A Montage of a Mauve Reality

By Thomas James Taylor

Montage of a Mauve Reality is a collection of 19 short stories I wrote in as many weeks. They were written as much to be therapy, when I turned my back on a dangerous lifestyle, as a serious attempt at trying my hand at story writing.

Some are pulled out of nightmares and recurring dreams, some waking life, from early childhood to middle a

• Language: English
• Publisher: CMD
• Release date: Feb 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952046193

Thomas James Taylor

Tom Taylor was born near Morphett Vale, South Australia, on Dec, 1st, 1954, and was raised on the family farm, Thrush Grove, which was established during early colonization of the state, and lived there with his family until 1977. Possessing a penchant for adventure, he has embarked on several working tours of Australia, which, together with his rather wide-ranging and sometimes harrowing experiences, has provided him with a rich source of material from which to draw inspiration. In 1983, he retired from work-a-day life and began writing, as much to satisfy his creative bent as to delve a few of the many subjects which had always interested him. "The whole question of existence, being human and living in a world of seemingly limitless possibility is far more food for thought than I could digest in several lifetimes," he says. Tom presently resides near the coast, south of Adelaide, sharing life with his partner, Janet, and is currently busy as a musician while preparing his next three paperbacks for publication. His agile mind and quirky sense of humour are capable of imbuing new interest into almost any subject, and his irresistible curiosity and fascination with life translates into compelling story-telling. Let those who have become disenchanted, cynical and jaded by every-day existence be heartened. Here are a new set of glasses through which to view your universe.Mauve-coloured glasses!

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Copyright ©2020 Thomas Taylor

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Contents

6:30 A.M.

Rust

Claus And Co.

Locomotive Breath

Petey Was Here

Dark Gallery

Aphids

Time Enough In Hell0

Mauve

Hypnagogic

A Fugue For A Friend

Common Ground

What Wages The Samaritan Business?

Parasite

Seeds Of Dissent

The Gravity Of Elm’s Situation

Bastards

Somewhere To Call Home

6:30 A.M.

A low frequency droning sound bored like a probing auger through the somnolent layers; stark intrusion into the drowsy depths where John Cassidy tried tenaciously, almost desperately, to retain the strangely disturbing dream. . . without success. Even now the last remnants scampered, fleeing to the farthest recesses of his mind from whence they had come.

He reached across to the bedside table and killed the alarm with an annoyed, straight-fingered jab which sent the clock to the floor with satisfying k-thunk. He hated that damn thing, it made such an awful din. It did however, he was forced to concede, meet its design purpose with irritable efficiency. He looked over the edge of the bed to read the red digital display. It read 6:30 a.m.

Come on, honey! His wife’s voice sounded from the kitchen at the end of the passage. Coffee’s made, and if you want to use the bathroom before young Billy, you had better look lively. Remember? He has to leave early for the school excursion.

Alright, Molly, I’m looking lively, he lied. He felt decidedly fatigued, as if he had not slept a wink. And something about that unremembered dream. . . .

He shrugged it off, throwing back the covers. Can’t lay here all day. I’ve got a family to support, a mortgage, a cat and a budgie.

He continued on in this way in an effort to raise his spirits while he showered, shaved and dressed for the day ahead. He was feeling somewhat better by the time he swung back the bathroom door to find his eight-year-old son standing, waiting with towel in hand.

Morning, champ. Big day today, eh? You probably don’t remember the last time you were at the zoo. You were just a tacker.

Yes I do, dad. It rained and you couldn’t find the car, and we all got soaked.

Laughter issued from the kitchen.

Thanks, John responded in mock disapproval, and Billy ran past, giggling as his father aimed a playful kick at his tail-end.

Molly greeted him with a wide grin as he entered the kitchen. You certainly walked into that one, she said, pouring him a cup of steaming hot coffee.

Saucy, like his mother, he replied.

Halfway through his second cup of coffee his colleague from the office pulled up in the driveway and tooted the horn. He rose, but before reaching for his briefcase he pulled fifty dollars from his wallet and placed it on the table. You’ll need some petrol for the Rolls, he joked.

Thanks, hon. See you tonight, Molly said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

See ya, dad, said Billy, having just entered the kitchen for his breakfast.

See ya, champ. Have a great time at the zoo.

The drive to Birkley, Havish and Courtney was a fairly quiet and relaxed routine. Peter and John had been commuting like this for over four years now, and apart from the usual morning greetings and a little idle chit-chat, the thirty minute journey was, for most part, made in comfortable reticence.

They had been travelling for fifteen minutes when they came across a hold-up in the inward bound traffic at an intersection on the fringe of the city. The traffic edged slowly forward and it was some minutes before they could make out what was causing the obstruction.

That’s something you don’t see every day, Peter commented. One of the float fixtures for this year’s pageant, I expect.

But John was not listening to his friend. . . Something cold moved between his shoulder-blades as he absorbed the scene in front of him. In the centre of the intersection lay the physical existence of something he had seen in his dream earlier this morning. Seeing it now triggered the recollection of this one fragment.

A thirty-foot effigy of Old Father Time lay damaged on the road. The semi-trailer it had fallen from was awkwardly parked in the left traffic-lane, adding to the congestion. As Peter negotiated a way through, John looked back at the unlikely scene. The giant scythe raised skyward, seemingly poised to strike down on unsuspecting motorists guiding their vehicles cautiously around the shattered hourglass from which spilled the golden sands of time. The crumpled face against the road trailed a long, grey beard in the breeze, its fixed expression distorted into a menacing leer which for some reason John found strangely disturbing.

Bizarre, Peter commented as they drove away from it. John straightened himself in his seat. You’re not going to believe this, he said, and I’m not sure I do myself. But I dreamt this. . . Exactly what we saw back there!

Yeah, no kidding? You mean like deja vu or something?

Maybe. Perhaps that’s what deja vu really is, when you dream about something and forget it. You never know that you dreamt it, but then it happens one day and you feel as though you’ve been there or seen it before.

Peter thought about it for a moment. That boils down to prescience, doesn’t it? Did you get a peek at the cross-lotto numbers? We could really clean up with a trick like that.

*****

They arrived at the survey and drafting offices only a few minutes late, and Peter dropped John off at the main entrance before taking the car around back. Gloria, the company’s chief secretary and occasional receptionist, greeted John with a cheery Good Morning as he strode into the ground floor reception area. Then affecting a disapproving tone: You’re late, John Cassidy. Out on the tiles again last night?

John grinned. I’m a married man, Gloria. Such activities are mere memories, I assure you. But I had better get on. Dick will be waiting on these figures, he said, patting his briefcase.

Before you rush off, said Gloria, once more becoming the reliable secretary. Mister Courtney wanted me to tell you he has arranged a demonstration of the new map-making equipment in the western conference-room at eleven o’clock.

Right-o, thanks. See you later.

He took a waiting lift up to the third floor where his office was situated. At his desk he flipped open the briefcase and took out the sheets of computations he had worked on at home. After making a cursory check to make sure that everything was in order, he bundled them together and headed for the stairwell rather than waiting for the lift to take him up to the Drafting Office. Besides being quicker, the stairs provided a means of exercise when he was forced to endure the confines of the office.

Negotiating the stairs at a jog, he grasped the door handle to enter the fourth level. It was locked. He went back down to the third level to use the lift, and it was locked, also.

Damn, he cursed under his breath. The janitors were usually in the habit of leaving these doors open to allow easy access between floors. He was about to make for the ground floor exit when he was gripped by sudden recognition The dream, again! This stairwell. . . doors locked. . . exactly the same moment.

His mind reeled backwards along phantom corridors. Countless images of here and now and yet somewhere else and sometime other, like duplicates laid one atop the other ad infinitum.

Suddenly, the strangeness was gone. The stairs swam in a strange light and became solid again. Two flights above, a door opened inwards to the stairwell and the fearful spell was broken.

Hold that door for a second, he called out. The doors are locked from in here and I’ve gotten myself trapped.

Sure, answered a familiar voice. Is that you, John?

Yeah. . . Dick? I was just on my way up with those figures I promised you.

John arrived at the conference-room five minutes late, but he knew that proceedings would not get under way dead on eleven, and he was right. The equipment was still being set up and people were milling around with coloured brochures in their hands, chatting among themselves and making gestures of endorsement toward the apparatus.

John had done his homework on the System 100, the state of the art in computerised laser cartography, and knew, among other things, that it was worth more than any of the luxury cars parked in the executive spaces beneath the building. But when you were empire building, as were Birkley, Havish and Courtney, money was hardly a major concern.

The literature he had read on the system indicated it was a good investment in view of its efficiency and positive applications in constructional engineering, and in geodetic and topographical surveying. By aiming the laser-emitting theodolite at an object, the system would correlate its position in relation to any other object of known coordinates. Information from the computer could then be fed into the ancillary plotter, which would register its position on the map.

What John liked most was that it could be used in reverse. Stored information could be used to pin-point objects and physical features by way of an inbuilt distance- and direction- finder. The advantages being less desk work and less time spent in the field, and checking progress at building sites from engineering plans through each stage of construction was made much simpler and more accurate.

The salesman delivered his spiel outlining these points, and, for the technically minded he referred in some detail to the underlying scientific principals at work within the componentry.

When all questions had been answered he gave a practical demonstration by aiming the instrument out through the window at landmarks in the park below. Coordinates were taken, distances measured and positions plotted. Matching the results against the City Council’s plan proved ninety-nine point nine seven percent accurate. The point zero three percent apparent error, Mr Masui informed all who were present, was due to inaccuracies in the plan supplied by the council.

While this statement produced a wave of laughter from the onlookers, John’s mind seemed to slip sideways through time, space and reality. Sight and sound reached him as if from another now. . . a split reality. For the third time this day he experienced the incongruity of being cast in a role he had already played out.

He looked across the room, now brightened by an unnatural light. Everything had become profoundly accentuated and stark: The wash of laughter through the crowd; a woman with a crooked smile; the coffee cup. . . toppling from the table-top. . . shattering. The immaculately dressed salesman standing beside his high-tech wares, his precise coiffure and practiced manner.

Yes, John thought. I have seen this before. Every sight, every sound - echoes - pale twins of the dream, or was this the dream?

Dream and reality had become united, superimposed with only the pellucid veneer of recurrence separating either event. A dread feeling stirred as something formless moved at the base of his scull.

John. John, are you alright?

He turned to find Peter beside him wearing a concerned expression.

Yeah, he managed. Fine. Look, I’ve just remembered something. I have to make a phone call. See you at lunch.

It was pretty lame, he knew, but he felt panicky and just had to get out of there. Ridiculous, he told himself. My mind’s playing tricks on me. I have been working rather hard lately.

He took the lift to the ground floor and headed for the glass doors leading onto the street. Gloria looked up from her telephone conversation and smiled as he passed, which he returned by reflex alone.

He stepped out onto the pavement and hesitated for a moment, uncertain of what to do next. Remembering that he had told Peter he would see him at lunch, he walked in the direction of the hotel where they occasionally had a counter-meal and a beer when they were both at the office at lunch-time.

He bought himself a double bourbon and cola and found a vacant booth at the back of the room. Taking a mouthful he sat back and wondered how he could explain to Molly, without her becoming suspicious, his sudden desire to take the family on a two week vacation.

After two more refills he began to relax a little, enough to be able to think things through. Nervous breakdowns were not so uncommon. He had heard tell of plenty who had suffered them, and he knew that with sufficient rest and proper treatment a full recovery could be expected. He was blessed with a loving family with whom he could spend more time while he recuperated, and he felt sure that the company would allow him as much time as he needed to get back to full capacity.

It’s just a matter of being realistic about the situation and taking the necessary course of action, he told himself. He felt calmer, now that he had made a decision. Chances are, he mused, all I really need is a few days break. I don’t know what I’m getting so excited about. John chanced to look up just as Peter appeared in the doorway at the other end of the barroom. He was framed by the bright sunlight reflecting from the street behind him.

Something cold seemed to crawl inside his mind when Peter’s gaze met his own across the distance. As Peter walked towards him an obscuring veil lifted and everything was cast in a strange, preternatural light. In that moment full memory of the dream - that terrible, foreboding dream - came flooding back to him.

Oh, God. No. The words emerged as a mere whisper from his constricted throat. John knew, with cold certainty, what was about to unfold.

*****

It was Saturday morning, about three weeks after the scene at the hotel, when Peter Simons drove his car between the gates of the Newton Memorial Hospital. He had telephoned the hospital on several occasions to ask about his friend’s condition, but the news was always the same: Mr Cassidy’s condition remains unchanged. But with his latest inquiry he had been invited to come to the hospital and talk with John’s doctor.

With his arrival at the reception desk, a dowdy woman with grey, humourless eyes instructed him to take a seat while she informed the doctor of his arrival.

For some unknown reason he decided he didn’t much like this woman, but, with his usual decorum he thanked her and seated himself in one of the uncomfortable, yellow plastic chairs and amused himself by inspecting the cheap landscapes prints hanging from the walls.

Presently, from a corridor to his left, emerged a middle-aged man wearing a white coat over a blue cardigan and grey slacks.

Mr Simons? he inquired.

Yes.

How do you do? I’m Doctor Freidman, he said, offering his hand and a quick smile. My office is just around the corner, if you would care to follow me.

When the two men had seated themselves, Dr Freidman began.

"The reason I have invited you in today is because we have been unable to make much headway with this case. Apparently you were present when your friend’s breakdown occurred. Is that correct?

Yes, I was there, Peter replied.

And you saw him throughout the course of the day?

We drove to work together, as we usually do, and later we were at a demonstration of some new hardware our company was considering purchasing.

Did you notice anything odd about Mr Cassidy’s behaviour on either of these occasions?

Well, I don’t know. Maybe I did. At the demonstration I went over to him to ask his opinion of the equipment, but when I spoke to him, he seemed in sort of a daze. He looked pale. It took me a while to gain his attention, and when I did, he gave a hurried excuse about having to make a call and left the room.

What time would that have been? As close as you can, please, Mr Simons.

I guess it was pretty close to midday. Probably about ten minutes to twelve.

Dr Freidman made a note of this as he asked, And while you were driving to work. How was he then?

He was fine.

Nothing odd at all? Freidman persisted.

Peter deliberated for a moment. "Not odd, exactly. Although some might see it as odd, I suppose."

Dr Freidman looked up from his notepad. Yes? Anything at all. It could prove useful.

"There was something of a traffic jam on the way in. A semi-trailer lost its load at an intersection. It was a large plaster model. Anyway, when we got close enough to get a look at it, John said he had seen it before. . . dreamt it, in fact. But that isn’t really so odd, is it? Most people have experienced something of the sort. We put it down to deja vu."

‘’What time did that occur?" Dr Freidman asked, ignoring Peter’s question.

About seven-thirty, I guess. I pick John up at seven-fifteen when its my turn to drive, and we were about halfway there. It’s a thirty minute trip. Add five minutes for the time we were held up and seven-thirty-five would be pretty close to the mark.

Dr Freidman made further notes on his pad, then looked up. Now, Mr Simons. What happened, exactly, when John suffered the breakdown? What were the circumstances?

Peter’s eyes searched along the rows of books in the doctor’s shelves for a while. Then, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat, he began.

Shortly before lunch-time there was a telephone call for John. He couldn’t be located so I took the call for him. It was the police department. Peter looked up. But you know this part.

Dr Freidman nodded. Yes. His wife was killed in a car accident. And his boy. . . . Yes, terrible. But, please, go on.

Well, Peter continued, they told me about the accident and I said I would see that he was informed right away. So that’s what I did. I went down the street to the hotel where John and I occasionally meet for lunch. When I entered the hotel I saw him in the booth at the far end of the room, and it was, I don’t know. . . weird.

Weird? the doctor repeated. In what way?

Well, he spotted me immediately I walked in. Even from where I stood I could see this very strange expression come over his face. He just kind of stared at me as I made my way over to him. He didn’t say a thing, just stared. I said to him, John, you’ve had a call from the police department. That was as far as I got, it was the worst thing I ever. . . . He flew at me, screaming. He was yelling something. It was incoherent and I was too taken aback to know what it was. Then he stopped, suddenly. From crazy to cold silence in a second. It really frightened me. The look in his eyes, as if he wasn’t there any more. You know what I mean? That’s when I asked the manager to call for the ambulance."

Doctor Freidman put down his pencil and rubbed wearily at the back of his neck.

Yes. I’m afraid your friend is withdrawn from the world. Psychic trauma, if I were forced to hazard a guess. We’re not quite sure. He looked at his notes, then back to Peter. Tell me. How is his son doing?

Peter strained to keep his voice even. Billy has fallen into a deep coma.

*****

Doctor Freidman sat hunched over his notes, his eyebrows knitted in thought. He had been in that position since returning to his office, after walking Peter Simons to the front entrance and thanking him for his assistance. The facts were right there in front of him, and the case was becoming increasingly clear: unnervingly so.

John Cassidy had been under close observation since his arrival. It had been documented by those watching over him that he went through periods of calmness followed by frequent periods of acute anxiety. This had been the exact pattern since his admission over three weeks ago.

The doctor looked at his patient’s chart again, the recorded anxiety attacks marked exactly the same in every twenty-four hour period since monitoring had begun. The episodes were logged precisely at 6.30 a.m., 7.31 a.m., 8.05 a.m., 11-45 a.m.and 12-14 p.m.

*****

In room 518, in D-wing of the Newton Memorial Hospital, John Cassidy sits, huddled in the corner. He is almost motionless except for a slight rocking motion. His eyes are glazed and drool is dribbling from his chin.

Five minutes ago a nurse and an assistant administered an intramuscular injection of chlorpromazine and fitted him with a restraint jacket. It is 6.30 a.m., and a low frequency droning sound bores like a probing auger through the somnolent layers, causing the shattered fragments of an elusive dream to flee to the farthest recesses of the mind from whence they came.

End.