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CHAPTER THREE
Julian: Sussex, England
9th September 2003

Julian returned to England some four days later. Despite my intense questioning as to his previous whereabouts, he declined to answer other than, “Don’t worry about me! I’ll tell you later.” He said no more, but harboured a wry grin behind sparkly, yet penetrating eyes. He certainly had me intrigued.

On the other hand, Pamela appeared to be over the moon at her son’s safe return. Uncharacteristically, she chose not to question his strange behaviour. Maybe in some way she thought she was to blame for his mysterious disappearance and thought it best not to drive him away again with too many prying questions. Only one thing had been important to her: Julian had come back and now that he was home, she stopped worrying. In fact, she looked positively radiant, and no trace remained of her previous melancholy. Her worry seemingly put behind her, she busied herself about the house doing nothing.

Pamela still knew nothing of his nightmares and of the mysterious birthmark, as I had remained silent about these. Personally, I felt she must know of his birthmark having probably seen it since he was a baby, but had probably thought, as did I, that there was nothing significant in it. Certainly, she would have no idea of the torment it had put Julian through. However, I felt that I possessed a great secret and longed to talk to Julian to see if this indeed had been connected with his disappearance.

It was two days later before Julian arranged to meet me at a café near the train station. I arrived first and took advantage of the good weather by sitting outside. Ironically, I noted that it would probably have been preferable to sit inside at the non-smoking tables than be assaulted by the clouds of cigarette smoke outside. So much for fresh air! Julian arrived just as I was contemplating placing an order for a second coffee. He was not alone and introduced a pretty young woman to me whom I had not met before. I had pulled over a chair, a little surprised at the extra company, as Julian had made no mention of her when he telephoned earlier.

“Michael! This is Nicola. Nicola, Michael”, and to Nicola, “I told you about my best friend. Do you remember?”

“Of course. Hi Michael!” Nicola stretched out a slender hand in my direction smiling. I remember only that I was bemused by her presence and had not been sure how to react. I took her offered hand and she gently squeezed my fingers. Despite the introductions, I was still none the wiser as to who she was, and Nicola simply babbled on about ordering tapas with the drinks.

As far I knew, Julian’s girlfriend was called Roberta. She was a student at Manchester University. Apparently, she was studying linguistics and was due to graduate that year. Sometimes he and Roberta spent their holidays or the occasional weekend together. I had never met Roberta but had heard Julian talk with her on the phone. As she only had shared student digs in Manchester, it meant he did not get to see her as much as he would have liked. As far as I was aware they were still an item. I had even attempted to contact Roberta when Julian had gone missing, but I could not get anyone at the university to give out her number. Just how serious their relationship was nobody knew, and as always, Julian didn’t volunteer much information on the subject. It was therefore with some discomfort that I sat watching Nicola flick some imaginary crumbs off the table top with the laminated menu. Glancing up, she caught me staring at her and I was rewarded with a broad smile to which I am afraid I grimaced in return. I wondered where Nicola fitted into the scene.

We decided on coffee rather than having anything alcoholic (it’s too early, and it will go straight to my head! More giggles from Nicola.) Julian had disappeared inside to place the order, leaving us sitting outside together. Nicola asked almost immediately;

“So, what do you think about all this then, Michael?”

The question had been quite unexpected, “Pardon?” I responded rather lamely, and then I felt somewhat foolish, as I appeared to have lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. Julian fortunately came to the rescue by returning with a sour faced waitress in tow who took our order and departed with sagging shoulders as if the entire third world’s debt sat upon them. Nicola’s question, for the moment, had remained unanswered.

As Julian sipped his coffee, he at last started to put me in the picture. Nicola, he explained was a friend of Roberta. She had finished University two years previously having majored in psychology. Roberta had apparently introduced her to Julian because she wanted a professional opinion about Julian’s nightmares. I now understood Nicola’s early question which I had fortunately not answered (the term ‘bunk’ might not have been appreciated). For now, at least, I was more interested in what Nicola thought had disturbed Julian. I listened as Julian and Nicola described their story.

Julian had apparently been having the same recurring dream, which had interested Nicola. Coincidentally she was writing her thesis on ‘Human memory and the subconscious brain’. Nicola explained that the subconscious memory was useless in everyday life because we are not able to use it at will. Instead, current theory indicated dreams to be no more than disjointed memories that are a deep-seated jumble of many memories being ‘fired’ off by the brain when in a period of rest. In her thesis, Nicola said she hoped to challenge this belief by researching cases of where subconscious memories appeared to hold intelligence or a ‘message’. Rather than being random, she felt it was possible that the dream is encoded within our very DNA, and therefore very personal and relevant to the individual. During her research Nicola hoped to discover what these dreams meant to the individuals themselves; she enthused,

“These books on dreams where they try to describe in general terms what your dream means are, I believe so totally wrong! The Dream State is small glimpses into an individual’s own personal subconscious, and therefore is only relevant in the context of that person. For instance, a dream about an aircraft may mean a ‘holiday’ to you, but ‘work’ to a pilot! I want to know how we can learn to decode its meaning.”

“You mean it carries a message?” I ventured.

“Possibly, or it may simply be a type of protective mechanism. For an individual to learn to understand the subconscious would be to further our understanding.”

“You mean to learn to control it?” I enquired.

“Not control, just be more in tune with your inner thoughts. This is practised in some religions such as Buddhism, where adepts attempt to harmonise with their inner self. Control as such may be dangerous.”

“Some people purport to control their autonomic brain activity. You know, slow their heartbeat, breathing etc.” interjected Julian. “That’s control isn’t it?”

“Yes, in a fashion, but controlling your body with your brain, although remarkable, has little to do with subconscious thoughts. These emanate from the brain rather than conscious control asserted by the brain on behalf of the individual.”

“Maybe it was not intended by nature that we have access to it” I suggested.

“Maybe not”, agreed Nicola, “but nature is not perfect, and when we do see a recurring dream that is apparently revolving around an individual’s subconscious, an opportunity exists to ‘crack the code’ so to speak. Thus, my interest in Julian”

I listened to Nicola’s theories of the possible source of Julian’s dreams, and although it was interesting, it all sounded rather Freudian. I was thoroughly taken aback by the fact that Julian was getting so intense about his dreams. I felt myself become more distant the more I heard. It all seemed too ‘over the top’. I had never taken anything Julian had said about the content of his dreams seriously. Yes, I had believed they had affected him, that was obvious, but I believed there to be as much correlation between Julian’s visions and some DNA ‘message’, as there was of Nicola really being an alien!

I now understood Nicola’s first question, but I still did not know how to answer it. I did realise, however, that despite my personal thoughts on the matter, this was important to Julian. I felt obliged to listen to what he and Nicola were saying so I could begin to try and understand his problem. I was told many an interesting theory that afternoon, and it was precisely because Julian had not found any support from me when he initially told me about his dreams that he had excluded me and his mother from all his mysterious investigations.

Julian had therefore decided to go and visit Roberta and talk to her. He had left for Manchester on the same evening that he had telephoned me. He had been absolutely sure that he would come back in a couple of days, however, when Julian had explained to Roberta what had happened to him, she excitedly suggested they investigate further and had booked tickets to Spain the next day! The plan was to find the place in Julian’s dream. They both understood that this plan was rather bold considering the lack of research and factual evidence, but Roberta was caught up in the excitement, so they decided to go.

The next five days were spent touring museums and libraries in southern Spain. Remarkably, they managed to find quite a few historical references to places where the brutal inquisition had tormented the unfortunate. Burning by fire was a popular means of punishing the unbeliever in the fourteenth, and all the way through to the sixteenth century. At one of the numerous libraries and museums they visited, they discovered something which had shocked Julian. A particular engraving, which depicted one of these burnings, which had taken place at the time of the inquisition, was so similar to the scene in his dream that it seemed to him like a photograph.

“The square, the church with a domed roof to the right of the fire. Everything was as I saw it!” he said. “But what struck me most of all was the figure in the long dark soutane. This man had an angry face, and had his hands held up, holding a large Christian crucifix in his left hand.” Julian broke off and had stared straight at me; his eyes had taken on a distant look as he continued;

“It was him, it was definitely him. That was the barbarian that struck me with the burning log in my dream” At first, despite her initial enthusiasm, Roberta was sceptical and asked him how he could have been so sure. Julian assured her that it was a combination of things, the man’s ugly facial features (not one he could forget that easily), his clothes, and hairstyle.

“It was him!” Julian murmured again to no one in particular.

I felt that Julian’s problem was now beginning to verge on the serious. The man appeared obsessed by his dreams. To actually run off to Spain at the drop of a hat was not the type of thing I would have expected of Julian in the past.

Julian continued to tell us how Roberta suggested he may be the victim of an overactive imagination. She asked him where this scene in his dream could have come from and suggested he had possibly read a book with this engraving in it as an impressionable child. The picture and story could have remained in his subconscious, only to surface later. This concurred exactly with my opinion, but Julian continued:

“I told Roberta that I have never read anything about the Spanish inquisition in my life, and although it was possible I had been very young and forgotten about it until it surfaced now, it was the discovery of my birthmark which told me that this was different.”

I strongly contested that and suggested that it may be a mistake to make parallels between what are probably two very different things. I was convinced that Julian discovering his birthmark was a coincidence and nothing more.

“Michael. I cannot explain, but when I dream, I know it is a dream. This however, does not feel like a dream. That is why Roberta suggested I see Nicola.”

His fingers gripped his coffee cup tightly. “To me, it was a memory!”

We spent the rest of the evening with several very good bottles of Australian wine that had accompanied an equally excellent dinner. When we finally parted company, I reflected on our conversations. Tonight, I had heard some facts and much fantasy in my view. Just because Julian’s theories had tried to weave them together, I was far from convinced that he had suffered anything more than a flashback to some childhood memory. It would be interesting I thought to see how Nicola progressed with her analysis from a scientific angle.

CHAPTER FOUR
Julian: Sussex, England
25th September 2003

It was not until Julian and I decided to go to a Classic Car motor show that a rather inexplicable event occurred. Julian by this time had never felt better. He never mentioned his dreams and I felt him to have returned to his normal self.

We travelled down to the village of Beaulieu, which is situated in the South of England in an area known as the New Forest. Such is the anomaly of English place names; the forest itself is hardly ‘new’ as it was named thus some thousand years ago and been known ever since by that name. Beaulieu itself is a beautiful small village on the outskirts of the Forest and the home of the Beaulieu National Motor museum, well known to classic car collectors and motoring enthusiasts. Tourists love Beaulieu too for its traditional English look. The town has its share of New Forest ponies and donkeys that wander freely in the streets and have done so since ancient times. The swans too, waddle onto the village green when the lake is high. The ruins of the old Abbey loom as a dramatic backdrop to the tourist cars, which crawl through the narrow streets dodging the tourists and ponies alike as both wander aimlessly in the street. We come here at least once a year and stay at the Montague Arms Hotel in the village centre. It is always a pleasure to walk around Beaulieu, especially before the tourists start clogging the streets.

Having started the day with an excellent traditional English breakfast, with mushrooms picked that morning from the forest, we planned to arrive fifteen minutes earlier than the 11 am start of the show. Already the crowds were forming, and families poured from the vehicles into the wonderfully warm and sunny day of mid-autumn.

The National Motor museum holds many international events, which attract enthusiasts and their families from all over Europe and even the US. It was no exception today as we milled around the exhibits. I photographed some of the vintage cars that had been driven here from various parts of England by enthusiasts. Julian had come for the company, having no real interest in classic cars and stood by helping with my camera bags as I dragged him around the show. It was not long before he spied the ‘beer tent’ and complained of a thirst. We moved toward the refreshment. The place was a heaving mass of humanity and Julian and I headed vainly into the throng looking for the beginning of the beer queue. There were hundreds of people jostling for space and we had just entered, when a couple who were seated not far from us started to call to a child who was weaving his way. The father was attempting to buckle the younger brother into a buggy, when their not much older offspring ran directly towards us flailing his arms, his face gleefully enjoying his quick bid for freedom. His mother ran after him but did not manage to reach him until after he had tripped and fallen headfirst onto the pathway almost in front of where we were standing.

Immediately the little boy’s face changed to one of shock, then hurt. His mother scooped him up, cradling him in her arms and spoke softly to him. I realised then that she was speaking in Italian. She was dressed in an attractive trouser suit and colourful scarf which, now I came to think about it, betrayed her continental origins. As Julian and I looked on she carefully passed her fingers through the boy’s hair, caressing his head, willing the pain away as he sobbed into her blouse.

“Alessandro, Alessandro” soothed the woman.

Almost immediately, the sobs that had shaken the little boy’s body earlier started to reside and were followed instead by loud sniffs. His mother responded automatically by fishing a tissue from the pocket of her trouser suit and proceeded to wipe the little one’s nose.

“Alessandro, Alessandro”

Her voice continued to soothe him and had the effect of implanting a glimmer of a smile where once before the lips had been curled in shock and pain. A loud sniff and then a nervous giggle signified the end of the disaster.

The spectacle over, I turned to Julian and found he was not there! Looking around, I glimpsed his back as he moved briskly through the crowd towards the rear of the beer tent. I had no alternative other than to abandon our place in the queue and run after him.

“Julian?” I enquired. “Are you OK?”

Julian started shaking inside; I could see him physically trembling. He looked back at the Italian couple who were now pouring a drink into a feeding bottle. I followed his stare, not understanding the connection. The little boy, tragedy now forgotten, was attempting to put his smaller brother’s hat on his own head, shrieking now with laughter instead.

“What’s the matter, mate?”

Julian stood holding his head as if in great pain. He looked up after a minute and mumbled to me;

“Sorry, Michael but something is wrong again…” he clutched the side of his head and I helped him sit on the grass. We had veered off a bit into the shrubbery and were more or less alone, the noise of the crowd audible, but muffled.

Julian continued to clutch the side of his head and with tears in his eyes, said;

“My head is so sore; it feels like it’s actually burning!”

When Julian indicated he was feeling better, we went over to a small refreshment stall where I purchased two icy Cokes and we sat on the grass swishing away the occasional greedy wasp. I asked him to try and decribe what had happened. Julian however remained restless and started to insist on us returning home. I started to worry and asked:

“Julian, look, maybe you need a doctor?”

“No, please, let’s just go home. Now!”

He said it so forcefully, any idea I might have had at talking him out of it vanished and I resigned myself to cutting short our stay.

“OK! Let’s go, but tell me, what has this to do with the Italian women and the baby? Do you know her?” I had seen the look on his face as he stared back at the couple.

“No, of course not! Don’t be stupid Michael.”

“Well, why the reaction? It looked like you had seen a ghost.” I added, rather cruelly, “What are you going to tell me? That you saw them in your dreams?”

To my surprise, Julian looked at me rather strangely before replying.

“Michael, I have never met this woman or her child before in my life. Not even in my dreams.” He paused a little, “…. but I know that it has already happened to me before…”

Julian completely lost me. “What happened?” I asked.

“The same thing: Alessandro! Alessandro!….. and then the experience of horrible pain and the real fear of death.”

I ceased to tease Julian further. He looked terrible and appeared to genuinely be in pain. I drove him back home and advised Julian’s mother that he had not been well, not enlarging on the conversation Julian and I had at Beaulieu.

When I returned to my flat that night, I was exhausted and settled into my favourite armchair with a large Scotch to contemplate the events of the day. I wondered what Nicola would make of it and if I should call her, only then realising that I did not even have her telephone number. I made a mental note then to obtain it from Julian. It might prove useful in the future.

I then began to wonder if Julian needed a different type of help. Nicola’s interest in Julian was totally self-motivated. What he really needed was a doctor who would see him as a patient, not as an object of study. Maybe Nicola could suggest the name of a doctor she thought might be of help. I was now sure more so than ever that Julian needed help to come out of this predicament, it was not normal to have an inexplicable fear and reactions to simple things like a child crying.

At the very least I felt he should be referred to a psychotherapist and he probably needed to get some rest, preferably a complete break.

“A seaside resort is the right place to go. I must suggest it to Julian”, I thought aloud, “I also need to discuss Julian with Pamela first and see what we can do for him in this situation. She must know that her son is not well. Maybe she can persuade him to see a doctor?”

I decided to check up on Julian and gave Pamela a ring. She told me that Julian was still asleep and I invited her over for dinner, explaining that we needed to talk privately. I changed and freshened up a little before Pamela arrived a little later. I offered her a drink, which she declined claiming she was driving. Pamela looked worried and told me that she suspected something was going on with her son. Her quizzical look informed me she was waiting to hear what I had to say. I wondered where to begin. I decided to tell her everything I knew, as I did not want to hide anything any longer. Apologising for my previous half-truths, I promised to be more open with her from now on. She could not help crying as she revealed that Julian had an incident when he had been 4 years old. He had fallen from a swing and broken his arm. Pamela feared it was possible that they had concentrated their attention on his arm and not paid sufficient attention to his head. Maybe they missed some trauma of his head and it only now had started to manifest itself? Pamela was beside herself with worry and together we agreed to convince Julian to at least see a doctor as soon as possible for an investigation. Julian would never have listened to me, he dismissed all my suggestions that he see a doctor, but with Pamela’s help… I believed she would insist on it.

The telephone rang making us both jump involuntarily. It was Nicola.

“Michael, I have tremendous news! I don’t want to call Julian yet because I wanted to discuss this with you first before I tell him.”

“Tell him what, Nicola?”

“Listen, you won’t believe this. I have just returned from Spain. I spent 10 days there and I think I have made an important discovery.” She paused for a second; “Do you remember Julian told us about an engraving which he and Roberta had found in one of the Spanish museums?”

“Yes, I do. It was something about an execution,” I replied warily.

“Correct. Can you believe that I found not just this engraving, but also the place, which is depicted in this picture? I have been there. It has the same square and the same church as shown on the engraving and as Julian described it.”

“But there must be lots of village squares with similar looking churches in them!” I protested.

Pamela was watching me, her eyebrows raised in question. Nicola continued almost as if I’d not spoken;

“Everything looks the same, just as it did then. The place is called Cadiz, it’s not a village, but a city. Cadiz is one of the oldest cities in the Western world and has a port that goes back to the time of Phoenician merchants. The ‘church’ on the engraving is actually a Cathedral. You cannot mistake its shape, although it has been subject to many restorations since the time of the engraving, but the unusual domed roof, not as we would imagine a church in England still exists.”

Nicola referred to her notebook as she spoke, I could hear the rustle of paper as she leafed through the pages.

“I introduced myself as a journalist and managed to talk to the Cardinal. He was very accommodating and introduced me to the local Bishop who allowed me access to the Cathedral library. More importantly, I was given access to some of the officials who look after the religious manuscripts and old texts relating to the Cathedral and the city. I was there for about 3 hours and spoke with some of the local amateur historians there. One in particular was nearly 80 years old but he has a remarkable memory for detail!” Pam was hovering anxiously nearby, concerned that the call may be about Julian. I mouthed “It’s OK” as Nicola’s voice continued in my ear;

“He knew the history of Cadiz very well. I asked him specifically about the engraving and he estimated it had to be in the latter part of the 16th century. Now get this…” Nicola added, “There are many documented accounts of burnings within the Church records which he translated for me. Many of them concerned Jews who were persecuted at this time, but we found one, which was unique, as it told of a foreign seafarer’s family. He was burned as a heretic and his wife was also killed by the crowd attending the execution, on suspicion of being a witch.” Nicola paused, and I could almost hear her excitement; “Wait for it Michael; their young son is also mentioned – he was mutilated with a burning log!”

I could sense the excitement in Nicola.

“The records were unusually detailed, as they were not part of the Jewish persecutions but of local people. Oh, and Michael, I even found out the boy’s name. I thought it sounded so nice: ‘Alessandro’…”