บททั้งหมดของ THE CAPISTRANO EFFECT: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

My Castillo Street flat was situated half-way up the steep hill behind Arco de las Conquistadoras, or Arch of the Conquerors, in the High Street. It was also opposite the ruined Spanish-built Castillo de Capistrano with its high mound and moat. There were lots of Spanish names still floating about from the old port town’s mixed and violent history when the Spanish Armada chose to land its advance party at the natural harbour in July 1588, a precursor to its aborted invasion attempt. I was certainly lucky to live in such a picturesque location, although the three-storey terrace house itself had seen better days. I rented the attic room with a narrow staircase tethering it to the larger ones below. Despite it’s cramped mustiness and sloping ceiling it gave me a panoramic view of the River-way estuary stretching out below into the distance. Sometimes I would just sit at the window with a glass of red wine and idly watch the sun set behind the Keep’s jagged walls. As dusk grew darker an

I had one of the other dreams that night. There were a few I regularly get but this was by far the creepiest, the one I really hated. I was a few years older than the swimming pool one. Instead of under the water I was underneath a cold scratchy blanket with no bed-sheet apart from the one on the bone hard mattress that I could never get to sleep properly on. The blanket smelt musty, as if rarely washed and then not dried out properly. There were other boys in the room that I couldn’t see in the darkness although I could hear their breathing. My own was laboured with Asthma, something I managed to lose later in my teens. There was something in the bed with me; I felt stabs of fear as its wet scally skin brushed across me. There came a terrible stink of sweat and beer although I didn’t know what it was at the time. I felt disembodied hands holding me down, trying to roam over my body. I kicked out in panic and heard a snorted yelp then a fist punched me hard in the face. I couldn’t b

I lay on my bed. Framed in the window The Keep’s elongated shadows crept across its neat Victorian gardens, momentarily tricking the sculpted topiary animals into life, while the setting sun blasted holes of light through its crumbling walls. I’d left Trans-Port impotent with rage. That had been three long days ago. I’d spent the intervening period catching up on daytime television whilst drinking some of the awful lager I thought I’d dragged back from Magaluf but had probably purchased from Sainsbury’s in the High Street. Was that how things had worked? What else had I done under Trans-Port’s mind immersion techniques, what other tricks had they pulled? Getting me off with Amelia, obviously. That must have taken spectacularly little effort on her part seeing as I was a pushover for any smidgen of emotional comfort going. My thoughts were those of a bitter man, plus I was still physically recovering from the Sending Dish experience. Maybe I was suffering from Projection Lag?

I hesitantly opened my eyes, wary of what I might see. For a moment the dazzling light seemed no different from the Projection beam that had bored into my optic nerve. Had this second jump ended in failure? But then came the realisation that this was a mere sunbeam blinding me. The turgid mess of the Sending Dish no longer clung to my face; now a warm breeze caressed it. There was a bright cloudless sky above and to either side of me grassland, only this time the grass was dry. And it was daytime. Head spinning, I sat up slowly and took stock of my surroundings. The cathedral’s sheer wall and square tower loomed above me just as it had before, the whole unlikely edifice giving the appearance of a pile of vast bricks reconstructed by a five-year-old child. On top of it I could still see the angel pointing across the valley, her solid golden sheen now reflecting natural sunlight. There came an abrupt realisation of something I’d missed in the sheer overwhelming terror of the p

Claire invited me round for breakfast. The fact that her flat appeared smaller than mine was solely down to it containing twice as much clutter. Overflowing bookcases and piles of magazines climbed walls plastered with art nouveau posters and moody black and white stills from old films. A large wooden desk holding notes scribbled on jotter-pads and a thin and rather battered machine, what I took to be some sort of mini-computer, was crammed into the bay window. There were newspapers everywhere. Mugs of crystallizing coffee dregs perched on various surfaces.I took a peek into her bedroom while she made us toast; same deal, half-open drawers and clothes spread randomly over chairs and duvet. A bulging wardrobe’s door hung half off its hinges. Trans-Port Claire’s attitude had seemed neat and professional. I hadn’t seen her at home but she couldn’t have been as sloppy as this. Here was another difference between the two Claire’s despite their identi