Through Your Eyes Read online

  And smells.

  I could smell the colours! And I could feel its warmth. It was not the warmth of heat, but kindness, tenderness, even happiness. A sensation of hope and a feeling of knowledge.

  Timeless and dreamy.

  And then it was all gone, and I looked in my hand, staring at a piece of paper that I had recently seen in my dreams. Not a blank paper now, however, but with eerily neat hand writing in black ink and capital letters, almost printed quality like that you would see on an old typewriter.

  I read it out aloud, "312 FRAMLINGTON."

  'Abracadabra,' I thought.

  Siris? I wondered. Magical box. Magical device. Real magic.

  I had no idea what had just happened, but this box had helped me retrieve information from a dream. Or maybe I was getting bored with the word dream; maybe it was an altered state? It certainly was too incredibly vivid to have been a figment of my imagination. I would have to suspend my disbelief and confusion for now and get going. Something was happening, or coming, and I had to act fast.

  I grabbed the box, and shoved it into my pocket. I grabbed my jacket, and went through the already ajar back door as quietly as I could. Still dark. Exhausted. Hungry.

  It was time to finally get some answers, I thought, as I scampered down the road and through the park. Rain. Slicing down through the air to the grass and trees, hitting my face and refreshing me back to my senses.

  It was cold and the tube station was closed. I couldn't see any buses, and the chances of grabbing a taxi at this time were non-existent. Maybe I was being watched or followed right now? The park was best. Incognito. Yes, that was the best plan, I thought.

  They watch him, as I watch him.

  They watch him, as I watch them.

  They whisper to each other their poisonous lies.

  But he is different now.

  He is beginning to see what he is supposed to see.

  'Time flexes like a whore,' someone once sang, and I never quite understood the lyrics, but for me, my journey continued for an hour, though at times it felt like just a few minutes, the seconds then simultaneously feeling like days. I found a deserted park hut with a bench and took shelter from the rain, deciding then to close my weary eyes for a few minutes, trying to block out the thoughts firing around in my head.

  I thought briefly about an imaginary person called Siris, and imagined what he looked like. How exactly was this man going to help me? I couldn't think of any movie connections any more.

  And then no dreams.

  No dark figures.

  No whispers.

  But worries of new fears to come.

  7.

  I jumped. I literally jumped out of my skin. She pulled the balloon away from my face, and stared at me. A big smiling face looking down at me, with congealed snot around her nose and mouth. There was a mop of curly blonde hair and a red coat with a hood. I was instantly reminded of that movie 'Don't look now,' with the girl in the red coat, and instinctively shrank away from her. Almost instantaneously, I felt like an idiot. As if a five year old would pull a knife on me.

  "Come back, Lottie."

  I heard a shout from somewhere. Angry, fearful, but relieved. Lottie went back to mum, and I sat up tasting the bitter flavour in my mouth.

  "Hobo," I thought. That was what I must look like. How long had I slept for? I was starving hungry. I looked out from the hut and the rain had stopped, the sun was shining. I got up and stretched my arms and legs out, feeling immediately for the lump in my jacket pocket.

  It was still there.

  Now to business. I needed a map or to make a call, and then immediately remembered I didn’t carry a phone. Yes, I was the only person in the world to not have a mobile phone. 'Fry your brains,' I had always thought. I did have an aluminium hat to protect me from the alien thought police, however.

  And then I thought about it for a bit, I was a researcher after all! What better way to do research than at a place of learning? A local library would have computers as well as any books I required, and it was a public place so I would be safe. Probably.

  I walked out of the park keeping my face down, my hood raised up over my head, and went down to the now open underground station, catching the tube. It was rush hour, and I felt strangely out of place amongst the usual throng of people, bustling and pushing their way down steps and escalators, only to then squeeze their bodies into tube carriages that were already bursting. When I reached the over ground, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and made my way to this seat of learning. When I arrived at the library, however, I read the clear instructions set out on the entrance door.

  'Opening times 9.30am-5.00pm Monday to Friday.'

  I glanced at the clock; it would be a thirty minute wait. I realised I was going to chew my leg off, so with relief, put some coins into a vending machine in the foyer. Chocolate bar and full fat coke, normally my hangover cure, but it wasn't alcohol withdrawal I was suffering from today. I was surprised at the queue of people that had formed behind me; perhaps they were looking for Siris as well. And then I stopped and thought to myself. Library? Not in the movies, I thought. This was pathetic. We were not living in the 1950s.

  'We must embrace technology,' I said to myself.

  So I turned and ran to a nearby cafe. Outside, on the pavement, a man was reading the telegraph, drinking coffee, oblivious to everyone and everything around him. Phone on table. I walked past and casually took it and ran as fast as I could.

  I was a thief now.

  A fugitive. Harrison Ford.

  But I had at least embraced technology.

  I ran for half a mile and found a convenient park bench albeit covered in bird droppings. When I was sure no one had followed or noticed me, I went online and typed Siris. There were no links that were in English, just some weird stuff about Indian and Turkish people, and some other scholarly references. Maybe Cyrus, I thought? I found thousands of various Cyrus' or would that be Cyri? No time, so I looked on google maps for Framlington, and found two roads in London. The first was is in North Islington, a place I truly hated for some reason or other. Maybe too many failed attempts to score in the myriad of yuppie pubs that seemed to reside there. I checked the map; it only had numbers up to 149 anyway. Strike one.

  The second was off Baker Street in a vaguely familiar area.

  "Tailors," I said out loud.

  This was where you would go to buy a suit.

  I punched in 312, and realised it was at the most easterly end near a synagogue. Bingo. I stood up and left the park, scanning cautiously all around me; no one was following. Perhaps I was safe for now.

  I made my way back to the tube station, and within ten minutes had arrived at my stop, with its pipe and deerstalker logos everywhere. I could have done with the great detective now to try and hypothesise and postulate over my last couple of days of deep confusion. He may have referred to my predicament as a three pipe problem, but I thought even he might have been a little out of his depth. I walked past some museums and an infinite number of fast food restaurants. My gut rumbled again. I thought about it, but didn't have the time or the inclination. Opticians and dental spas, Thai massages and supermarkets.

  And then I saw a sign. A road sign was clearly visible at the corner of a photo framing shop.

  Framlington Avenue.

  Was this it? I turned into it and had a quick look behind my shoulder, I couldn't see anyone. It was at the end if I remembered correctly. Further and further I walked, was this really where I needed to be? I was working up a sweat going so quickly, and I could smell the mix of bad breath and armpits from my body, but I needed to get answers, right now.

  And I reached the end after about ten minutes, and I followed the numbers.

  Number 312, and it was nowhere in sight.

  I looked again, but could only discern residential housing that was all rather well to do, but not helpful to me. I thought about knocking on one of the doors for directions, but that wasn't in my nature. I was a yel
low bellied schmuck, too scared to knock on someone's door to ask for simple help. I thought it subconsciously, but it was probably because of the person walking towards me. He was an elderly man. Jewish. Orthodox. Ringlets of hair and a dark hat. Bad breath from six feet away.

  "Excuse me, I'm looking for 312," I asked.

  "Hello. Never heard of it. Now get out of my way. Oy vey! Oy gevalt! I need to find, Hymie. Too busy. No time. Out of my way, schmuck!" he replied.

  He hurried away without looking back. Thank god he didn't stop too long, as any more of the stench of his breath may have created another one of my strange out of body experiences. I was in the right place, though; there was a synagogue here.

  I looked again. This looked like a dump. Where had she sent me?

  I checked the numbers again.

  308, 310, grimy, run down hovel with no number and 314.

  I walked up to the dump, but couldn't see through the windows, as there appeared to be ten years' worth of grime and dust clinging to them from the inside. This could not be a tailor's shop. How could you consider buying anything from a closet of a dump like this? An old poster was barely visible, but I could make out a picture of a man with a tape measure around his neck. He wore a clean white shirt and had a goatee with a smile. I could just about read some writing in a very old font:

  'Mr Smith and Sons. Purveyors of Excellence in Tailoring.'

  I looked at the door and its buzzer, and did my usual five minutes of pondering, before I plucked up the courage to do anything at all. I pushed the door a little. Nothing. It was locked. The buzzer was covered in more dust. I pressed it once but didn't hear a bell. I waited. A car rushed by, and the driver stared at me and laughed. For some reason he made me feel like I was some kind of dirty pervert ringing someone's doorbell, looking for some action.

  I pressed the doorbell again for a full five seconds this time, and subconsciously took several steps backwards. I then tried to look in through the non-see-through windows. I walked back and looked up. Four stories. Fifteen windows. This was a big place. Were there tenants above the shop? Then there was only the one buzzer, so that didn’t work.

  No answer, so I pressed again. What to do now? Was this all a wild goose chase from fragments of my memory and magic boxes? I took out the box. Could it help?

  "Open sesame!" I mocked.

  And then realised I was talking to a box in the middle of a busy London street. It did nothing. No light show. It was just a defunct remote control box. Had I imagined everything? Maybe I should chuck it in the skip down the road, and run and forget about all of this lunacy.

  I turned and started walking.

  And promptly heard a sound.

  Just like in the movies.

  It was barely audible at first, but got louder; a definite whining and buzzing coming from behind me. The door was opening. It was not a normal opening and shutting door.

  Electronic. Automatic.

  Star Trek.

  I stood and listened, and smelled for some reason, entering the building and staring in wonderment at the interior. It was Moss Bros but two hundred years old. Every type of shirt, suit, and jacket you could possibly imagine. Some on wooden rails and lines. Others were stacked up and further stacked up on top of those, all the way up to an invisible ceiling; they seemed to go up the full four storeys. Wooden ladders like those you see in posh libraries. There was, however, one really curious thing when I looked around this shop. There were no price tags, posters, stickers with numbers or sale signs; what kind of shop was this?

  "Olivander's wand shop," I thought. "You're a wizard, Sammy!" I chuckled to myself.

  And I promptly jumped out of my skin.

  "Good morning, Sir. And a very good morning it is, I think. And how can we help, Sir, perhaps a nice new suit for you. Hmm, perhaps double breasted for you, Sir, with a slimming, tapering shirt to ensure you look tip top. Maybe a paisley tie would suit, or perhaps a cravat, yes, a red cravat, and oh I haven't even started to talk about those shoes and..."

  "Suits you, Sir?" I said to myself, chuckling again.

  Someone was talking to me who just appeared out of thin air, like the shopkeeper from that cartoon show, 'Mr Ben,' I watched as a kid. A man about three inches taller than me, bald on top, and what remained around his ears was grey. He looked under sixty but was probably over seventy. Face pock marked with acne scars. Goatee beard, trimmed to within a yard of its life. A white shirt with a plain, grey waistcoat open at the buttons, old style watch firmly positioned in his pocket, with the silver chain dangling outside. He wore shiny black shoes and was Arabic in origin, if I had to guess.

  And a tape measure around his neck.

  A tailor. As advertised.

  He gave the initial appearance of being smart, and yet he appeared dishevelled. Like being a tailor was his hobby, his second vocation, his first being something entirely different and unexpected.

  It was as if this whole facade was a charade.

  His eyes gleamed at me, his gaze completely fixed, the tiniest evidence of familiarity as he stared into my face.

  He knew me, yet I had never seen him before in my life.

  "I'm looking for someone. My name is Sam Berner. I was sent here by a friend. She told me you can help me, and I really do need help," I said, calmly.

  He looked me up and down, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He wiped his goatee with his fingers.

  He said, "Sir, we make fine clothing. We are tailors. We only make the highest quality. We are artists. If Sir wishes company then there are cafés and pubs down the street or, ahem, 'Gentlemen's clubs,' down the road if Sir wants something more 'exotic.' Perhaps if Sir requires help he could call a police man.

  "Siris," I said, calmly.

  I would play his game only for a short while. Clearly, time was pressing from the evidence of the last few days.

  He looked a little flustered with that one word and started to get agitated, stepping from one foot to the other, hands pointing at me with their palms facing up.

  He said, "Is he a friend of yours? My name is Mr Smith. There is no one of that name here, Sir. We make clothes. Perhaps Sir is lost. Please allow me to accompany you out. We are very busy, very busy indeed. We have no time for tittle tattle and chat. We have work to do. No, please let me show you the door, and please, have a good day, Sir."

  He held my arm quite firmly, and now I was not so calm. I pushed him off. I turned to him and growled, yes growled at him.

  "Siris," I snarled, "I have to find Siris."

  I pulled out the box and held it in front of his eyes. I was now shouting.

  "I need the gatekeeper now!"

  And he stopped. Mouth open. Spittle at the corners of his mouth and a single bead of sweat was running down his forehead. The artery on his left temple was pumping. His eyes were wide and focused on the device, his lower lip was quivering. Nothing was said for about ten seconds, but it felt like five. I was laser focused on him; I wasn't a slave to his time. At least that was how I thought it was done in the movies.

  "B-b-but I-I-I didn't n-n-n-know it was you, Sir," he stammered.

  "You know me?" I said.

  My courage was now rapidly disappearing down the drain.

  "Sir, it is so good to see you again, Siris, your eternal servant."

  And then he bowed. Not just a small bow but a full bow as if to royalty. Who did he think I was?

  "Siris, most humbly at your service."

  I bowed back for absolutely no reason other than he had bowed to me.

  He smiled at me.

  8.

  He seemed calmer and more relaxed. Perhaps there was a hint of contrition in his manner and voice. I couldn't understand why he felt the need to apologise to me of all people.

  He straightened himself up, taking a deep breath and said, "Welcome, Garlan. I apologise but it has been a long time. I see you have changed your appearance, suits you much better, please sit, sit. Here, please take my hand and let me offer my condolenc
es for what happened at Harnfeld. I am sorry for the previous questions, but I had to make sure you are who you say you are. Looks can be deceptive, after all."

  He chuckled after his last sentence, as if he had said something clever. I couldn't see it myself. I couldn't really see anything come to think of it at that moment. Was I supposed to be someone famous?

  Incredulity and confusion crossed my mind, mixed with some high quality bamboozlement and frustration. Emotions purely there to dilute my natural anger, fear and feeling of utter dread. Obviously.

  I said, "Who the heck are you? D-d-d do you know me from somewhere, who do you think I am? What do you mean condolences? What has happened?"

  It was clearly my turn to stammer; it was getting contagious.

  "You jest my dear boy, come, come, and let us not play games. You always were a wily old trickster, Garlan!" he said, with a big, wide grin on his face.

  I stared and said nothing, I was too angry and confused, but I wasn't feeling brave anymore so said nothing, as usual. We stood like this for about half a minute. Occasionally, he would raise his finger at me and shake it, laughing while he did it, in the sort of way you show someone you're not about to be taken in by some kind of joke they're telling you. But after a while, he realised I genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. And his face dropped. His mouth curled down. Eyes narrowed to tiny slits, eyebrows knitted. His goatee seemed to shrink. Rumination and mastication. Mulling and pondering. Followed by an almost imperceptible nod of realisation. Understanding, and then more head nods that could have been interpreted as him feeling sorry for me.

  "Berner, you say," he said.

  He was pacing around, quietly and calmly. His hands were now together, and both of his arms were behind his back. A teacher. I had seen this awful kind of thing before; he was about to give me a lecture.

  I thwarted him by saying, "You called me Garlan. Who is Garlan? You know me! How do you know me when I have never been here before? I have certainly never seen you before. Where is Harnfeld?"