rather unusual residents and each visit, Ava glanced through the windows in their doors. She noticed a dark haired man, who always surrounded himself with reams of paper and this time, Ava felt a strong desire to enquire about him.
“Is he a writer or something?”
Her escort reacted with surprise at her interest, and replied curtly.
“We call him The Scribbler, as the only way we can manage his behaviour is to give him access to paper and a pen. He writes constantly but it’s all gibberish, rows and rows of symbols.”
Ava gave him a lingering look, feeling a sense of sadness regarding his predicament. What a waste of human life.
They passed another character, a blonde haired woman with an intense and seething stare. This time, she wasn’t restrained although she crouched on the bed, bearing a menacing expression on her face. When she saw Ava, she snarled.
“What’s wrong with her, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Her escort acquiesced to her questioning again.
“Schizophrenia… she hears voices, which she claims instruct her to do evil. Because she enjoys inflicting pain on others, we have to isolate her.”
The woman’s predicament touched Ava more deeply.
“Like Maria’s original diagnosis?”
Her escort tried to smile sympathetically, although she said nothing. Ava made eye contact with the intense character behind the door, which sent a chill down her spine.
“She reminds me of the girl from The Exorcist,” she commented.
They turned the corridor, where Ava observed two more enigmatic characters. An Afro-Caribbean couple resided in the same room, and appeared to be actors in a play of their own making.
“Lost in their own little world, aren’t they?” Ava said.
“We call them The Time Travellers, as they always insist they’ve visited the past and future. Most of the time they’re locked in an imagery scenario, living some other reality.”
Further down the corridor, where a broken fluorescent light flickered, Ava peered through the window to see a man with fair hair, who had a tendency to punch walls or shout for books. He remained oblivious to their presence and Ava’s gaze. On this day, he stood in front of a wall, reaching out to touch it with his fingers.
“What is he doing?” Ava asked.
“He believes he can walk through walls,” her escort explained. “My, we’ve had some bruises over the years. I don’t know what’s worse, his wall or book obsession.”
All these residents seemed to have some strange back story, and Ava felt intrigued by what tale lay behind their predicament. How did they end up so crazy and sick? Were they doomed to spend the rest of their lives scribbling, snarling, punching walls, or acting out another reality?
She followed her escort through some double doors, which required a security code to gain entry into the next corridor. There, they soon found Room 104 and Ava paused outside.
“Has there been any change in her condition since I last visited?”
Her escort shook her head with regret.
“She’s still in a persistent vegetative state, exactly the same as the day she arrived.”
Ava accepted the situation with reluctance.
“She’s the only living relative I have. I hope one day I’d discover where we came from, who our parents are, and if our father is still alive. Did you recover the file from the facility she transferred from?”
“I’m sorry, it’s still missing.”
Undeterred, Ava pressed further.
“Does anybody else visit her? They may be able to offer some clues to her history…why she ended up in this condition, when and why she cut her wrists...”
“I can’t disclose that information, it’s confidential I’m afraid.”
Her escort opened the door and Ava entered, determined to present a face of hope to Maria, her sister.
***
She felt a sense of relief to turn the key in her front door, and collapse on the sofa in her flat. Ava closed her eyes, trying to dissolve the day’s frustration through positive thinking, but didn’t totally succeed. There were too many questions and nothing made sense. Her life was becoming chaotic, not that it had ever actually been fathomable.
Rather than cook a meal, she decided to grab a takeaway. Only when she opened her handbag did she notice something that certainly didn’t belong to her, or any of her flatmates. In fact, she felt sure it hadn’t been in her bag before she left the flat. Ava stared at a red, silk scarf. How had it found its way into her bag, and why did she feel it held some personal meaning for her? This innocent little object disturbed her immensely.
With the red, silky fabric entwined around her fingers, she wandered over to the bay window and looked out at the twilight sky. The stars were obliterated due to light pollution, but for that moment, she felt a fleeting sense of connection to the cosmos. As if projecting her concerns to the universe, she communicated her anxiety.
“Nothing is real anymore,” she said. “What’s happening to me?”