Locked In

In the beginning, after he realised what was happening, he had experienced uncontrollable terror and a form of panic the depths of which he would never before even have been able to imagine. His horror was all the more horrible, because – in the unusual circumstances - it had absolutely no means of expression.  

Over the next few days that feeling had given way to despair, and to a depression of a kind previously unknown to him.   It couldn’t be true; it couldn’t be happening to him?  Then he calmed himself down by thinking that it was probably only temporary – that it would not last, and in a few days, he would gradually find that his world opened up again.  Back to normal.  Except it didn’t. 

Slowly he became aware of his limited circumstances – obviously he couldn’t move – at all.  He could distinguish between light and shade somewhat; he could feel the sheets touching his right calf occasionally.  He couldn’t smell any of the usual hospital smells so he assumed that that sense had also gone.  What he could do was hear; just a bit, occasionally, and only through one ear.  But nothing coherent.

After the first few weeks of experiencing all the most intense emotions in turn, the final prevailing sensation was one of … boredom.  He realised that he must be being fed and watered, he was still alive, but he had no sensation of those events.  He was occasionally aware that people were talking to him, but only vaguely, and he couldn’t make out any words.  He assumed that if family or friends were talking to him, they would be holding his hand or some such, but he had no sensation of any such contact.

In the end, having exhausted himself repeating all of the many questions he had about his current situation, there was nothing to occupy his mind. He vaguely remembered that Pascal had once said something to the effect that humanity’s problems stemmed from man’s inability to sit quietly alone in his room.  He now understood this all too keenly.  He would have welcomed even shitty daytime TV as a distraction, but there was nothing.  So, he started trying to imagine what it was he thought he should be experiencing. 

He imagined the feel of the sheets against his legs and torso; he imagined being fed lukewarm hospital porridge – or was he being fed intravenously?  He imagined looking around a private room in a hospital and tut-tutting as he inspected under the furniture for dust; and he imagined trying to watch daytime TV and being annoyed and distracted by the sounds of the ward.  It worked; and initially he was rather pleased with himself for the wide range of sensations he was able to ‘experience’, or manufacture.  However, his triumph was muted when he realised that, in the end, they were mundane sensations and all he was managing to do was simulate an existence only slightly less boring that his locked-in reality.

He had to get out of that bed, and out of the hospital, or he would go insane. 

So, he did. 

At first, he just imagined moving a toe; then a finger; then a foot; then a hand. And after much time and concentration, he managed to move his heavy legs, and manoeuvre himself out of the door to his room, and out of the unknown environment in which he was imprisoned. He walked around outside and felt the sun he imagined he might really feel and smelled the air he thought he might really smell.

And, ultimately, borne from this initial small but significant escape came his ultimate breakthrough – he started travelling - travelling down the road, then to the next village, then to great metropolises, then the world. 

He began by going back to every place in the world he had ever remembered visiting. His early holidays with his parents; travelling with college friends; his honeymoon; and then every single holiday trip, business trip and weekend break that he and Claire had ever been on.  Over the next few weeks, or was it months or years – he couldn’t tell - he went back to La Rochelle with his parents, he went back to Edinburgh at New Year with his student flatmates, he went back to New York with his first job; he went on honeymoon with Claire to the Seychelles, and on short breaks to a wide range of cities; Prague, Barcelona, Istanbul, Rome, Paris, Cape Town, San Francisco, Hong Kong, Sydney, Auckland and Lisbon.  He even went back to the gruelling, painful week he spent walking the Great Wall of China for charity several years before – reliving every painful step, every nuance of his aching knee, his clothes dripping with sweat, his sodden neoprene knee-support having to be pulled up every 100 yards, the sensation of having to walk at an angle up and down countless and annoyingly differently sized steps and the slowly dawning realisation that he had managed to contract asthma in middle age.

And then, suddenly, he had been everywhere in the world in his mind that he had ever been to before.  So, there he was again, trapped and bored again; and bored, and bored and so fucking bored.

Then he went through the looking glass.  Afterwards he was amazed it had taken him so long to think of it.  Why should he be restricted in doing things, and going places, that he had actually been to – he was travelling in his mind anyway, so why not go elsewhere?  He had seen movies, and read books, and seen photographs of many other places in the world – in any event, he had the infinite resources of his now expanding imagination. 

He also realised that he had another key problem to address.  He had no idea how long his current situation was going to go on for, and his imagined wanderings were simply not taking long enough.  He had been transporting himself, and his travelling companion, to the chosen destination seemingly immediately; sweeping himself from one intriguing location in that city to the next instantaneously.  This would have to stop.  He vowed henceforth to conduct all journeying and holidaying in real time.  This would have to be taken seriously. So now he discussed each trip with Claire – even arguing about the itinerary, planned the travel, bought the tickets, packed bags and drove to the airport.  Then he would park the car, queue up with everybody else and check in, go through the interminable and boring security checks, wait in the airport and board, sit through the flight – reading a book or watching a movie – land, go through immigration checks, take a taxi to the hotel – everything that he would have had to do in ‘real’ life. 

That worked; everything took a lot longer, and that was just what was needed. 

After a while he realised that, even though he wanted to operate in real time, he might as well up the comfort stakes a little. So, he started to make sure that he consciously used British Airways for all his flights and soon managed to get a Gold frequent traveller card so that he could wait in the executive lounge at the airport, and regularly arranged an upgrade to First Class.  That was much nicer; and it amused him to think that the long reclining seats better befitted a person who was stuck in a prone position in real life.  Taking more and more control of his environment, he found that he could usually talk his way into an upgrade even when one had not been arranged in advance.  He also made sure that the best limousines awaited him when he arrived at new destinations, and the very attentive staff at the five-star hotels all remembered his name. 

He had never been a real foodie before, but now he ate out at all the best restaurants.  He let the Concierge in the hotel make all the arrangements; only the best, nothing less than two Michelin stars.  He also started to appreciate fine wines far more than he ever had before.   He remembered that the aficionado’s view was that the best Bordeaux wines represented the pinnacle of the wine-makers’ art.  So, at the next twenty or so Michelin restaurants he made the rounds of the best clarets: Pauillac, Margaux, Petrus, St Julien, St Estephe, Pomerol, St Emilion.  But they palled, and he decided to sample Burgundy instead, and quickly found that these wines were much more suited to his taste.  He made his way up through Côte de Nuits, Gevrey-Chambertin, Aloxe Corton – all the way up to Romanée-Conti, and after that he decided he was never going ‘down-market’ again.  By now he was paying the equivalent of £6,000 - £8,000 per bottle in local currency; but, luckily, he was always able to imagine an ever-expanding income to match his increasing expenditure.   He wondered where all this detail came from; the names of the wines and so on – but assumed that he had read more widely then he thought and remembered more about previous forays into wine tasting than he had imagined. 

By now he realised he was no longer in complete control about what happened in his mind, there was an element of dreamlike randomness. At first this disconcerted him, then it made him realise this was all going to be that much more interesting.

As well as getting more and more profligate, he also became very generous.  It started when they met some old friends in the Spice Market in Istanbul over a massive jar of over-priced Iranian saffron and invited them to dinner. He loved the fact that it was almost the only country in Europe where you could say, “Oh, we’re having dinner in Asia tonight, would you like to join us?”  Of course, they did.

One night in Sydney Claire said she didn’t feel well; so he went out for the scheduled dinner by himself.  This was real shame: that evening’s culinary destination was Jonah’s Restaurant in Whale Beach, some 30 miles up the coast.  Furthermore, he had arranged a romantic sunset seaplane trip up there, and a room for the night.  He tried to persuade her to come, but she was adamant. In between bouts of vomiting she said, “No, you go – it’d be a shame to miss out. I’m just going to be ill all night anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”   He felt guilty; but he went.  The plane ride up was everything he was expecting; taking off from Rose Bay with the early sunset-red glow illuminating the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge. 

He took photos to show Claire later.

Suddenly, over the previously pellucid blue Tasman Sea to the east he saw a dark rainy squall on the horizon.  The pilot saw it at the same time.  It moved towards them astonishingly quickly.  He could tell by the way that the pilot glanced at it repeatedly that he was worried; very worried.  “Listen”, said the pilot, “this could get bloody hairy; we’re outa here.  Dinner’s postponed.  Buckle up sport”.

With that he veered the now seemingly tiny and fragile seaplane to the west, inland.  The squall was very closed to them now, threatening a tornado-like wind, deep black rain and promising little visibility. 

“What are you going to do?!”

“Land the fucker!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere I bloody can, mate.  Hold on”.

The plane now swooped low and fast banking even further to the left.  At that point they were totally overtaken by the weather front.  The planet just disappeared.  Fleetingly it crossed his mind that he was angry – this was all happening in his imagination; it was his manufactured world!  All he had to do is change what was happening – by the power of thought.  He concentrated. But he knew it was useless; he was no longer in control. 

Neither was the pilot.  By now the plane was plummeting sideways – and down, and down, and… nothing.

He woke up.  Was he really waking up, or was he dreaming he was waking up, or waking up in a dream?  He felt a hand on his hand, he struggled to open his eyes. He saw light, he saw shapes. He saw one shape. A shape that, slowly, he thought he recognised. He heard noises, he heard words, a voice – a voice he thought he recognised.  Claire; but was it really Claire – or more imaginings.

He looked around; it looked like a hospital, and – for the first time – it smelled like one.

“Ben….Ben! Are you there? Can you hear me? Oh my God; Ben! Ben?!”

He tried to move his head towards her. He failed, but it must have been noticeable.

“He’s waking up!  Help!!  Ben!  Christ Ben.  Jesus Christ - what a fright you have given me.   These have been the longest two days of my life…”