Sir Ian Peters, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  ‘Last night upon the stair,

  I met a man that wasn’t there.

  He wasn’t there again today,

  I wish I wish he’d go away.’

  William Hughes Mearns circa 1899

  Exactly twelve pm Monday lunch hour found me sitting opposite a strait laced, no nonsense doctor pouring out my heart, my hopes, my fears, making certain to make no mention whatsoever of the strange voice in my head! No, that would not do. The voice had to be changed somewhat cleverly to represent diverse, unspecific noises, similar to the wind and the far off rushing of waters one hears pressing a seaside shell to the ear. In my wildest moment I fancied on the idea of making a clean breast of it; confessing all, yielding my very soul to be used at the good doctor’s behest. However, at the time medical knowledge was veritably archaic in this field. If I’d done so I could be sure of nothing less than immediate internment in a Victorian style asylum, a madhouse, probably for an indefinite period without trial or legal recourse.

  Curiously, my entire being became overwhelmed with a strangely desperate yearning to meet all of life’s challenges, for unrestricted glimpses at our planets most beautiful landscapes, for but a hint at what outstanding mysteries lie beyond our feeble consciousness, for a hidden depth of knowledge as yet unseen by modern man - the discovery of new lands, new dominions, new concepts, for a family to teach and learn from, and finally for a future unsullied by the uncleansable, blackened stain of madness. So I duly held my tongue. There really was no saner choice. Let this be a lesson to always trust your instincts. For they function as your last line of defence, as a means of self preservation, therefore must never be underestimated.

  “Yes, quite a common complaint nowadays I’m afraid,” the doctor said sagely. “Lucky for you it is so, for ‘tis fairly easily treatable. I suspect it is caused by poor hygiene, the result of allowing soiled water in your ear when bathing. Here, let me take a quick look. Yes, just as I thought, a universal problem and no mistake.” Thorough flushing of my ear ensued, followed by comforting words advising me to give it a week or two and all would be fine.

  I’d barely stumbled into the crowded street, thankful to be free at last, then I was beset by the very same voice that had earlier granted me the grave misfortune of its company.

  “You did the right thing there, for once. For a millisecond you even had me fooled. I honestly considered you were going to collapse on the spot and reveal all. It seems I may have underestimated you a tad and have made the right choice after all. You might have some potential.”

  “Enough!” I shouted angrily. “Who are you and why are you persecuting me?”

  “Whoa, steady on there champ!” came the swift, piercing reply. Admittedly the voice had a strong point. Several folk were pointing in my direction, talking hurriedly to each other.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, eh?” the unknown entity ventured.

  “Remember, that doctor was surely nothing less than a quack. I’ll warrant he never truly earned the certificate he so proudly hangs on his surgery wall. Unfortunately the poor fellow doesn’t understand the true influence of nepotism, but he still held the power to detain you at leisure. It simply wouldn’t do to give other people the same inclination. Now, if you’ll do one thing for me, who knows, perhaps in due course I’ll answer your queries and more? Have no fear, it’s nothing very difficult, nor against principles you hold so dear. Granted, you do have some talent, though you’re not quite as gifted as your sibling in a strategic sense. It's really very simple; all you have to do is find my location. We’ll call it hide and seek if you like. The solution’s perfectly obvious. ’tis literally child’s play.” You’re not wrong there I thought.

  The next three days were spent in deep contemplation, the like of which didn’t escape the notice of work colleagues, who were used to my attentive manner. Growing tired of chasing up possibilities, I’d just about conceded defeat when the answer formed in an instant. The intruding entity was indeed correct; the solution was straightforward to a peculiar degree. Now just the small matter of materials presented the only obstacle. Several favours and no end of begging later I felt ready for the task at hand.

  Placing the well worn wooden doorstop in its favourite position beneath my chamber door ensured my test could commence with comparative security. I simply couldn’t afford to be disturbed, as how could I explain the intricate necessities of such an odd invention?

  Following a short interval to ensure lasting light levels, I’d constructed an apparatus which would furnish me with the desired result. This consisted of a basic exoskeleton made up of thin, easily pliable solid metal lengths, less than one quarter of an inch thick. It was very similar to modern metal coat hangers. I rescued this material from a local scrap merchant after leaving the owner a firm promise of help with his tax accounts.

  With the skeletal base now up and running, things looked pretty good. I then set to work with the rather more difficult task of correctly placing the tiny pieces of mirror I’d gathered, (twelve in total with a few spares) which were essential to complete the ensemble. Despite my haste, I’d carefully filed these pieces in a rough, circular fashion. This in itself wasn’t entirely warranted, but done purely as an afterthought; a precaution against cuts.

  Their positioning proved to be the biggest headache, as each one had to be tightened in a specific order, working strictly from bottom to top. One had to place these individual pieces strategically at regular intervals, so their brethren above reflected the image ever onwards. The very top mirror shard was left facing directly opposite the ancient mirror on my bedside table.

  It was imperative that all apparatus be arrested from lateral movement or the whole effect of the singular piece would be lost. If said event occurred (usually near the final top pieces) it was all I could do to contain my frustration, as the whole system would have to be painstakingly begun again, then finely tweaked.

  I have no choice here but to make mention of the extra difficulty presented by mirrors in days of yore. Anyone placing, say, a pencil point vertically downwards onto a flat, horizontal modern mirror will discover that they’ve been manufactured to a certain standard, and find they give an accurate reflection: I.E - The pencils point will appear as it should, mirrored exactly opposite its respective counterpart. However, this is not the case in the vast majority of antique mirrors.

  For if the above test be repeated on such an item, the mirrored reflection would clearly not be accurate, and the pencils point would be off by as much as one cm in any direction. I share this information not in an attempt to show off accrued knowledge, but merely as a history lesson in order to give you an accurate understanding of the delicacy of the operation. In those days lots of items were inaccurate. There was no point in complaining, we just had to make do. As for my little plan; it was meticulous work, yet absolutely necessary.

  Confidently releasing the appropriate degree of glee, I realised everything was in place and all was set. As long as I didn’t mind the discomfort at the slightly quizzical angle my neck was forced to adopt, I was free to directly view the inner workings of my right ear. What I located on very close inspection after around thirty minutes was...nothing…absolutely nothing. The deepest recesses of my understanding were probed to their frontiers, no, still nothing. No amount of adjustment to my equipment or repeated viewing were ever going to change that fact either.

  “Well, what did you honestly expect to find? A troubled pixie posing for a photograph? One chatty gnome waving out at you, smiling? A shrunken goblin suffering from painful haemorrhoids? Think about it – you see the world as you are, not as it is,” the voice laughed.

  “You horrible beast,” I blurted, as everything clicked into place. “What wild devil derives pleasure from wasting another’s precious time?”

  “Wouldn’t exactly call it pleasure, more bemusement,” it replied, “Though I suppose, purely as a testament to your endeavours, I should perha
ps answer your previous questions to some extent. And I suppose no harm would come of it if you were to picture me as a loveable pixie or sprite, present in so much of your English folklore! I understand how it unnerves you humans to parley with something you are completely unable to quantify. Now in answer to your first question; my name is none other than Ian, Ian Peters.”

  “For the love of God, you lying...” I started in total disbelief.

  “Now, now Samuel. There’s really no call to get yourself all flustered. Don’t you know it’s very rude to take the lord’s name in vain? You sound suspiciously like an old washerwoman I once knew. First of all, you will find I never lie. My name for all intents and purposes is Ian Peters; at least it is for this incarnation. I chose it myself extremely carefully from billions. I happen to like it purely for my own reasons. It’s special to me in so many different ways, most you simply wouldn’t understand.”

  I didn’t believe for one minute this was its real name, eventually coming to reason that he’d chosen it as a not particularly subtle reflection on his true personality. Yes, in all probability he chose it in order to afford himself some measure of amusement, perhaps in the way the child in all of us likes to laugh at what we may regard as silly names or references.

  “Secondly, I’m not persecuting you, nor have any intention of doing so. That simply defeats the object of my being here. Furthermore, those concepts are foreign to me; I’m not a spiteful, malicious human you know! And before you go off wailing, clutching your head, screaming of demons, searching the world’s churches for an exorcist, I will share with you the absolute fact that you are not, I repeat NOT in the grips of madness.”

  “How can one possible believe that?” I said indignantly, “After all, here I am talking with an invisible man called Ian Peters!”

  “Because young man, I’d wager all the gold on earth that there are subtle differences, certain nuances between true mania and this...happening? However, if you think in all your worldly wisdom you can prove me wrong, then please feel at liberty to go downstairs and inform your parents of your grave concerns. What do you expect will come of you in that instance? The wisest doctors on your planet, accompanied by the latest research and drugs will not remove me from your presence until I’ve had leave to finish my work. Try not to worry your tiny little head too much either, as I will be with you for the smallest time possible. It helps neither you nor me to extend my stay for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. Rest assured, you will not be harmed in any way by this familiarity.”

  I remember feeling only a little reassured by this knowledge. After all this creature was able to enter my very consciousness at will. Who knew exactly where its true intentions lay? Where did he come from? What did this intolerable situation say about physics, the nature of reality? As time dragged on Ian’s words concerning my fears appeared to ring true, though he apparently did not extend these professed good wishes towards no small number of other folk.

  One of Ian’s worst diatribes of this nature came totally out of the blue, not seven days later one windswept morning as I arrived at work at the office, late for the first time ever. I’d been harassed beyond all belief by weather and transport difficulties alike. As I quickly traversed the long corridor leading to the accounts office my eyes set upon the plump cleaning lady near the end of the passage. Drawing closer it became evident Miss Dowry’s rather ample person appeared to arrest progress somewhat.

  “Excuse me madam,” I said with the greatest of respect, “But could you please see your way clear to allowing me egress, as I’ve a rather pressing matter to attend to, and it really wouldn’t do to allow it to wait.”

  “Ooh, really my dear? Is that so? And exactly why would I wish to do a thing like that?” the friendly lady ventured coyly, obviously bargaining for a compliment of some description. Immediately Ian’s little voice piped up shrilly, “Because you’re incredibly, incredibly fat and grotesquely ugly to boot! Good God woman, just look at you!” Almost simultaneously I heard the dull sound of my own voice involuntarily echo these very same words. Please believe me; I wasn’t even consciously thinking these terrible sentiments. Nothing could have been further from my mind.

  Disgusted at being subjected to Ian’s cruel trickery to this disgraceful level, with no hesitation I loudly ejaculated a stern reprimand. “Stay out of my life you foul little guttersnipe!” This had the distinctive consequence of reducing the poor, undeserving wretch to a veritable wreck who sobbed uncontrollably in floods of tears.

  Try and forgive me if you can to some small degree, as due to my tender years I’d scarcely begun to comprehend the subtle intricacies involved in consoling a female in such desperate need. To my eternal shame I took off, stumbling, tripping, running blindly, dangerously. My eyes flitted wildly and my face burned a fiery bright crimson red.

  Even in my flight I was blessed by the continuously repeating insults of: “You freak! You freak!” and: “Quick, go back Sam, go back! Oh my God, she’s a right little porker!” Ian’s voice echoed over and over shrilly in my ear in another despicable, transparent and cowardly attempt to get me to repeat these coarse phrases at the already devastated lady.

  Seconds later found me locked firmly in the gentleman’s lavatories, brimming with anger, frustration, disgust and complete, total embarrassment. I found myself completely unable to move from said position, despite concerned entreaties by my colleagues for no less than two hours. Eventually I plucked up courage to leave by feigning illness, retiring to bed for the remainder of the day. During this time I hit upon the idea of compensating the poor lady in some small way by surreptitiously leaving gifts at no small expense. These included beautiful flower arrangements, expensive French chocolates (not the most appropriate of items) and vintage wine which I discovered she’d a penchant for in the past. Along with these offerings I’d leave brief notes, each more humble than the last, begging forgiveness for engaging her in such horrific travesties.

  I then employed the services of a trusted colleague whose honour was beyond question. He explained to her over many weeks that I was the extremely unfortunate victim of a peculiar mental condition, possessing me uncontrollably at the strangest of times. This terrible ailment’s recovery (the condition hadn’t been named yet considering it was so rare) wasn’t aided by the fact that I’d recently been subject to inordinate measures of stress during both work and domestic life.

  I understand he took great pains to state that during these episodes comments I found myself saying were on reflection the actual opposite to their true intended meaning. In fact I regarded her person with nothing but the height of respect, as did everyone else.

  Reliable sources informed me later that luckily this lady was blessed with the kindest of natures. Presents notwithstanding, she immediately accepted my apologies, seeing them at once for the genuine, heartfelt regrets they were. That left her with feelings of deep concern regarding my current welfare, often making discrete enquiries via my friend to this end. I never did pluck up enough courage to meet her in person though. I thought this for the best, considering Ian was so obviously now in full flow, not to mention that my conscience was still soundly prickled beyond all description.

  After this incident, even for months after the good Miss Dowry had left the companies service, I found myself purposely shunning that particular corridor, fancying it to be haunted, using weird and wonderful excuses to try to justify this odd behaviour.

  Later Elizabeth intimated it was this very event which helped bring a matter she’d been considering for some time to a firm conclusion. It appears she’d harboured secret yearnings to move into the nursing profession, where she felt her true designs on life could be suitably nurtured, allowed to flourish naturally, as everyone’s should.

  Only very recently have I spoken with her in person since that fateful day of days, when she expressed with such fervour how much joy it had given her over the years to be able to help folk in distress and endeavour to foster some
level of inspiration in them.

  Along with this change in profession came a husband, her true soul mate. I felt very happy for her, yet still held my head low at her thanks for her ‘conversion.’ Nearly fifty years later I was still unable to meet her gaze.