The Clutter Box Read online

Chapter 4

  The guards, wrapped in their heavy winter coats, let me through the front gate, and I tentatively approached a large black car by the icy roadside. A man opened the front door and stepped out. I estimated him to be in his fifties. He had short dark hair going grey at the sides, was tall, of a mildly stocky build and wore a friendly smile.

  “Hello. Mr Gustabler?” he called out, a cloud of water vapor billowed from his mouth.

  “Yes,” I replied, holding my coat together.

  I looked down at his light brown leather boots. Hard wearing and substantial, his soles would be full of chunky shapes arranged into a pattern.

  “My name’s Bruce Dalloway. I work for Dr Thorn. I’ve been charged with the task of getting you to London.”

  I would later learn that his wife killed herself a few years back after approximately twenty years of marriage.

  He opened the back door and waited for me to enter. Then he shut it behind me and climbed into the front seat.

  Rubbing his hands together, he asked, “Where to first?”

  I gave him my home address which he typed into the navigation. Then he set the car to auto drive and let the car do the work.

  “Do you know anything about this position I’m being considered for?” I asked as the car headed down the road.

  “A bit. I work directly for Dr Thorn who you’ll be answering to during your time there.”

  “What will I be working on?”

  He pulled a lever by the side of his seat, rotated his chair ninety degrees and looked back towards me.

  “I only know a little. I’m not just a driver.”

  There wasn’t much call for human drivers these days. He didn’t look like security, but I assumed he must have his reasons for being here.

  He continued, “I assist Dr Thorn with a range of tasks but I’m not really in a position to explain her research. I don’t really understand much of it myself. It’s a small team they have there - very friendly. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I understand there were other people Dr Thorn considered for the position.”

  “Yes, that’s quite right. Dr Thorn didn’t think them suitable. You’ll be diffrent, I’m sure. She’s taken a lot of time to look for the right person.”

  He rotated the seat back, and the rest of the journey continued in silence.

  The car turned down an alleyway as we approach my flat. I was living above a small milkshake bar; the entrance was around the back. The car found a place to park about ten metres from the gate.

  “Here we are, Sir. Would you like any help with luggage?”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  He exited the car and opened the door for me.

  “You can come in and have a coffee whilst you’re waiting, if you like.” I said.

  “Thank you, Sir,” he replied.

  I punched a code into the gate and lead him through and up the steps to the front door. I’d lived alone in this flat since moving down to Birmingham. My key was ready in my hand when I got to the door. I pushed it open and walked into the hall. The living room and kitchen lay ahead and my bedroom was through a door on the left. It was small but a suitable choice for the three years I lived here. I'd have to leave it all behind, should I get a transfer. I'd made a home out of the place.

  I cleared some junk off the sofa, so Bruce could sit down, and I made up an excuse for the mess. Then I turned the kettle on and asked Bruce whether he wanted coffee, tea or hot chocolate.

  “Oh, hot chocolate, please,” he said. I didn’t have much left but I’d thought it was best to offer him some as I was going to have a mug myself. I took the box out of the cupboard and scooped some of the power into two mugs. Then I went into my bedroom and opened my wardrobe, looking for a suitable bag.

  “Do you know how many days I’m likely to be there?” I called to him from through the door.

  “Should only be three days, but you’d better pack for four, in case of delays.”

  I found a suitably sized bag and pulled it from my wardrobe. As I placed it down on my bed, I heard the kettle click and headed into the living room.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” said Bruce, pushing himself up.

  I nodded and went back to my room to search through my work clothes. I laid the smartest ones neatly into the bag and considered what other things I’d need.

  My phone was lying on top of my clutter box. It didn't belong there. My clutter box was made from beaten down corrugated cardboard. It contained all the things I should have thrown out years ago but never did. A habit I probably got from my father.

  He had a box of junk. He kept books and cd's which he’d obtained digital copies of decades ago and a tub of dried up oil paints, presumably from some brief artistic phase left behind in his youth. He had some rocks and shells in a small cloth bag I played with as a child - memorabilia of a long forgotten holiday.

  In mine, I had lists of plans and dreams that I'd long lost interest in. A collection of screws and components from electronic devices that had gone out of use. A borrowed battery from someone I haven't seen in over a year. A useless, old wavelength smartphone. A small blue toy car - the kind of personality free toy most people don't hold onto from childhood.

  As you might imagine, the bulk of my clutter box was filled with old shoes: shoes from my past, shoes I’d never wear again, shoes with tread worn down to nothing, shoes from my childhood. Pride of place was the single right shoe of my old maths teacher Mr Brownstone. A brown leather loafer. I’d made an opportunistic swipe for it whilst he was distracted by our french teacher Miss Barley. He’d taken it off whilst attempting to remove a stone.

  I appeared too innocent for the teachers to suspect. The class got yelled at and bags were searched, but nobody suspected me. I’d hidden the shoe in a small cupboard under the teacher’s desk and, through some good fortune, nobody went in there. I was able to collect it at the end of the day and hurried home with my treasure huddled beneath my coat.

  There was a file with my birth certificate and a lock of hair from being a baby. My mother left it behind when she threw herself out.

  There’s a story of a man who got injured by a collapsing wall. I used to think these events were an urban legend, but I now I believe them to be true. Doctors managed to stabilize him, despite significant damage, and he remained in hospital for some time before he finally woke. When he did come round, he didn’t know himself.

  He had no memory of his wife, his kids or his life before the accident. He spent months learning to walk again, to master the unsteadily wobble of his obese sixty three year old body, bit by bit. He had to learn to talk as well - to articulate all the different part of speech.

  When he finally got the hang of speaking, it was noted by his wife, that his voice had changed. She said that his accent had become much smoother and his manners much more polite. He of course, lacking memories, had no reference point, but he believed her. As the weeks went by their personalities began to jar, and they found themselves snapping at each other and bursting into small arguments.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t remember how he could have loved someone like her, and although she still felt for him, he wasn’t the same man anymore. His personality had changed. Neither of them wanted to break up what was left of their family, so they both played the roles that were expected.

  Twenty years went by and they grew old together. Over the years, they learnt to have some affection for each other. Then the headaches started. They were mild at first, but constant. He was too stubborn to seek help, but his wife insisted he should see a doctor. A brain scan revealed a small object lodged in his brain. Surgery was booked for later that day.

  She kissed him and wished him luck. It might have been the shock, but there was a complication during surgery and he died. His wife was distressed. The doctors, puzzled.

  When the wife had recovered they showed her the item that was in his brain. It was a memory suppression chip. The kind normally only used in the most extr
eme cases, on mentally ill subjects.

  It took her another three years to find out exactly what had happened.

  There were two passersby who were injured by the falling wall. An unidentified man, only twenty eight years old, his body had been crushed. Then there was the older man, her husband, who suffered brain death on the operating table, all those years ago.

  Time being of the essence, a surgeon took it upon himself to transfer the living brain, from the crushed body, into the brain dead man’s body. Permission hadn’t been granted, and once done it couldn’t be reversed. Not without effectively committing murder. So the hospital proceeded to cover it up. The memories of his life were suppressed and, when he woke, his new wife was by his side, ready to explain who he was.

  On discovering the truth she agreed on a substantial compensation package with the hospital and the story quietly slipped into hearsay.

  But that story’s incomplete. You see, although her husband’s original brain died years earlier, the new brain ended up picking up many of the originals quirks. He would mock modern music, wear odd socks, paint smiley faces on rocks with his granddaughter, just as he had done with his daughter, many years before.

  The family would notice many other little traits that remained after the accident. He would still treasure all the bits and pieces he’d hoarded over time, in his study. Not even a new brain would make him abandon his clutter box.

  I heard this from one of the nurses who tended to the granddaughter, after she was struck by a telepathic infection. You see, that nurse would later end up tending to me.

  I picked up the phone and put it in my pocket. Zipped up my bag and headed back into the living room. A mug of hot chocolate was placed on the coffee table and Bruce was sat sipping his. I said, “Thanks,” and picked up my mug. It was hot.

  “So, what does your job normally involve.” I asked, “You’re not really a driver are you?”

  “No, although I’ve been sent to collect a couple of the previous applicants. There’s more of a focus on presentation, in London, than what you’re used to. I think Dr Thorn just wanted to make a good first impression. When you get there you’ll probably find they’re unable to answer all your questions, at least until they can confirm that you’re getting the role, but they’ll tell you the basics. My job is fairly mundane. I collect items from storage, make the tea, running about on little errands for Dr Thorn, and so on. I’ll just be around, trying to justify my wage.”

  We finished our hot chocolates and headed back to the car. The journey would take only one hour eighteen minutes. The latest automated cars were able to travel on special high speed lanes and roads, as long as you agree to relinquish control.

  Bruce put my luggage in the boot and opened the back door for me. He may not have been a professional chauffeur but he was certainly keen to play the part.

  I thanked him and he said, “No problem, Sir.”

  He set the destination and, still facing the front, he asked, “So, what’s it like, having to be scanned all the time?”

  “You get used to it. There's talk of them sending telepaths to London to scan people there. You might find out what it's like for yourself.”

  “Really?” He gave a little chuckle. “I don’t think Dr Thorn would stand for that. Not much trust between her and the telepaths in that psi-clinic of yours. She thinks they’re intentionally stifling her research.”

  “So her work has to do with the psi-clinic?”

  “Oh, I see I’ve said too much. You will beg my pardon. Best that we leave it to Dr Thorn to fill you in on the details. I don't fully understand it all. I’m no scientist.”

  There was silence as we both sat and watched the road run by us. All the old lamp posts still stood on these streets, waiting be torn down. Our car merged into a flow of traffic on the M6.

  "I've always thought that I might be a little telepathic," Bruce said, breaking the silence.

  "You don't get mildly telepathic people. You're either telepathic or you're not. No shades of grey."

  "Really, Sir? You seem to be very sure of that. What with all the possible genetic variations out there."

  “Telepathy isn’t genetic.”

  “Well, yes, that's what people say.”

  “All evidence suggests that's true.”

  "Perhaps. It just seems a little convenient. As though the government's trying to avoid some sort of telepathic race war. So you don’t think a gene could increase the chances of someone being telepathic; do you also think there’s no chance that a gene could impair someone's existing telepathy?"

  I said, "It’s possible. There’d be other signs, though, if you were a malfunctioning telepath. You’d be autistic for a start."

  Bruce let loose a smile, "Well, maybe I am. In either case, it’s an assumption based of your current understanding of telepathy."

  "What else would I base it on? Go on, what makes you think you’re telepathic."

  "I think I can sense what’s troubling people."

  "Really?” I said, failing to conceal my cynicism, “Well, what do you think‘s troubling me?"

  "I don’t really want to say. It’s a little silly."

  "I won’t laugh at you, go on."

  "Well, Sir, you’re wanting to stare at the soles of my boots."

  That shut me up.