Marcus smiles broadly, shaking his head. “Ah! No, not at all. He said: ‘Make us a pot of tea, please.’ It’s different.”
Farah looks incredulous. “The difference between making us tea and blowing us all up are the words pot and cup? What if you mix them up?”
Marcus laughs, before he realizes that she’s serious. “That’s impossible. You’d never make a cup of tea when there’s a group, would you?”
*
Not long after, Benedict joins us, his attention still absorbed by his notebook. “Make us a pot of tea, would you please, Marcus,” he says absently.
Farah flinches and my eyes flick to Marcus as he clicks the blue switch without a second thought.
Vikram puts down his journal and gives me an inquisitive look. “Tell me, Kyle, what brought you to this place?”
“I have epilepsy,” I say. “I think I must be having a seizure.” A meaningful look passes between Vikram and Benedict.
“Eduardo had epilepsy, too,” Vikram replies. “People with epilepsy look different in this world, don’t you think?” Benedict nods. Vikram continues: “You’re more … here than the rest of us. More comfortable in this place. Have you noticed?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Farah says.
“Is anything familiar about this place to you?” Vikram asks.
“Maybe … impressions, feelings. I can’t explain it.”
The air feels charged. Even Abi appears interested for a moment. Mugs clink as Marcus narrowly avoids dropping them. “Ow! Hot!” he hisses to himself.
“What is it?” I say.
“What does it feel like, coming back after a seizure?” Benedict says.
“Like dying and coming out the other side.”
Benedict raises his eyebrows. My words surprise me as much as they do him, but as soon as I say them I know they’re right.
“Most people only come here to die, maybe a few have made it back. But we have a theory that people with epilepsy are different. They come and go from this place whenever they have a seizure.”
“Of all of the people we studied, the only ones who had some form of memory of this place were those with epilepsy,” Abi says.
“Memory?” My heart knocks in my chest.
Benedict seems almost amused by my excitement. “Memory is a strong word, Kyle. We’re talking glimpses, fleeting visions. Things you might dismiss as dreams unless you had good reason not to. Tell me, did you know about this place before you came here?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. All the same, those snatches I saw … the man in my aura, the familiar, rushing sensations. There is something, I think. “But it might be different with the machine, right? I might remember more.”
“Perhaps. With the right protocol in place. That’s what we’re working towards.”
“But we don’t have time to wait,” I say. “Farah is sick.”
“Yes, yes,” Benedict says calmly. “We’ll monitor her, I promise.”
“But we could try? If I got back and I could remember, I could contact your colleagues and let them know the experiment is a success after all?” I catch a flicker of interest from Benedict. I press harder. “We’ve got to get the message back about this place, right? About what you’ve discovered.”
Abi’s eyes catch mine and then quickly dart away. “Benedict? It’s possible,” she says, hopeful. “It does seem that people with epilepsy are more prone to retaining memories. It is a chance we never had before.”
Benedict nods, and for a moment I think we’ve got him. “It could be important, I agree.” He gives me a regretful look. “But that’s exactly why we need to be extra cautious. We have new evidence, new lines of investigation. We mustn’t squander them.”
Vikram heaves a deep sigh: a signal that, for him at least, the conversation is over. He reaches behind the sofa and produces a pair of bongo drums from a pile of plastic bags and bubble wrap. He taps a short beat, adjusts the tension and taps again.
“Marcus,” he says. “It’s time.”
Marcus grins and unearths a guitar from the far corner of the room. He strums a few experimental, soft chords and then they begin to play.
It’s a slow, melancholy piece. The bongos beat a rough, syncopated rhythm, like somebody stumbling, walking beyond the point of exhaustion, while the guitar seems to dance around them, darting ahead and doubling back, skipping excitedly away but always in step. I was never much into music in the ordinary world, but here it paints pictures in my brain that feel vast and lonely.
I think of Jonah’s gang, making music in the service station.
“Well, this is what we do, isn’t it?” Benedict says, making a gesture that takes in the cluttered room and our small group. “We huddle together and make music to keep away the darkness. It’s what we did there, it’s what we do here. Everything else is window dressing.”
A chord tightens inside me, Jonah dancing, Levi playing his accordion. Benedict rummages in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of crumpled cigarettes. He lights one, inhales and breathes out in a deep, contented sigh. He offers the pack around. Vikram takes one, pops it in his mouth without breaking his rhythm, Benedict lights it for him. He holds out the pack to me and I shake my head.
“Are you sure?” Benedict says. “There’s no evidence that they cause cancer in this world.”
“There’s no evidence that they don’t,” Abi counters.
Benedict waves her away. He breathes another cloud of white smoke into the air above our heads. Farah wraps her arms around my arm and rests her head on my shoulder. Chiu curls up into a tight ball, watching Vikram with rapt attention.
After a while, Benedict leans forward.
