Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness by David John Griffin Read Free Book Online

late for the first day at work.
    The train stopped. No morning light between train and wall, only muddy shadows. And this dimness spread thickly through the carriage as the illuminated strips in the ceiling blinked twice and went out.
    If only he was capable of opening the window fully and easing out one of the bricks. Maybe no earth compacted behind but a cheering sky.
    The train creaked then jolted into movement and began to pick up speed. Brighter again as the walls quickly came to an end and a cold sunlight plunged into the carriages. The brown roofs of a housing estate stretched away and up the side of a valley.
    He inspected his fellow passengers. Over to the right, a woman sat, reading a book. In front of Clement, a besuited man intent upon reading his newspaper which shielded him from the sharp morning sun.
    Clement leaned forward and announced with excitement in his voice, ‘I know you in the material world.’
    The middle-aged man in the striped suit brought the newspaper down and with his brow creased, inspected Clement while adjusting his spectacles.
    ‘Do I know you, young lady?’
    ‘Donadette today.’
    ‘Donadette?’ He appeared confused and flinched from hischunk of raw sunshine before taking the spectacles off to clean the lenses with a part of his shirt. Once the glasses were replaced he gave a snort and growled, ‘What – the – hell is your game, hmm?’ His eyes were enlivened, unsure as to where he should rest his sight.
    The auburn wig which Clement wore was cut to a bob. His sallow face, twitching and beige with foundation, had mascara, lipstick and rouge roughly applied. Over his embroidered blouse he wore an overcoat and where this finished was the bottom of a bottle green skirt. From this protruded lumpy knees held together, his skinny legs covered with tights. What appeared as a random pattern were the flattened hairs under them. A pair of women’s block heeled sandals were on his feet.
    ‘Remember me, Jeremy? I’ve got reliable corridors and mindrooms now.’ Clement showed a pale palm with a thick green elastic band around his wrist dividing the two watches there.
    Keeping his mouth hard as if attempting ventriloquism, Mr Finch replied, ‘How do you know my name?’ His cheeks had become a flustered red and he looked quickly about the carriage with obvious embarrassment.
    ‘Still at Penshart I’m guessing. Haven’t appeared in a while. Where are you living for real this time?’
    ‘I know who you are now. Donald Clement. The one with the — problems. So they’ve let you out, have they?’
    Clement ignored the sarcastic question in favour of extending his hand, the nails there painted with a greenvarnish. ‘That’s me. Pleased to see you still exist. And I have solutions.’
    ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ was all Finch could reply, avoiding the handshake.
    ‘I lodge in living quarters, an overall womb in Cressmore Street. Do you know, I’ve forgotten your surname.’ Finch, still disturbed by Clement’s appearance, was unable to speak. Clement continued, ‘Hang on, don’t tell me … Finch, yes? Finch on the fiddle.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘No offence meant, Jeremy,’ Clement returned, ‘if you didn’t realize your label. You know what the workers at Penshart Press were like. Used to call me Don the deranged. Just because they found my theories hard to comprehend. Because I perceive differently. Couldn’t understand me wanting to be a scriptwriter. Or discern any transformation. Like today, they wouldn’t get it: subduing the inferior haters, destroyers, the perverted minds. I’ve invited part of the woman for a while, you know, permanent love and understanding, welcoming forgivers and peacemakers. I can actually be anything I want really, since protecting myself. Still doing accounts? Juggling numbers, becoming fat or slim, depending how much you feed them. Sure you get my artistic meaning.’
    After a pause, Finch answered with a suspicious tone, ‘Actually,