Free Infinite Rooms: a gripping psychological thriller that follows one man's descent into madness by David John Griffin

seaweed wrapped around the legs of the pier. A whirlpool has started, spinning faster as I look, forming a liquid hollow in its centre. The hollow is growing at a surprising rate. Seagulls are flying in circles as though to imitate this whirl of water. Sunbathers have picked up their towels, running to the promenade while seabathers are blown to the beach, each one riding a wave like a surfer. Brilliant cracks striate the dominating arc of sky; gathering smoke-grey clouds are illuminated for seconds before smothering the sun. A ghostly whistling, coming from the gaps in the gangplanks, join forces with the wind moaning like a lament. Flags and pennants along the length of the pier are flapping furiously and their ropes hum. Then without premonition or expectation the waves about the whirlpool are erupting as if there’s a volcano underneath. Those sheets of water are being flung into this day-turned-to-night. And it’s raining down upon us, drenching me in seconds, nearly washing me off my feet into the turbulent pink waves. There’s a roar and so loud it’s drowned other sounds. It has raced over to the cliffs in the east and the cliffs has sent a duplicate back. Pedestrians have flung themselves into the arcades, cowering in confused fright. From out of the swirling waters is being thrust the three prongs of a trident, each prong the height of a man. The shaft is following, a seemingly never-ending dynamic barrel of metal. Andgripping it is a massive hand. The same hue as coral, larger than a bull elephant. I’ll have to hold tightly onto the railings. My fingers are frozen there; sobs are choking my throat; everyone else has been swept overboard. The rest of this titanic phenomenon is bursting forth with such power as to send high waves crashing over the promenade and flooding the roads. Cars are being swept into shop windows. Swells are being sent far off to the horizon. And here before me, like a dream, is Neptune, rising one hundred feet or more. His skin is alive with fish and crabs. His beard and hair are made of seaweed; his crown is coral with jewels from the ocean’s vaults. Those whale-like lips are as purple as amethyst, the gigantic eyes as pale blue and opalescent like topaz. You have to see somehow, Dr Leibkov: Neptune pushing his way through the raging currents as easily as if it were the shallow end of a swimming pool. He’s reached the end of the pier, no more than a bench to him. He has plucked the white chalet from it and holding it on his outstretched, limpet-encrusted palm. I imagine a miniature man kicking open the door of the pathetic structure, Aaron running out, not onto hard planks but the spongy, olive flesh of that giant hand. With an easy motion the fingers of Neptune have tightened about the chalet. It’s disintegrating into matchsticks and pittering the choppy surface of pinkish sea.
    ‘Looking good.’ The girls are running excitedly along the gangplanks to the funfair. ‘See you later.’ That was Bernadetteshouting back.
    ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
    Harold’s puffing on his pipe and nodding.
    I doubt you need a drink, doctor. Anyhow, I’m not sure you deserve one. I’m repairing my past future but you’re not helping enough yet.
    An announcement telling passengers to change trains broke Clement’s dream-like state. Clement stepped off the train and joined the crowded platform. He looked up to the sawtooth slats along the platform canopy then to the ornate brackets holding it but still not really seeing.
    Or feeling: he had become a sensationless rind with his insides stone, cold and heavy. And mind adequately clouded. Cloaked in mystery, he estimated. He liked the idea of that. Then wrapped in enigma and covered with barriers. Yet why should they be failing, he asked himself. Had Dr Leibkov’s insidious claptrap begun to have an effect and if so, how long before he was damaged?
    A shrill whistling: a guard with a whistle still to his lips and a flag held to the wintry air.