Conversation

Synopsis for the novella "CONVERSATION".

It's late at night and a young man is walking to his death. Or so he thinks. He is making his way to a high bridge, trying to ignore his inner voices. He stands in the middle of the bridge looking for the determination to go over. Despite his desperation he falters and is confronted by an old man. Curiosity gets the better of him and he follows the old man through the streets of Bristol where a conversation begins. At first the young man, Sam, thinks he is humouring the old man, but slowly realises that he is being drawn into a deeper mystery. The old man, Frank, begins to outline what he calls a "survival mechanism", which turns out to be a whole way of life. Sam's cynical and obsessively intellectual facade is continually challenged by Frank. By the time they get to Cabot Tower, Sam is hooked; although bewildered by what is happening to him, and finding himself oscillating between extremes of feelings, he is convinced that Frank is the custodian of some huge secret truth. But Frank's intentions are more subtle, he is not presenting some gift of truth, merely providing Sam with the means to find his own form of expression. As dawn comes Sam's world of feelings - indeed his whole life - is turned around, much to his own surprise and disbelief. But it is not over with the rising sun. Another surprise still waits for Sam..............

SAM was alone. Walking across the Downs he listened to the squelching sounds made by his wet shoes. His eyes fell into a kind of trance, staring at the grass turned to silver by the bright moonlight. He stopped, felt the damp creeping between his toes, felt his resolve slipping. He lurched forward, as if a sudden movement could surprise his fear and leave it behind. Down the hill, past the Zoo, up to the Observatory with its camera obscura. He paused at the top and looked down to the Bridge, lit up like a Christmas tree, spanning the dark gorge. Swallowing his nausea, he descended.

Sam stood in front of an old iron sign, which told him that each pedestrian, cycle, cart, carriage or animal must have a ticket. He usually found it amusing that the tickets were still only 2p, as if he had gone back in time. Not funny this night. Sam bought a ticket from the sleepy attendant, who went through the ritual of issuing it one-handed, with the other he clutched tightly, a red thermos flask. Sam walked slowly on to the Bridge. Signs told him things. He could talk to the Samaritans in confidence, speeds restricted to 15mph. Another sign informed him of the man who built the bridge, and when he built it. He passed a huge brick tower, one of four that held the massive steel cables, suspending the bridge across the gorge. Mounted on the tower, a camera, with the words "Focus" on its side. Hoping that he did not look suspicious, Sam walked more quickly till he reached the centre of the bridge, where the main cables dipped and met the road.

He thought, how is it that moonlight can make a city seem quieter? Who gives a shit, another of his thought-voices answered. It's too late to worry about all that now.

No traffic sound came up from the Portway far below. Sam closed his eyes and listened. It was quiet. The hiss of the breeze in the cables, very faint traffic sounds drifting from the city centre, a swishing sound coming up from the river. He leaned over and looked down to where, 300ft below, the river currents darkly crossed each other, occasionally flashing a murky silver as the moon touched lapping water. He shivered.

It's a beautiful night, he thought. I'm glad, it should be a fine night. What difference does that make?! It's appropriate. I must do it soon, the cameras will notice me if I don't move, they will send for the police. He reached in to his jacket pocket for the letter he intended to leave behind. Is it ok? he thought. Is it too dramatic? Could it be better phrased? No, no, it's fine, come on, just do it. Jump you bastard, leg over and down you go. Come on, do it now, what is the matter? Jump! Climb on to the barrier, push yourself out in to the dark. Jump! In seconds it will be all over, gone.....

Sam's mind wandered all over the place, random thoughts, disassociation, drifting nervously. He thought of his little flat in Westbury Park, to the details of this, his last day, which for all his efforts, did not seem like a last day at all. He realised that his thoughts had drifted, and feared last minute hesitations, of becoming the "man on the ledge". And now it was happening. He wished he had killed himself on one of the countless other times when despair had flattened him, sucked him dry and lifeless.

Quickly now, quickly, what is the problem, he thought. It can't just be fear, I don't believe that. All I have to do, climb over this barrier and jump. There will be no pain, I'll be unconscious - dead - when I hit the water. I am not scared of dying, I'm not, I want extinction! What is it, what is it?

He never would have guessed, not in a million years. Sam felt ridiculous. Like many people who do not care for themselves he had a strong hidden vanity, the vanity of those who feel ignored and misused by the world. He looked out across the gorge at the rooftops of Clifton, saw the river bending away under the fly-over, passing the ugly bonded warehouses. The orange street lights of the flyover shone in a parody of the cold stars. A deep misery came over him, a weird combination of panic and paralysis, an impossible alliance that froze him to the spot. He truly wanted an ending, dreaded the "man on the ledge" possibility, but could not jump. The more he oscillated in his thoughts the more he froze, a vortex of immobility. A choking sensation began to grip Sam's throat, as a gust of wind shook the bridge and sent a shiver up his spine. Salt entered his mouth, he realised that he was crying, and he dropped the letter in surprise. The paralysis eased off.

Sam bent down to pick up the letter, and saw a pair of green and purple trainers about fifteen feet away. Startled, he straightened up to see an old man standing there looking at him, though he had heard no approaching footsteps. Conscious of his tears Sam wiped them away roughly with his sleeve. After what seemed an age the old man spoke, his voice firm but crackly:

Sam was still too surprised to respond, and just stared dumbly. The old man spoke again, an edge of impatience in his voice:

A little piqued but recovering himself enough Sam examined the strange-looking old man. And he was old indeed, wrinkled and completely bald, even no eyebrows. He was Sam's height, but hunched and thinner, wearing a much-too-big black cardigan over an outrageous Hawaiian shirt, ablaze with reds and yellows. Black baggy trousers went down to meet the green and purple trainers. His hunched posture, carapace-like cardy, hooded eyes and wrinkly neck made him seem like some big tortoise standing upright on hind-legs. But not a friendly tortoise. The old man's face was expressionless and his dark eyes were hard. He showed no further sign of speech or movement and his continued stare made Sam look away, feeling guilty like some school-boy caught by the teacher. Sam hid his embarrassment by speaking, his voice quiet and strained:

And with that, the old man turned and walked away. Sam was too stunned to speak at first but then called out to the receding figure:

"Hey! Just a minute. Aren't you going to try and stop me, where are you going, what are you doing?"

"What is it! What do you want. You come up to me on this fucking bridge, you stop...... you interrupt me, and now you are going to fuck off, just like that?"

"Yes, just like this. But you can come too if you want. Got anything better to do?.... Remember what I said".

And he continued on his way, leaving Sam clutching his letter, mouth wide open.

If Sam felt bad before, that was nothing compared to this. After all I've been through, he thought. Now this shit! As usual his thoughts began to interrupt themselves:

Sam began pounding his fists on the railing, hurting his hands, till from nowhere a new thought came:

No, he said.... what was it? You have lost... no. You've missed something. I have missed something? What does he mean?

He's winding you up. So what? He's a fruitcake out of the local bin, or an old queen on the make. He probably...

Curiosity got the better of Sam and shaded all his thoughts. He began to tap the railing with his hand, not noticing the aches. A strange kind of excitement came over him, a mess of feelings he could barely register as they whirled around him. He held the letter up to the moonlight, and after one last hesitation, screwed it up and hurled it out in to the air. He ran after the old man, who had not gone far, and was already turning to meet Sam as he ran down Sion Hill. Feeling suddenly both shy and angry Sam shouted at the old man:

But the mood had gone too far, and flipped over. Without any warning they were both suddenly laughing, Sam's a loud braying, the old man snickering, his shoulders jerking up an down. Sam could not stop, fresh tears stinging his eyes as he slumped on to a nearby damp bench. Eventually quiet returned. The old man stared at the Bridge. Sam felt instantly depressed, putting his head in his hands he sighed, and spoke:

"Who or what are you? If you are not Samaritans, are you a social worker or something? Or did you slip out when no one was looking? If you are cruising you are in for a disappointment and if you tell me your name is Clarence I shall certainly kill you".

"Oh dear, a smart-arse. Never mind. No I am not a social worker, a senile escapee, a hollywood angel or any kind of angel. I gave up sex a long time ago".

"I cannot tell you everything right now, it would be meaningless to you, lets just say that I must soon keep an appointment, before that happens I must help someone. That someone turns out to be you".

Sam's mood was changing again as they spoke, it was as if the misery had bottomed out in to a wide sadness, a kind of weariness that was deflating. There was a pause, before Sam spoke again:

"Up there, on the bridge, I was going to...... I still might jump, and soon..... But now, well, I feel...........".

Sam lapsed in to silence and shyness. The old man looked at Sam, and spoke softly:

They strolled on down the hill, an old man with slow steady steps, and a young man, tense, looking round, stuffing his hands in to his pockets, elbows sticking out at awkward angles.

THEY entered the moonshadow of the Avon Gorge Hotel and turned left in to Caledonia Place. A terrace of large victorian houses overlooked a small park, ornate iron street-lamps cast yellow pools of light, adding to the old feel of the street. A mountain-bike chained up looked out of place. Sam wondered how the iron balconies, original by the look of them, had survived both world wars. He felt drained and empty, and weird, walking in the small hours with a total stranger. Anything to avoid killing myself, he thought. His curiosity woke up:

"Ok, you want to keep it cryptic, but tell me something about why you have to help someone. And what did you mean, I have missed something".

"I am not going to tell you, yet, why I have to help someone, you, as it happens. But the help is there; let's say, I have something you need."

"I can't just tell you, there are ways of doing these things, rules if you like, though I prefer to think of them as understandings. For us to go further, you have to ask me for help."

Sam could not keep the derision out of his voice, for the feeling came as they talked that he would play the old boy along, perhaps it would be amusing, pass the time till he could think of another way to off himself. But these smug feelings evaporated as he saw the look on the old man's face. He was leaning forward intently, waiting for Sam's response. Sam felt as if he was being tested, as if something important hung on his words.

Somehow the atmosphere had changed between them, somehow the old fart had engineered some tension, though Sam could not figure out how he had done it. Sam decided to equivocate:

"Couldn't we just walk to the Tower? Do we really need all this mystery stuff?"

The old man leaned in closer to Sam, and the feelings of disquiet became even stronger, he could not understand it. One moment he was humouring the old man, and the next he felt as if his life was on the line.

The last shred of Sam's scorn vanished like a wisp of smoke in a gale. At that instant he knew, without any fancy reductions, crafty evasions, or any of his battery of well-worn excuses, that he did want something. Although what that might be he had not the slightest clue. He sighed, and faced the old man:

The old man cupped his hand behind his ear in a marvellous parody of infirmity, and in a quivering voice said:

If Sam was expecting a look of triumph or mockery on the old man's face, he did not get it. The old man just smiled, and perhaps even looked a little sad. He held out his hand for Sam to shake, and announced in a loud clear voice:

Frank's hand-shake was surprisingly firm, and despite the cool of the night, was hot to the touch. Frank strolled off, Sam following after, shuffling his feet, noting that he could only hear his own foot-falls echoing along the terraced buildings. Again unhappy with the silence Sam spoke:

"That's obvious, you were trying to kill yourself and making a mess of it. There is a time and a place to kill yourself, a necessary mood. You did not have it. So you missed something".

Frank stopped, looked the still smouldering Sam up and down, slowly and carefully, then continued:

"You are careful about what you wear, I think your outfit was chosen with deliberation, consciously or unconsciously, and this is what it says to me. It's all casual, but newish, well fitting, clean. On your belt loop there is the remains of a dry cleaning docket, you dry-clean your jeans, that shows a marked fastidiousness. Levis too, not imitation or cheaper brand. Black leather jacket, but not a biker's, old and worn in, but expensive once. Black leather, symbol of rebellion, but yours is a cautious statement. Political badges on your lapel. Expensive but sensible walking shoes, darkened with dubbin, you look after them. A stud in your left ear, so probably not gay. Not so young, I guess you are in your middle-thirties. Your body is tense, structurally defensive, you have a permanent frown. Your accent is southern English, urban, middle class, but you lapse in to working class when you are angry. I would guess you live near here in Clifton, or perhaps Westbury Park, you are not trendy enough for St Pauls or Montpelier. So put all this together with the fact that you are inappropriately trying to kill yourself in a very dramatic manner and what do we have?"

Frank paused and walked away, holding his chin in an exaggerated gesture of deep concentration. He then slapped his hands together and pointed at Sam:

"You are not terminally ill. Not a jilted lover either, too cold and intellectual for that. But you do have deep emotional frustrations discernable in your rigid posture. I think you are a "meanings-man". Everything must make sense, and be neat and rational, you are a failed philosopher. You have been up and down the aisles of the soul-searchers supermarket for years and you finally get to the check-out counter with an empty basket. You cannot tolerate a life without meaning, which insults your vanity, so you decide not to live at all! But this would not be enough, no, there must be more, something to really tip the balance. What does the meanings-man usually lack? Human comfort. Yes you probably demand too much of your friends and lovers, you partially reject them in the name of being "honest" and then feel vindicated when they reject you. This comedy has probably gone on since college, you must have gone to college, your despair has that kind of smell. What else? Anything else? Oh yes, the gloss of career hopes wear off in the mid-thirties, so job troubles too perhaps? ....... There! How did I do?"

Sam held a cynical distance at first, but as Frank went on he felt more and more stung. A huge anger began building up and he started rehearsing his most cutting remarks, when they fizzled and vanished. The old fart's right, thought Sam, damn it, how can he be so close? And Sam saw that he could do almost anything, even wring Frank's thin papery neck, than give any real thought to his guesses.

Frank was not gloating, or mocking, or revelling in his insights. If anything, he still looked sad. However, despite his new mood Sam could not find it in his heart to be anything but angry, though his words came out hollow when he replied:

"Very clever Sherlock. Are you a shrink, as well as an angel of mercy? Yes, I suppose you were near enough...."

Frank stepped back and opened his arms, Sam chuckled at the silly expectant expression on the old man's face. Sam seemed embarrassed, so Frank spoke again:

"Go on, try. Concentrate. Take everything in to account, physical appearance, age, mannerisms, make a few deductions and then add the time and place."

"Ok, ok. Well, you're old, Christ knows how old, early seventies perhaps. You seem fit, though I guess you have had alopecia or somesuch, to loose all your hair and eyebrows. Your clothes are a weird mixture, but not old. They are not hand-me-downs, you bought them yourself. You like bright colours, but off-set by dark things. All your clothes are loose, but well-fitting, so being comfortable is important to you. Yes, hence the trainers, I have never seen any old person wearing trainers. You have a tattoo just visible above your wrist, it looks very old, all faded blue, so not there for fashionable reasons. I shall take a leap. Merchant Navy! You are not uptight enough to be ex-Royal Navy. You speak with just a hint of a Scottish accent, a little like..... what's his name... Sean Connery. And you live abroad...."

"Old people don't dress like that here, but I have been to the States, so....."

Sam, warming to his task, paced up and down for a while, taking the occasional glance at Frank, who was grinning broadly. Then Sam stopped, grinning himself now, he began:

"Right, here it goes. What would make an old man, who is obviously not short of a bob or two, who is - or seems - to be quite compos mentis, who is not - he says - trying to get laid, wander round Clifton Bridge in the small hours? You would not answer my questions, but you did hint at some kind of appointment you have, that you must help someone first. This way of helping someone seems a bit drastic, so maybe this is some kind of weird atonement?..... No, that does not fit.... Has to be something personal.... Did you try to kill yourself once? On the bridge, like me? Did a strange old fart come and interrupt you? There! How did I do?"

"You don't need to know. You didn't tell me yours, you don't need to know mine, especially as it is not me that was stupidly trying to kill himself so ineffectively."

as he pointed at Frank. "I certainly don't need any late night bald old weirdo."

And with that Sam turned and walked off. But Frank called out, not in the least bit angry, stopping him in mid-stride:

"You need someone. Perhaps not this bald old weirdo, but someone. You do not know your way in."

Sam stood still, facing back towards the bridge. He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of his feelings, which were jumping around all over the place. It is true, he admitted to himself, I do need someone or something. And with this admission, his anger, which had been driving all the other feelings like some furious animal on a treadmill, withered away. He also realised that when he had asked Frank how to survive, he had not meant it. What a mess, he thought, what am I doing here? It's 2am, I am suicidal, I am walking through Bristol with a total stranger, asking him to save my life. But even as he thought this to himself, it did not ring true, it began to look like an act, a posture. Am I suicidal?

Oh sure, life's just wonderful, go back tomorrow and tell your boss, sorry! Just joking. And phone Jacky up and tell her you didn't mean to call her a tight-arsed superficial bitch.......

And while you are at it why not try and get back all your savings you donated to Greenpeace......

Oh shit... Hang on. All that's just trying to make it real, it isn't really real. Why didn't I jump?

And round and round went his thoughts, the very process itself making him bone tired. He turned to look at Frank, who was just standing under a lamp-post, smiling. And Sam saw what he was doing, just explaining away something he could not handle. He saw then that he could not accept the things that Frank had said about him. He could not, would not, look at them for even a second. The suspicious nature of his avoidance hit home. He had always done this, listened to other people and then constructed his own versions of what they had said and why they said it, and then - everso subtly - edited out anything that contradicted his picture of himself, the clever young man. Why can't I let go? he thought. There was no answer.

Frank strolled on, his snail-pace causing his arms to sway gently as he moved. Sam adjusted his pace beside Frank, moving sideways every now and then to avoid lamp-posts. At first he thought Frank walked slowly because he was old, but on reflection, it seemed that everything Frank did was deliberate. Walking this slow was a new experience for Sam, he felt himself slowing down generally. He looked sideways at Frank, who ignored him. Sam found himself wondering about the old man. Despite Frank's telling insights and calm manner he could not quite take him seriously . The whole thing seemed too unlikely, even so, he now wanted to hear Frank's ideas. As if on cue, Frank broke the silence:

"What we shall talk of will not seem so strange, the ideas themselves appear in many different forms, in many different places. Have you done any psychotherapy? No? Shame, never mind. If something sounds a bit Zen, or a bit psychoanalytical, try not to latch on to the label, try not to see this as an intellectual exercise. It's personal, very personal."

This intrigued Sam, who considered himself a modest expert on Eastern teachings and their Western off-spring. The thought came to him that perhaps Frank was not a crack-pot after all, though this thought came and went without denting his cynical facade. Sam was curious now alright, but did not know that Frank had finally hooked him, following another one of his shrewd guesses. As soon as Sam opened his mouth Frank knew it was about to begin. Sam, of course, missed the particular smile that appeared on Frank's face. Sam just opened his mouth:

"Frank, I am interested to hear you talk of these things. I, too, have read something of these traditions and..."

"SHUT UP!" Frank was pointing at the startled Sam. "You can ask questions but we are going to establish some ground rules. First, I don't give a shit about your opinions, what you have read or what you think. I am interested in your honest questions about what I say, these I welcome, but the rest, scrap it! So think before you speak. Second, you must not ask any questions about me. It's you we are going to talk about, anything else is an irrelevance. Do you understand?"

Sam was speechless. No one had talked like that to him since he was at school. Anger flooded back, but vanished just as quick. He experienced a new feeling. His normal stock responses were all there in potential, any number, all lined up like cars at a traffic light, all raring to go. Sam saw himself cutting Frank dead with some caustic remark, saw shame and regret on Frank's face, saw himself walking nobly off. But he did none of these. What he felt was a curious kind of wistful nothingness, in which his normal feelings floated, and instead of them arriving like reflexes, like bullies elbowing their way in to action, they just floated. Objects. Which became just options. Frank, guessing Sam's mood - Sam did have a spectacularly stupid expression on his face - said in a gentler tone:

They turned left in to Princess Victoria Street, where the Gateway supermarket glared bright green, even late at night. The Clifton library looked to be the only building that might remember Princess Victoria. Frank stopped and examined some special offers in the window of Oddbins. Sam felt stoned, that was the nearest he could get to describing his spacey mood. He was surprised to find that Frank was talking to him, he had some difficulty focusing on Franks words.

".......so I shall not mention it again. Just bear in mind that any teaching is only a technique, nothing more. The crucial thing is to become aware of yourself without using your mind....."

Frank paused when he saw the spaced-out look on Sam's face. He placed both his hands on Sam's shoulders and fixed him with an intense gaze, speaking very slowly:

Frank looked a little longer in to Sam's cloudy brown eyes, then strolled off, speaking quickly, as if to himself:

"The best teachings are those which have their own planned obsolescence, a teaching which self-destructs when it has served its purpose. Like a boat that sinks, you use it to take you out to sea, where it sinks leaving you to swim under your own power. Down it goes, leaving not a trace to be turned in to rules, regulations, descriptions, prescriptions and dogma."

"I like that.... No, not the lamp, the idea that the teaching is a boat that sinks. I think that's what I shall call it, the boat that sinks. No, that's no good.... Nine Holes in the Boat. Yes, I like that, Nine Holes in the Boat."

"Of course. I am making it up, but I am not inventing anything. What I shall say comes straight from here."

Frank touched his heart with both hands. Despite his new mood of openness Sam could not stop a look of derision sliding across his face. Frank, not a bit put out, just laughed and said:

"Perhaps I would have more respect if I was a Zen master, with a thousand years of tradition behind me? Too bad, it's only me, a late night bald old weirdo. But I have something. Do you want it?"

It took a split-second for Sam to answer, but in that split-second he saw more clearly than before how his whole life had been one of evasion and manipulation of his fortified defences, rationalising his timidity. He had never done anything on trust:

"Good. But you must accept the ground rules. There is no great mystical ploy here, we are narrowing our concentration to just you, ok?"

Sam noticed that Frank's manner had changed, it was not just that he had shouted at him, or treated him like a kid, Frank now spoke with complete authority. Part of Sam hated this, but his reaction seemed so old hat, because Frank did not seem like a Headmaster or any other such figure. Sam's thoughts spaced out again, it was less than half an hour ago that he stood on the bridge! He flinched as Frank slapped him on the back:

"Concentrate! You must find a way in to your own life. Of course, really, you are inside your own life already. But it doesn't seem like it, either to you or to me. Another way to put it would be this: you must wake up! You're asleep, having a nightmare. Asleep in a burning building, you must wake up and leave before it is too late. And yet you carry on sleeping, carry on suffering. Why is that? There are a million, zillion explanations of the human condition, none of which we have time for. But I must stress this now, personal truth comes from experience, not comprehension. You feel truth, you cannot grasp it with your mind. And if you needed any more proof, look at you, clever young college fellow, already in his mid-thirties, so smart he's walking round with his head up his arse!"

Sam felt a flash of annoyance, but ignoring Frank's observation and subsequent chuckling, he spoke, becoming instantly aware of his condescending tone:

"You are making a clear distinction then, between mind, as some kind of biological super-computer and soul or spirit as a realm of feelings?"

"NO! It is exactly that kind of thing, that exactly, which you must let go of. What you just did was pull out an explanation , which sounded so wise, so rational. But what really happened, was a part of your mind trotting out a description for another part of your mind to flatter itself with understanding. Like two kids in a garden, your mind is, a garden surrounded by a high wall. And these two kids are telling each other stories about the world outside, only they have never seen it! Glimpses through the garden gate, which they elaborate and elaborate. One of the key things from the sinking boat is to see through this process."

"STOP! You've done it again, dummy! Let go of your cleverness and labels. I am not offering you a theoretical model. I am offering you a mechanism, a technique. If I say anything that seems like an explanation it will not be a picture of reality, it will only be a verbal trick to highlight the technique. Don't....."

Frank paused, staring at Sam's eyes, he continued in a slower more patient way:

A huge sadness descended on Sam, once again Frank's words had found their mark. He became bewildered as the usual parade of excuses, denials, and explanations leapt to attention. A rush of feelings swept through him, like express trains blasting through a small station, one after the other. His head hurt, he felt dizzy, silver flashes appeared at the edge of his vision. A huge jolt snapped him out of it. Frank had slapped him hard on the back again, causing Sam to scowl angrily. They walked on, Frank's slap had jolted him back to some sense of things, though he still felt light-headed and detached, and he still could not believe what was happening to him. Frank continued:

"So, the first technique, or hole in the boat if you like, is to find the way in. In the old, more rural days, this would often be called the Nose-Ring. The background to this is simple. Many teachings demand fierce techniques of punitive self-discipline, based on the idea that the self is worthless and must be thrust aside and transcended. Well, you can flog yourself, or sit in a cave and stare at the wall for ten years if you want to, but you don't need to do this. To say that the self is worthless is just the other side of the same coin as making the self paramount. But something must be done about the self, for it is a tyrant and must be encouraged to let go. The notion of the Nose-Ring is quite good, and comes form the idea of an obstinate bull. It is very difficult to move an obstinate bull. You can lasso it by the neck and pull, you can push it from behind, kick it, scare it, light a fire under it's arse, whatever. But if it has a ring through it's nose you can lead it as quietly as you like. To find the nose-ring of a bull is easy, even you , city-boy, could tell the difference between a bull's nose and arse. But how do you find the nose-ring of the self, to lead it gently and skilfully towards letting go? This analogy is ok, but we need something a bit more modern. How about ignition? A car is a wonderful thing, but it's useless if you can't start it. One small function enables all the other features of the car, transport, speed, comfort, warmth, access, to happen. As I guessed before, you have been up and down the aisles of the seekers supermarket, dipped in to everything from A to Z, from Alexander Technique to Zen meditation, but nothing has engaged you. Ignition has not occurred. As it happens, ignition is not so difficult, it only becomes difficult where the teaching has a strong form, well established "do's and don'ts", dogma. Ignition gets missed because individuals are required to identify with a teachings' ideology, or to put it another way, faith is more important than experimentation. Enough of that, we have to find your ignition. And here's how, I want you to think about fear. Fear..... But not just any fear. This must be fear without any cause, I don't want to hear about being nearly run over, waiting to see the headmaster, falling in the deep end, I don't want anything like that. I want real fear, that came from nowhere." Frank opened his arms, as if to emphasise the 'nowhere'.

"No good, no good. That's just trauma. Think, concentrate. I want real fear, with no apparent cause."

They turned right in to Regent Street, and walked downhill, passing the Pizza Provencale, where Sam used to go with Jacky. He realised that he was not thinking very hard. He dredged his memory and found something:

They paused for a moment, while Frank looked at oil-paintings in the window of a shop called Dahne, he seemed really interested. They strolled on, passing a barber shop called Aldoes, which had just one chair, Sam could not resist it:

"One chair too many for you, eh Frank? And sir does not need anything for the weekend."

"The real reason I got in to meditation and alternative things was because I wanted to feel as good as I did on drugs without taking damaging chemicals. After a while I got in to the teachings for their own sake. Looking back I guess I was searching for something, as you so cleverly pointed out. I liked meditation. I stopped doing it because....."

Sam stopped and stared, he was eye level with a flower bed. Beautiful forget-me-nots exploded over the brickwork, hanging down in profusion. He realised they had left the shops behind, had walked in to Lower Clifton Road. He also realised that he had never talked to anyone about this.

It crossed his mind to ask why time was short, but he let it go. He suddenly realised that he was quite excited at the thought of talking. He dived in:

"Meditation had been good, I felt I had been "getting somewhere", though I knew this attitude was wrong. That thing of meditation being about letting go of competition, of just doing it without being attached to any goals and so on. But it made me feel good and I wanted more, I felt peaceful and purposeful, I got in to it, you know........ Anyway, I was on holiday with a friend in France, a really remote place in the Cevennes, and I mean really remote. We were 20 Ks from the nearest main road, 7Ks off the nearest through road, at the end of a valley in an almost deserted village. It was quiet, and I mean really quiet. I loved it, I wanted somewhere special, to go further in to meditation. My friend was in to her own thing, writing, and we soon set up routines. We had the same routines everyday, times of being together and lots of time being just separate and quiet. I set up a practice of meditating early morning, late afternoon and before sleep..... At first I was disappointed, because nothing special was happening, I knew it was wrong wanting something special, but I did anyway. After a while the quiet of the place began to get to me. I had never been anywhere so profoundly silent. I cannot really describe it, even now. Natural sounds, the wind in the trees, a sheep dog barking across the valley, my friend making a cup of tea, my own breathing somehow added to the quiet. These sounds, which were definitely sounds, made the quiet more silent. See, I can't describe it....."

Sam looked around for inspiration, and saw in the distance, Cabot Tower, high on it's hill. He took a deep breath and released it, and then looked at Frank. Sam became aware of a strange pressure building up inside him. With another deep breath he continued:

"It was as if the quietness had a texture. As if, I could reach out my hand and touch it. I expected it to have a tactile quality, soft, velvety, like being under water. It felt like that, velvet pressure. I liked it at first, I felt that perhaps I was getting somewhere, though the feelings seemed to happen most outside meditation. And then, it happened during meditation, it got strange....."

"Meditation itself had been good but not extra special like I hoped. Then that afternoon, I got my wish. The quietness, which had been getting stranger, became really intense. It was not just an uncomfortable absence of sound, not some city-dwellers maladjustment. The quiet became a real thing. I had some way-out things happen on acid, but that was acid. This was different, no flashback stuff, this was very, very different. I felt suspended in this thick heavy sea of something, I was sat crossed legged on the bed, eyes shut, but I couldn't move, that was when I got scared, I was rigid. I did not feel that I was held, or forced or anything, but I was immobile, paralysed, and I really wanted to get up and move around. It was dark, no light at all, I couldn't open my eyes. The fear became much stronger. I felt myself receding or shrinking, and I heard this thin far off voice, shouting, "come back, it's a mistake, come back!" Then I became aware of this other person. Don't ask me how I knew he was there, because it was completely dark, but I knew, I felt him with total certainty. He was very powerful, I just knew he was immensely strong, he wasn't evil or anything, but he was grim, yet lighthearted as well. Somehow I knew he was very purposeful, dangerous and capable of anything. And I heard that voice, now tiny and far-off, screaming, "that's not me, that's not me, that's not me," over and over again. With a shock I realised that I was disappearing, and this other person was getting stronger, I could feel him laughing...... My body must have convulsed, because I found myself on all fours at the bottom of the bed, staring at he floor. I never meditated again."

"Yes. It is a very auspicious start to our conversation. It means you are a listener."

"Sam, I want you to say some more about the quietness, especially when it was strong, when you couldn't move".

Sam suddenly felt tired and propped himself up against some railings. They were at the top of a short flight of steps leading down past a huge old red sandstone wall. The street-lights made the wall glisten. His mind went blank and he looked at Frank stupidly.

Instantly Sam knew what Frank was getting at, despite the question being contradictory. His pulse quickened and he had to close his eyes. Six years, he thought, and it still scares the shit out of me.

Sam snapped open his eyes and found himself pointing at Frank with a shaking finger and faltering voice:

Sam began to shake violently, he gripped the railings firmly as his legs felt like jelly. And there was fear, not as bad as in France, but a strong shadow of it, fear of madness and loosing control. But this time there was something else, a kind of fascination, even though he was shaking with fear and felt like death warmed up, he was intrigued, he was not alone, somebody else knew about it, whatever it might be. Frank was looking at him and he realised that an answer was expected:

"It's a pressure, like a lull before an enormous thunder-storm. It's uncomfortable, like when you are holding your breath for as long as you can. It pushes me somehow, and this is the weirdest part, it is questioning me, not with words, but I feel quite clearly that it wants something......... What do you mean, I'm a listener?"

"Some people listen. Some look, some sing, some dance, some hurt themselves, some loose themselves playing a musical instrument, or in danger, or in helping others. You are a listener. Don't worry about all that, right now we have to find a way of describing what happens to you, for this is your way in. From now on, call it the Silence. Silence with a capitol "S", ok? Say some more."

"It is always there, though I only realised that just now as I spoke. I don't feel it all the time, but it's there."

"I know you said I was asleep or something, and that truth was felt, not grasped by the mind. But where is in, how will I recognise it when I get there?"

"Yes. Right here, right now, by this wonderful red wall. Come on, close your eyes. Close them! That's it. Bend your knees just a little, let your hands hang loosely...."

"Shut up! Don't say anything. I want you to listen. Doesn't matter what you are thinking, just let your thoughts ramble on. But listen, put all your effort in to listening......"

And he did. Sounds came one by one, building in to a quiet night symphony. First, the gentle buzzing of the street-light, then, a breeze he had been unaware of, rustling the trees across the road, next, faint traffic sounds from the city-centre, then, very faint, a low hum, perhaps a generator nearby, and he could hear moths colliding with the street light. After some time, to his amazement, he could hear the moths soft wingbeats. These blended, marked infrequently by a sudden sound, a cat howling, a distant motor-bike accelerating. Because it was quiet, Sam found it easy to concentrate on the sounds, now interwoven, even though he was aware of his thoughts firing off. He noticed, as he often had before, how his thoughts tumbled, like a stone falling down-hill will dislodge many others. Then with a shock, Sam felt it. Underneath the interwoven symphony of night sounds and his rambling thoughts he felt a most peculiar pressure, and he remembered Frank's word for it, the Silence. Yes, that was right, the right description. Franks voice sounded like a shout, yet it was only a whisper:

"Same. A pressure. Like something's going to happen. Like being at school and the teacher has asked you a question and he's waiting for an answer, the whole class is waiting, the whole world is waiting. That's not it. I can't describe it. It's not an absence of sound, but you're right, Silence is the right word."

Sam's eyes snapped open but Frank was already walking down the steps. With legs unsteady, Sam followed. At the bottom of the steps, Frank stopped suddenly, turned round and stared in to Sam's eyes. Sam was just about to speak when Frank almost shouted:

Sam did not understand Frank's urgency, but his growing sense of interest made him comply. He closed his eyes. Frank whispered:

Very quickly Sam heard the sounds of the night blend together again. He became so absorbed in listening that when Frank spoke again he nearly missed Franks request:

"This time look at your thoughts, I don't mean analyze them, I mean, just look at them."

Sam dutifully obeyed, and was stunned. Perhaps it was the way Frank emphasised the word "look", but Sam found himself examining his thoughts in a way he never had before. For all his meditation and soul searching Sam had always seen his thoughts as "his", something that "he" did. But now it felt as if his thoughts were just happening, grinding on by themselves, as if he was listening to an old man mumbling to himself on the top of a bus, or, as if switching on the radio and just skimming through the stations, catching unconnected fragments. He heard his thoughts commenting on the possible use of the building over the road, registering a hunger pang, remembering how beautiful the moss was, growing on the red wall, speculating about Frank. These thoughts seemed to be going on simultaneously, though he could only "follow" one at a time. Sam became uneasy at this disassociation, though he also felt a new calmness, or perhaps numbness. Frank spoke, Sam realising that the old man had an uncanny knack of knowing his mood:

"Of course, once you have seen that your mind is just a machine, things can never be the same again. The Silence can help you, sometimes. Anyway, the process has begun."

For once in his life Sam was truly speechless. He did not know what had happened, or what Frank was talking about, he could not concentrate on anything. But from nowhere a question came:

AT the bottom of the steps they joined a small road and followed it down hill, on the left they came to a cemetery. The rusted gates were padlocked together. They paused and Frank pointed to a sign a few yards behind the gates:

The cemetery was dark but not at all forbidding. Walkways split off left and right and three huge chestnut trees cast deep night shadows which swallowed up the paths. A few mausoleums and tombstones looked like ancient monuments, seen from a distance. The whole place fit snugly in to the side of the hill. Sam noticed that the padlock was rusted. No one used this little haven of peace.

Despite his earlier attempt to get first hand experience Sam did not become gloomy at this turn of the conversation. He had always been fascinated by death, intellectually that is.

Sam noticed that Frank was smiling his irritating little smile, but he answered, hearing tones of sarcasm and irony in his reply:

"Well, it's the opposite of life, of course. All bodily functions cease, or nearly all. Death is finally ascertained by the absence of electrical activity in the brain. People revived after experiencing clinical death sometimes have amazing experiences to report, many of these seem broadly similar. Religions claim there is a soul which survives bodily death, though conceptions of the soul vary from..."

"I've had some experiences. My mother and father died when I was eight. I don't remember much about them, just some disconnected images. They wouldn't let me go to the funeral, my Aunts that is, who raised me, if that's what you'd call it....."

Sam noticed that his voice was changing, his mood shifting, the sarcasm and irony had vanished:

"My Aunts...... that, is another story. A school-friend of mine died. I didn't go to that funeral either, but I did visit his grave soon after. Seeing his name on the stone made me feel very strange, as if my memory of him was unreal. I touched the stone, that felt more real. I found it difficult to remember what he looked like, and this was scary because we had been friends, I'd seen him just the week before, running round, alive....... After college I didn't know what to do so I got a job as a hospital porter for about eighteen months or so. Saw a lot of death and dying there. The first time it hit was when I went to a side ward to collect a patient for x-ray. He was not that old, I'd seen him come in. Mid-fifties, tall, military bearing, confident, a leader, he looked pale, but in good shape, in charge, you know. Then I was away for two weeks, and when I came back I was in out-patients for a while, so all together I probably did not see him for about a month or six weeks. Just six weeks! What a change. His skin had become greyish-yellow, his arms neck and face were very thin but he had a huge distended belly. His eyes were glazed over with the drugs. I was shocked, really shocked. And I didn't know why I was so shocked, I had seen lots of suffering by then, horrible diseases, facial cancers, dying kids, dead bodies mangled by street accidents. So what was special about him, why did it get to me? It was ages before I twigged. All the other times I was prepared, I knew I was going to see something bad, there was time to prepare, time for something to click in to place, some buffer. But this time was different, I was not prepared, I had been dreamy and strange all day, distracted. At first I could not believe it was the same person. I realized for the first time that it could be me. Me. I could almost feel my eyes glaze over."

Sam paused and looked at the tombstones. Frank was leaning against the wall, looking at him. A gust of wind moved through the three chestnut trees. A beautiful sound.

"I saw things at the hospital. As a porter I went to the morgue regularly, I used to volunteer for the "body-jobs", the other porters thought this was quite weird, though they were glad to get out of any job. I remember a traffic accident DOA, just a mess of blood and bones in a transparent body-bag. The morgue was run by a strange bloke we all called Bill the Body. The fridge was just one very large cabinet, floor to ceiling. He kept the babies on the top shelf, then kids, with adult corpses on the middle and lower shelves, all roughly alphabetical, left to right. But on the floor, in the right-hand corner, he kept his milk and sandwiches." They both laughed. "Strange to open those big heavy doors and then look down and see a pint of milk and a tupperware box of sanies. Later I went in to Administration, I soon missed portering. I liked the Admin on-call work though. As a junior manager I had to do a residential on-call duty once a week or so, staying in a small flat in the big teaching hospital of our district. The other managers hated this, but I loved it. There is something very special about hospitals late at night, just walking down those corridors..... Anyway, it was the closest I got to being in charge, really in charge, carrying a bleep and all that. I got bleeped one night by the Charge Nurse of Casualty, he had a DOA that he was worried about. It was late, 3am or so, I got dressed and went straight over. I always got a little kick out of an emergency call out. Jim, the Charge Nurse, met me outside Resus:

"This is the story", he said. "We have a young man in there who threw himself off the top of the Nurses Home and almost certainly died on impact. We made some effort to revive him though, because he is, or was, a copper and he was brought in by some of his mates. Apparently he had a row with his girlfriend, a student nurse staying in the Home, then just went to the top and jumped. She is very upset, in that side room, her Mum is one the way. She'll go home with her, we have the number. Press haven't found out yet so it is all still mercifully quiet."

I went in to the Resus room and to my surprise I recognised the dead copper. I didn't know him well but he was a regular in our Social Club. I remembered his girlfriend, beautiful girl, she had very long curly brown hair. Just the week before I had seen him arrive at the scene of a drunken brawl between rival packs of medical students. He calmly radioed for assistance and then waded in when his colleagues turned up. He was a special, not regular police, I think his day job was in a police car pound. I was shocked to see him there. Jim came in and saw me closely examining the young man, and began to explain the injuries:

"He fell on to grass so he is not too badly mangled. No bruising because he died quickly. He was carried here through the back by two mates, which was stupid, I must have a word with their boss about that. All this swollen area here by his shoulder and armpit caused by massive internal displacement."

Jim was called away and I continued my staring at the dead Special. I looked closely at his eyes, which were open, the ET tube was still in his mouth, they leave it in for coroners cases. He looked very very young. I never liked him much. He had a weak looking, resentful face, though lying dead on that table he just looked like a kid, almost a baby. I felt shocked because I could see how destructive death is. I know that sounds silly, but I saw something that surprised me. For the first time I saw why some people represent death as some powerful external figure that comes and gets you. But when I looked at his face I knew that it wasn't true. I was amazed that he had the courage to kill himself, I must have read him wrong. He wanted to die. He took his death out, like you take a bus-pass out of your wallet. It was his death, his very own. I could see how personal it was....."

Frank's question took Sam totally by surprise, as if he had been struck, he felt breathless and panicky. Sam had not talked like this to anyone for a long time and his mind and mood had run on ahead. Despite his intense surprise, Sam heard himself whisper: