Whispers In The Wiring

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Whispers In The Wiring - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Rupert reached into the top of the wardrobe. His hands groped among the many books and the few items of clothing. When he felt the rough texture of the cloth, he knew he’d found his mark. His fingers traced the hard edges of its contents. Lifting it down he placed it on the bed, smoothing the quilt around it. He sat carefully on the bed’s edge and loosened the cloth to reveal a solid black plastic box and sat back from it, staring at it in quiet disbelief, the fingers of his left hand twisting the plain gold ring on his right. Rupert picked the box up again and held it to him, unable to comprehend that the brother he loved so much was now reduced to an area smaller than a lunch box. He had expected something more fitting for his brother’s remains, but the weak voice of practicality reminded him that he lived in an age of disposability. The absurdity of it struck him and might have brought a smile to his lips were it not for a weight that was dragging at his heart. He wished that he could unburden that weight. He felt it physically, a heavy sensation in his chest that drew strength from his arms and legs and caused his breath to come in sharp gasps and to leave in long, fractured sighs.

He turned the box around until the plastic stopper was facing him — the stone across his brother’s tomb. His thoughts drifted in a black and grey kaleidoscope and came to rest on the last conversation he’d had with Ross. He remembered the pain in his brother’s voice, unsuccessfully disguised by too much alcohol, and the chilling sound of his despondency when he sighed and said that he didn’t think he was of use to anyone anymore.

“But you mean something to me! And to Neti!” Rupert had replied with urgency but also a small amount of irritation. He had listened as he always had. He had told Ross what he meant to him. He just wished that he’d never put down the phone; that he’d kept talking to him. If only he’d known that they would never speak again.

But how could he have known? How many times had those conversations taken place? That instance, like so many others that had occurred all through their lives, caused Rupert to wonder where personality originated. It couldn’t lie in the genes as some scientists claimed — Ross was his identical twin. If it were in the genes then Rupert too, with the help of a whisky bottle, would have tried to obliterate the pain of living and rammed his car into a tree. Or, conversely, Ross also would have chosen the safety of religious life and lost himself in the rituals and self-admonishments in an attempt to suppress the ego.

Rupert picked and prized at the plastic stopper that popped open to reveal the contents inside. No angels at the tomb, he thought ruefully. He held the box up closer to his eyes and could just make out the greyness of the ash against the black interior. His hand and the box dropped to his lap.

“Oh … Ross…”

The weight was dragging at his heart and constricting his throat, preventing him from breathing. The feeling was made worse by his attempt to stifle the sobs that were straining to be released. His mind raced through an assortment of images of his life with his twin — childhood scenes confused with adult conversations, the face of his brother one minute laughing, the next sobbing into Rupert’s chest.

Gathering himself together, he sat upright. He lifted the box again and, tilting it towards him, dipped two fingers tentatively through the opening. The ash felt cool and some adhered easily to the sweat on his fingertips. He withdrew them and stared at them blankly, his mind having shifted to that empty space known to those in shock. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head to his chest and brought the fingers to his head. Lightly touching the space between his eyebrows, he began to apply the ashen traces of his brother to his forehead in a barely discernible sign of the cross.

Remember Man That Thou Art Dust.

Chapter 2

Had only two weeks passed since Marjorie would find Rupert in the staff room spending time between lectures in easy chatter with colleagues? Now, after his brother’s death, he more often slipped quietly into his office and, she imagined, shut the door behind him in relief.

Marjorie knew this was where to find him. She knocked and entered his study at his invitation. He was sitting marking papers by the window. In the ten years that Rupert had inhabited this office, very little had changed. He was an orderly man, sometimes to a fault. As a teacher though, he was renowned for his knowledge and his patience. Marjorie fancied that she could tell more about her staff on visiting their offices than she could by visiting their homes, which for some, like Rupert, was just a room in the College. For most who taught theology here, teaching was their life, and their offices reflected that life. Sometimes they were sad places, especially for the residents, no photographs of family and friends, no impractical presents from children, no sign of other interests or hobbies. However, this was not true of Rupert, and in some ways, this was his contradiction. His office was sparse, but there were photographs, small ones in wooden frames of his mother, his brother Ross, and of his niece, Neti. These did not sit publicly upon his desk, but on the bookshelf across the room. Each photograph, she noted, was angled to take in the others while also facing him at his desk.

He looked up and smiled at her; she was struck by the gauntness of his face — not that anyone else seemed to have noticed, or if they had, no one had commented. Perhaps it was the light diffused by the old diamond-paned windows behind him that made his skin look sallow and his eyes appear haunted. She wished he would turn on the light so that she could appraise him more carefully.

“Hello,” he said.

She stood inside the doorway. There was something about this time of the afternoon that made her feel melancholy, as if life itself might decide whether to continue or not. In the clearer light of the earlier day, everything seemed to have more reality. This College, its yellow sandstone buildings and carefully maintained gardens, successfully gave the impression of all that is solid and established, of order and substance. But in this light, this twilight, the sandstone wall that Marjorie could now see through Rupert’s window was colourless. The students milling at its base looked tired and less self-assured than they had only a few hours earlier. She looked at Rupert, who was making a final correction to the paper in front of him, and, for a moment, Marjorie was struck with a sense of futility, as if all that took place within the College walls — the supposed sense of purpose and commitment — amounted to nothing.

I must be tired, she thought.

Rupert rose from his seat, gesturing towards the two chairs on the far side of the room.

He crossed the room and waited for her to sit before seating himself opposite her.

Marjorie placed the envelope she was carrying on the coffee table between them. She looked into his eyes.

They’re haunted, she thought.

His normally long, thin face was thinner still and pale, almost grey. Marjorie feared for him. Rupert was forty-two and, although he was lean and conservative in his habits, he was of an age at which two of their colleagues had suffered sudden heart-attacks; one of them fatally.

“How are you? … We miss you in the staff room.”

“I’m all right.”

She leaned towards him, her voice dropping a tone.

“How did it go at the weekend?”

There was a pause before he answered.

“Well, we scattered his ashes where he wanted.”

His voice was practical and steady, but she noticed the colour rise in his face.

“That’s about it really… It’s all over now.”

“What about Neti?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“She made an inappropriate comment at an important moment.”

Marjorie noticed the flicker of irritation on Rupert’s face.

“It’s probably the only way she knew how to cope with it.”

“Yes.”

“How are the two of you getting along?”

“Like any fifteen-year-old and a stuffy forty-year-old might!”

“Your words or hers?” Marjorie said smiling.

A small smile forced itself onto Rupert’s lips.

“Mine. Neti would never use a tame word like ‘stuffy’.”

“When are you moving?”

“Neti’s away with her friend’s family at the moment. I’ll move into the house tonight. She’ll be home tomorrow.”

Marjorie took an intake of air and let it out slowly as she spoke, “It’s not going to be easy…You’ve lived here for a long time on your own.”

“I know, but I lived in the religious community for twelve years,” he offered with hope. He looked down at his hands. “I’m going to need your advice on raising a child — an adolescent, I mean.”

Her eyes followed his to the gold band on his finger.

“Ross’s ring?”

He didn’t look up.

She spoke to his bent head, “Will everything be all right Ru, financially, I mean?”

Thoughtfully, Rupert raised his head.

“Despite Ross’s limitations as a father, he has left a considerable legacy for Neti. It makes me wonder if he knew …”

The air felt heavy between them. She reached for the envelope on the table.

“I thought you might be interested in this.”

She slid the letter from its jacket and held it out to him.

He took it from her. “What is it?”

“A letter…a request from a post-graduate student — PhD, I think, in neuroscience. She is wanting to interview anyone here who has had ‘an intense religious experience’ to use her words. I thought you might—”

“Ohno …no…I don’t think so,” he said handing the letter back to her.

“Just think about it.”

She slipped the letter back into the envelope and placed it on the table as she rose to leave.

He rose with her.

Marjorie paused at the door and placed her hand on Rupert’s arm in a gesture that revealed their long friendship.

“It might be what you need…” she said, “to talk about it again.”

He saw her expression and smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Rupert closed the door behind her and turned back to his desk, avoiding the envelope still sitting on the table. The marking of papers seemed to be an endless task, made more so by the fact that he had to reread sections of students’ work more often than usual. He found it difficult to focus on the content, and when he did, it seemed to be trivial and irrelevant. He knew that this was unfair, that each student deserved his full attention and to be taken seriously. Since Ross’ death and funeral, however, it was increasingly difficult to assign significance to anything. When Ross was alive, he hadn’t thought that his brother gave his life its motivation, but it now felt that there was little reason to go on without him, except for his responsibility to Neti. He didn’t want to end his life, but he felt that if it did end, it wouldn’t matter. If Ross could go …so could he. He remembered that he had even felt some envy as the coffin was lowered to the flames. He didn’t want to be the one left behind and felt that the greatest void existed in living, not in dying.

He thought about Neti and how she felt. She had given nothing away emotionally in the last two weeks. At her father’s funeral, she sat impassively, studying her nails, although her chin was tucked close to her chest as if to contain anything that might leak from her heart and mind. He felt overwhelmed by the need to protect her but was daunted by the responsibility he was about to take on.