by Peter James
‘Hallo, boy,’ said Alex, patting him but the dog ignored her completely and stared, suspiciously, at the ground. Main unclipped the lead. ‘Gets these moods.’
‘Must be difficult, keeping a dog in London.’
‘Sometimes.’ He rolled the lead up and pushed it into his pocket. ‘We seem to manage.’
They went through into the drawing room. ‘What would you like?’
‘You look terrible.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ she smiled.
‘White; you look white as a sheet.’
‘Scotch?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve any Paddy?’
‘Paddy?’
‘Irish whisky.’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’ She was conscious of his stare and felt uncomfortable. ‘I’m probably a bit tired.’
He sat down and slowly eased his cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket.
She handed him his drink. ‘Actually, I’ve had a bit of a bummer of a day. How was yours?’
‘All right.’ He leaned forward and sniffed his whisky.
‘Make any progress? Am I any nearer getting a book?’
‘A little bit.’ He sniffed the whisky again. ‘A little bit.’
‘I wouldn’t make much of a living if all my clients were like you; three years and I still don’t know what it’s about.’
‘Did all right with the last one, girl.’
She smiled; his last one had been published in fifteen countries; it had been translated into twelve languages, and it was incomprehensible in all of them. ‘Will I be able to understand this one?’
‘The whole world will be able to understand it, girl. But they won’t want to.’ He struck a Swan Vesta match and held it to the end of his cigarette.
‘You’re very determined, aren’t you?’
‘Determined?’
‘To prove that God does not exist.’
He shook out the match. ‘Hokum, girl; there’s too much hokum in the world.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a vendetta?’
‘Vendetta?’
‘Against your father. He was a clergyman, wasn’t he?’
He shook his head in a cloud of smoke, then stared sadly at the carpet. ‘Lost his faith; decided he had it all wrong, that he wasn’t a vicar at all.’
‘So what was he?’
‘He became a medium.’
Alex stared at him. ‘You never told me that.’
‘No, well, there are certain things one doesn’t tell.’
She shrugged. ‘Why not, it doesn’t matter. Did he get you involved in anything?’
‘Good Lord yes; all the time.’
She watched him sitting there, his tall frame crumpled awkwardly in the chair, gripping his glass clumsily with both hands, like an old man. She felt comfortable with him, safe with his mysteries and his answers and his knowledge; he always gave her the impression that somewhere, deep inside him, was the truth about life, that only he knew it and one day, if she pried hard enough and deeply enough, he would reveal it to her. ‘In what sort of things?’
He went red and stared hard at his glass, as if trying to read something that was written in the whisky. ‘Spirit rescues, he used to call them.’
‘Spirit rescues?’
‘Hmmm!’ He shuffled awkwardly about in the chair.
‘Tell me about them.’
He looked around, embarrassed, as if to check no one else was listening, then gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Used to take me along, as a sort of earth.’ He shrugged. ‘Exorcisms, spirit rescues, that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There was a stretch of road, near Guildford, that people seemed to think was haunted; some chap wandering around in the middle of the road. Several police patrols saw him too. My father went along, took me with him, took me because I wasn’t psychic, couldn’t be affected by spirits; I was like an earth wire on a plug.’ He pushed his cigarette into his mouth and drew deeply on it. ‘It turned out to be a lorry driver who had been killed in a crash a few years before; he didn’t realize he was dead, was wandering around trying to find his wife and kids. My father told him what had happened, explained he was dead and put him in contact with some spirit guides; they took him off and he was quite happy.’ Main looked up at Alex, sheepishly, then looked down at his whisky and turned the glass around in his hand.
‘Did you see this man?’
‘Lord, no. Just heard my father speak to him.’
‘And what did you think about it?’
He drank some whisky and looked up at her. ‘I thought my father was round the twist.’
Alex stared at him, and they sat in silence for a long time. ‘I don’t think you did,’ she said, finally.
He shifted again, uncomfortably. ‘It was all a long time ago.’ He paused. ‘Gosh yes, a very long time.’
‘And you’ve spent the rest of your life trying to prove him wrong?’
Main sat and stared silently at her. ‘My father ended up in a funny farm.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He shrugged.
‘Perhaps he couldn’t cope with his powers.’
‘Hmmm.’
She shuddered. ‘Creepy.’
‘There’s a link between the old brain, mental illness and psychic powers. Weird lot, mediums.’
‘I’ve never heard of a vicar becoming a medium.’
‘Have you ever heard of a vicar who ended up in a funny farm?’
She looked at him, uncertain whether to smile. ‘Was there ever a time when you did believe in it?’
‘It destroyed my father.’ He looked down at his drink.
‘Don’t you think sometimes good comes of it? People with healing powers?’
‘The National Health has healing powers; and statistically a better record.’
‘And when they fail?’
He stared into his whisky. ‘Nothing’s proven.’
‘People have been healed when doctors have given up hope.’
‘They’ve done that for centuries, girl; long before mediums.’
‘And before Christ?’
He shifted again. ‘You need rest, girl, a holiday; get away from it all; you don’t need mediums stirring it all up again for you.’
‘One came round this afternoon.’
‘That explains it.’
‘What?’
‘Why you looked white as a sheet when I arrived.’
‘She was odd. She really spooked me.’ She looked at him, but he said nothing. ‘I hadn’t asked her to come; she said she sensed I was being troubled, that – Fabian – was still around.’ Alex smiled nervously and pulled out a cigarette. ‘She sat down, in here, closed her eyes and started shaking like a leaf; then she stood up, looking very frightened and said she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, that I should leave him alone.’
‘Very sensible.’
‘Then there was a crash upstairs.’
Main looked at her, his eyes probing. ‘Some stupid woman trying to con you into something.’
‘No,’ said Alex, ‘that’s the point – she wasn’t. She just left; wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t answer me. Just rushed out, looking terrified.’
‘Loonies; they’re all loonies.’
‘Even Morgan Ford?’
‘Yes, girl. Bound to be.’
‘Thanks a lot; I should have a great time with him tomorrow then.’
‘I’ve already told you.’
She shrugged. ‘I want to go; I can make up my own mind. I especially want to go now, after what’s happened – I –’
He was looking at her, his eyes penetrating. ‘Something else has happened, hasn’t it?’
She twiddled with her cigarette. ‘I brought Fabian’s old school trunk down from Cambridge yesterday; it was on his bed, full of stuff, very heavy. The crash I heard – I went upstairs; it had fallen off his bed, on to the floor. There’s no way it could have fallen on its own, Philip.’
�
��So how do you think it got there?’
She smiled, nervously, and felt herself blushing. ‘This may sound crazy – maybe you should put me in a funny farm too – Fabian always used to have a violent temper; most of the time he was sweet and gentle, but when he didn’t get his way, particularly as a child, he used to have the most terrible tantrums. Sometimes he was so strong, I couldn’t hold him. Maybe he got angry just now, with that woman.’ She smiled again and stared at Main, hopefully.
He grinned. ‘There are a hundred reasons why something can fall on to the floor.’
She shook her head adamantly. ‘No. There’s no way; that trunk did not fall.’ She looked at him. ‘Why are you grinning?’
He shook his head, slowly. ‘Yesterday you were being attacked in your office; today someone’s throwing trunks around your bedrooms; think about it.’
‘It’s different, Philip; last night I was all wound up, I admit that; but not tonight, tonight I was feeling O.K.’ She paused. ‘Come and see for yourself.’
He shrugged and stood up.
For a dreadful moment Alex thought they were going to walk into the room and see the trunk lying on the bed again, still neatly packed. She pushed open the door and turned on the light; the trunk lay there, everything spilled out on the floor, as she had left it.
‘See?’
He looked down at the trunk, studied the clothes and the books strewn around. ‘It was on the bed?’
‘Yes.’
Main looked around the room, stared up at the portrait of Fabian, and lingered on it, thoughtfully; he walked over and fondled the telescope. ‘Fine instrument.’
‘You can have it, if it’s useful.’
Main knelt down and stared through it; he focused the eyepiece. ‘Bad place, London, for astronomy; too much pollution in the air.’
‘Take it, if you like.’
He shook his head. ‘Not my field. Queen Victoria used to loathe microscopes. Said they enabled you to see things so closely, you could not tell what they were. I feel that way about telescopes; they enable you to see things so far away you still cannot tell what they are.’
She smiled.
‘Give me a microscope any day. It’s all there, girl, under the microscope; all of it.’ He stood up, stretched, looked down at the trunk. ‘Want a hand?’
‘No. I’ve got to sort it out, anyway; might as well leave it there.’ She saw Main stare at the portrait, then look away, uncomfortably. ‘Has that effect, doesn’t it?’
‘The portrait?’
She nodded.
‘Looks like one of those van Eyck characters.’ He looked up, then turned away again, sharply.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose a chap could eat something.’
‘Perhaps a chap would like to choose it? And the chappess will cook it.’
‘Bona,’ he said, turning and staring at the picture again. A perturbed look came across his face and he walked out of the room, a little too hurriedly, thought Alex, surprised at the sudden change that had come over him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Black made a noise like a child gargling, and Alex jumped. The pitch deepened again into a low rumble.
Main prised some lasagne out of his moustache, dabbed his lips with his napkin, then turned his head towards the passageway. ‘Quiet, boy!’
The rumble continued. He picked up his wine glass and drained it. ‘Bona,’ he said.
‘You’ve been very quiet.’
He leaned back in his chair and pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket. He lifted the bottle and poured some wine into Alex’s glass, then refilled his own.
‘Nice wine.’
‘Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.’
‘Pardon?’
There was another rumble from Black. Philip turned and looked at the passageway again. ‘Quiet!’ he shouted. ‘Some remarkably good wines, from Italy. Stunning.’
‘You should get together with David; write a book.’
He paused, then looked up at her. ‘Jesus knew a bit about wine.’
‘Jesus?’
‘He didn’t turn the water into ordinary plonk. Someone asked the host why he’d saved the best wine to the end.’
She smiled. ‘Italian?’
‘No, good God no. Probably Lebanese.’
Black rumbled again. Philip frowned but said nothing.
‘So what do you think about the trunk?’
He did not speak until he had lit his cigarette, as if it was a drug he needed to give him the power of speech. ‘I think you had it too near the edge of the bed.’
She looked down. ‘No, Philip, I didn’t, and you know I didn’t.’
Main stood up and ambled towards the doorway. ‘Black!’ He walked down the passage and saw the dog standing staring up the stairs. It started its low growl once more. ‘What’s the matter, boy?’
The dog ignored him.
‘There’s nothing up there, boy.’ Main stared at the dog, puzzled, beginning to feel uncomfortable himself. He turned back, walked a short way down the passage and went into the lavatory under the stairs. He closed the door, turned on the light and lifted the seat. He found himself shivering. It was like an icebox in here. He looked at the sharp black and white pattern on the wallpaper and noticed a sheen on it; he ran his finger along a strip and it felt wet. He looked at the moisture on his finger; the temperature seemed to be dropping as he stood. There was a crack like a pistol beside his right ear, he saw a shadow and flinched reflexively. An entire panel of paper fell away from the wall and on to him. He fielded it off with his arm and it dropped down beside him; he saw another panel in front of him begin to slide slowly down. He opened the door, snapped off the light and backed out, closing the door firmly. He stood in the passageway for a moment, wondering if he had imagined it. He put his hand on the handle again, then turned away and walked back into the kitchen.
Alex was looking at him, anxiously. ‘Everything all right?’
He said nothing.
‘You look worried about something.’
‘Have you had that damp in the loo long?’
‘Damp? What damp?’
‘The wallpaper’s dripping; it’s coming away from the walls.’ He saw the frown on her face.
‘Can’t be. The house is bone dry.’
‘Perhaps you’ve got a leaking pipe.’
‘I’ll call the plumber in the morning.’
‘I’ll have a dekko; may be something simple.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on his chair.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said, as he walked out of the room.
She heard Main scrabbling about upstairs as she carried the coffee through into the drawing room. Black was sitting by the front door. ‘Hallo, boy!’ she said. ‘Want to go out?’ The dog ignored her.
She put the tray down, pulled Don Giovanni out of the tape player, and pushed in a Mozart compilation tape. She saw the stack of unopened letters on her bureau, walked over and sifted through them. She recognized the handwriting on one or two of them, but could not bring herself to open them; not yet, she thought. Later, one day when she was strong again; for a moment, she wondered if she ever would be strong again. She filled her cup and sat down on the sofa.
Main came into the room, wiping his hands on his corduroy trousers.
‘Black or white?’
‘Black, please.’
‘Did you find the problem?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’
He sat down beside her and began to stir his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I’ll bring some tools round tomorrow. Lift up some floorboards; probably a leak in a join somewhere.’
‘I didn’t realize you were such a handyman.’
‘No, well, we all have hidden talents.’
‘You could write a book on do-it-yourself.’
‘Going to be busy, with do-it-yourself and the origins of life.’
‘Not to mention poetry.’
Alex sense
d him tense up. Suddenly, he looked over his shoulder.
‘Everything O.K.?’ She found herself turning around too, and felt a prickle of anxiety. Philip was looking uneasy, frowning. She listened to the music and said nothing. Slowly she felt him relax again; she watched him put down his cup and felt his arm gently touch her shoulders. She leaned back slightly, affectionately, but still she didn’t feel comfortable. She shivered.
‘Figaro?’
‘Yes. An excerpt; various different Mozart –’
She wanted to speak, converse, to hear his voice, put this strange fear that was engulfing her out of her mind. Her Sunday afternoon fear had come late today, she thought. ‘You’re very quiet.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Penny for your thoughts.’
‘You won’t get rich on that; you’re meant to be my agent.’
She laughed, then was silent again, and listened to the music. A french horn was blowing a gallop; it was Mozart at his most rousing, most cheering. She found her feet tapping to the tune, felt the rhythmic thump of Main’s arm on her shoulder. She sighed. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘why did this have to happen, why?’
‘Hrrr.’
‘Is that your explanation for the origin of life?’
‘What?’
‘Hrrrr!’ she imitated.
She felt him lean forward, heard the clink of the cup, the faint slurp, the clink of the cup again. ‘You’ll get over it, old girl; it’ll take time, a long time. I wish I’d met him.’
She suddenly had an impulsive wish to say ‘You will!’; she felt a sudden strange tingling of excitement, of optimism. She drank some more coffee. ‘You know, it’s funny – my mood swings so much at the moment – I go up and down, often several times in an hour.’
He nodded. ‘That’ll keep happening, for a while.’
She looked at him. ‘Are you an expert on everything?’
‘No, gosh, my word no. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’
‘So you have a lot?’ She felt his arm squeezing her shoulder.
‘No, good Lord no.’ He sat in silence for a moment. There was a master at school, a pompous little man, who used to tell us with great satisfaction that he had never driven a motor car and did not know how to. But he was, however, fully qualified to drive a steam locomotive.’
Alex smiled.
‘He’d driven one in the 1926 General Strike: from King’s Cross to Edinburgh non-stop. He claimed still to hold the unofficial record for the fastest time.’
