Possession

by Peter James

  ‘Life’s full of odd little people doing odd little things.’ She saw Main’s face close to hers, saw the pock marks in the white bony flesh, the gingery bristles of the moustache; she jerked back, surprised, then felt the soft bristles brushing her nose, brushing around the top of her mouth, saw his blue staring eyes going out of focus, like the view of a dentist’s eyes, she thought for a moment.

  Then suddenly the face changed and it was Fabian.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, pulling sharply back. ‘No!’ Fabian’s face dissolved, and she saw the shock on Main’s face; it remained there, frozen for a moment, and then turned to an embarrassed sheepish expression.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, lamely. ‘I – cr –’

  She continued to stare at him, shaking, wide-eyed. She had seen him so clearly, so vividly. There was something touching and at the same time hideously obscene; Christ, what weird tricks her mind was playing. ‘I’m sorry, Philip,’ she said. ‘I’m really not – I don’t know – ready.’ She felt his arm slip away from her shoulders, saw him lean forward, rest his elbows on his thighs.

  ‘No, my fault, my fault entirely,’ he said. ‘I just find you – so immensely attractive, I – I –’ He sat upright, gave her a benign, lost smile.

  ‘I think maybe I’d better go to bed now,’ she said.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Yes, good Lord, it’s getting late.’ He stood up, slowly, looked around again and she saw the sudden expression of fear on his face. ‘You’ll be all right?’

  She nodded, and grimaced. ‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’

  Main wandered out into the hallway. It felt cold out here now; he rubbed his arms and walked into the kitchen. It was freezing. He looked around; were the walls damp in here too, or was it his imagination? He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, an intruder; the house didn’t want him, was telling him to go. He removed his jacket deliberately slowly from the chair and pulled it on, then stood still and looked around. He felt the cold seeping through his skin. He walked over and touched a wall, ran his finger down and lifted it away; it was dry. He looked up at the ceiling, feeling so cold he could barely stop himself from shaking, then marched to the door, turned and stared back at the kitchen. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, loudly, firmly; then he turned and walked through into the hallway.

  ‘Did you say something?’ said Alex, carrying the tray out of the drawing room.

  ‘Me? No.’

  ‘I was sure I heard you speak.’

  ‘Just to Black, that was all.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He pulled the dog’s lead out of his pocket and Black suddenly became animated, jumping up, barking cheerfully.

  ‘Home, boy!’

  ‘Goodnight, Philip.’

  ‘Thanks for supper.’

  ‘Thanks for the wine.’ She leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. ‘Drive carefully.’

  ‘You can come and stay with me if you – er – if you want. You can have your own room, come and go – if you don’t feel like – ’

  She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but this is my home. I’ve just got to get used to it again, that’s all. Fabian was never here much, you know, anyway.’ She closed the door, heard the dog bark cheerfully at the night, and turned the key. She felt peaceful suddenly. Immensely peaceful and relaxed, as if an evil presence had suddenly been exorcised from the house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She parked in the gloomy terrace off the Gloucester Road and crossed her fingers that she would not get clamped. The numbers on the buildings were illogical, and she paced the length of the terrace, crossing the road, getting increasingly anxious that she was going to be late and might miss the appointment altogether.

  Then she saw it. 49. On the building directly in front of her car, staring her in the face, almost taunting her, she thought, angrily. She walked up the steps and scanned the names on the entryphone panel. Goldsworthy, Maguire, Thomas, Kay, Blackstock, Pocock, Azziz. Several of the names had been written in a scrawling pen; one, Azziz, had a line through it. Amongst them she found a fading yellow label with neat typing which simply said ‘Ford’.

  For an instant she felt relieved; then she began to feel nervous. She looked around uncertainly, wondering whether the neighbours all knew, whether the people walking past on the pavement were nudging each other and pointing at her. She wondered whether mediums made a lot of money; Morgan Ford certainly did not spend any on the outside of the building. The porch tiles were cracked and the plaster was peeling off the columns.

  A cold unwelcoming voice crackled through the entryphone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s –’ Oh, Christ, what the hell was the name she had given? She couldn’t remember; stall, she thought, stall for time. ‘Johnson!’ she said, suddenly, feeling the relief. ‘Mrs Johnson.’ She’d given a Christian name too, what was that? She racked her brains again, feverishly.

  The grimy, dimly lit hallway gave nothing away about the identity of the tenants. There were several piles of mail on a shelf and a battered bicycle leaned against the wall.

  Ford’s flat was on the third floor and the door opened as she reached it. His appearance surprised her and she wondered what she had been expecting – some ageing bearded weirdo left over from the sixties, dressed in a kaftan and sandals and holding a joss stick. Instead she was staring at a short man with neat grey hair and a neat grey suit; in his early fifties, she guessed.

  ‘Shoona Johnson?’

  For a moment Alex nearly said, ‘No, no, Alex High-tower,’ but just managed to stop. She stared through a doorway behind him, into a tiny office where a pile of letters and newspapers were laid out neatly on a small desk. ‘Yes.’ That was it, Shoona. Why the hell had she chosen Shoona, she wondered? She’d never met anyone called Shoona in her life.

  He held out a small pink hand dominated by a vulgar rhinestone ring, a hand so small she wondered if it was a deformity. It was like shaking hands with a child.

  ‘Come in. Thank you for being so punctual.’ There was a warm sing-song lilt to his Welsh accent that seemed totally different from how he had sounded over the phone. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit disorganized today, my secretary hasn’t turned up.’

  Alex felt a sense of disappointment as she stepped into the plain dim hallway. It all seemed so ordinary; there was no feeling of magic, of occasion, of great ceremony. Business suits, secretaries, an office. She hadn’t somehow expected him to be doing this for a living.

  The drawing room changed her opinion. A huge burgundy-coloured room with a view out across the gardens. It was over-furnished with fine antiques in an almost vulgar display of money. A gas log fire burned with a low hissing sound. Two cats sat either side of the grate, motionless, like sentinels, a ginger tom and a smoke-grey Burmese; the tom jumped forward on to the carpet and circled curiously around her.

  And then she saw the bowl of roses on the table in the centre of the room.

  She began to tremble, and started to back away. The phone rang.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Ford brushed past her and picked up the receiver. ‘Hallo.’ She watched him stiffen, saw him speak in the same cold, aloof way. ‘I have a cancellation on Thursday at half past eleven. I could fit you in then. Very good, and what is your name please?’

  Did he tell everyone that he had a cancellation, she wondered? She sat down in an uncomfortable Victorian armchair and stared at the roses again.

  ‘Just one second, I’ll fetch my diary and confirm that.’ She looked up and caught his eye. ‘Like roses do you? They’re nice those, aren’t they?’

  She wondered, as he left the room, whether it had been an innocent remark, or whether she had detected a mischievous wink in his eye. She looked again at the roses; no, maybe it was just coincidence; they went with the cats and the fire and the ornate furniture. A strange room for a middle-aged man, she thought; it seemed more like the room of an elderly titled widow.

  She stared at a painting on the wall. Three phantom-like faces with slits for their eyes, hudd
led together, white on a white background. On a shelf just below them was a menacing buddhaesque statue. She noticed more paintings as she looked around, all sinister; the room was beginning to frighten her. She stared at the roses, so like the ones Fabian had given her. She went over to the bowl and counted them. The same number. The same colour. Was it a message, she wondered. A sign? Ridiculous. As she watched them, they seemed to be glowing; she closed her eyes, shook her head and turned away. She heard Ford’s footsteps, a loud snort as he blew his nose. Instantly she sensed the atmosphere change as he entered the room. Everything became calm, peaceful again; she felt at ease. She glanced again at the roses; they were pretty, cheerful, made her suddenly, inexplicably, feel good.

  The tom looked up at her, then jumped on to her lap. She smiled down at it, nervously, wondering whether it was about to attack her, and tentatively stroked its neck. It settled down, resting its head on her thigh and looked up at her unblinkingly. She felt comforted by the contact, rested her hand on its belly, felt the warm skin beneath the fur, its assured relaxed breathing.

  ‘Put him on the floor if he’s a nuisance.’

  ‘No, he’s fine.’

  ‘Some people are funny about cats.’

  ‘He’s a nice chap.’

  Ford stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, and gave her a gentle smile. He looked up at the mantelpiece. ‘We’ve started a little late, so I’ll give you some extra time.’

  Again Alex felt unsettled by his businesslike attitude. Surely you couldn’t be a medium in units of quarter of an hour, like a lawyer or an accountant?

  ‘Do you have anything I can hold?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Something you wear a lot. Your watch, a bracelet?’

  She took off her Rolex and handed it to him.

  ‘Now, is there anything in particular you want, or shall we just start and see how we go?’

  She shrugged, wondering what to say.

  Without waiting, he sat down in a chair beside her, held her watch outstretched in his hand for a moment, then curled his fingers over it. ‘Upheaval,’ he said gently. ‘I sense upheaval. Something’s upset the rhythm, something tragic, I feel, recently, very recently, within the last few weeks perhaps?’ He looked at her.

  ‘Do you want me to answer you?’

  ‘As you like.’ He smiled. ‘There’s no need if you don’t want to, but it would be helpful, guiding me, if I’m on the right track.’

  ‘You’re on the right track.’

  He sat still and frowned, then tilted his head back, keeping his eyes wide open. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m feeling something very distinctive, something very close, young, energy, a lot of energy. It’s a child – no, not a child, but not an adult, definitely. Someone in their teens perhaps, or early twenties?’ He stared questioningly at her. She said nothing. ‘Male.’ He frowned, and Alex saw the strange, nervous expression she had seen on Iris Tremayne’s face the previous day. He sat very still for a moment and said nothing.

  Alex stroked the cat, looked again at the roses, at the three phantoms, at the leaping flames with their unaltering pattern, then again at Morgan Ford. His whole body seemed clenched like a fist, shaking, grim determination on his face, as if fighting a tremendous battle of will.

  ‘This is extraordinary,’ he said, continuing to stare straight ahead. ‘He’s trying to tell me his name. But it’s too soon, much too soon, it takes several months for the spirits to settle down, they’re too frisky in the first few weeks, it’s difficult.’ His voice tailed away. ‘Clarity, clarity is difficult. Something violent, not here, not in England, somewhere overseas, I sense flames, an explosion. A lorry is involved? Yes, a lorry, someone’s shouting about a lorry!’

  Alex watched him, his eyes shut now, trembling like a child.

  ‘Something else now, someone’s shouting, Harry? No, not Harry, sounds like Harry. I can sense terrible anger, terrible violence, someone is screaming “Lorry! Lorry!” There’s an explosion, someone’s shouting out “Harry” again; this Harry seems very important.’

  Alex watched him, transfixed, as sweat poured from his sheet-white face.

  ‘Now it’s clearing a little, there’s this young person again, a young man, he’s trying to tell me his name. It’s not clear, not clear at all, David could it be? No, Adrian? Maybe Adrian.’ He shook suddenly, violently, as if an electric current had been passed through him. ‘Something’s not right, not right at all; there’s a terrible conflict going on, something very disturbed; there’s a lot of anger, so much anger. Fabian, could it be Fabian?’ He continued without opening his eyes. ‘Yes, he’s telling me something, he’s clear now, incredibly clear.’

  Alex felt the cat breathing softly under her hand. She looked at the roses, at the medium, felt herself trembling strangely, almost as if she wasn’t actually sitting in the chair but was suspended a few inches above it.

  The medium suddenly shouted out at the top of his voice, and startled her. ‘MY GOD HE’S CLEAR!’ His hands were shaking, as if the watch was a mad wild thing. ‘There’s someone else now, trying to come through; a girl, she’s trying to tell me something, but it doesn’t make much sense, she’s saying her name’s Harry. There’s so much disturbance, Fabian’s making this disturbance; it’s a game, he’s larking around, that’s the trouble, it’s too soon, he’s too frisky, it’s all a game at the moment. Now, she’s coming through again, more clearly now, no there’s Fabian again, it’s almost as if he’s trying to – yes – trying to stop – jealousy, of course, oh it’s become all so unclear again.’ Alex saw Ford relax, lean back, turn to her. ‘It’s as bad as the telephone system up there sometimes.’

  She stared, puzzled for a moment by the remark, then realized he had cracked a joke.

  ‘Extraordinary, quite extraordinary; I’ve never known anything like this, never.’ He leaned towards her. ‘This is something really quite incredible.’

  Alex stroked the nape of the cat’s neck mechanically and listened to it purring. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Extraordinary; did it make sense?’

  ‘I’m very confused.’

  ‘I’m very confused too,’ smiled Ford.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you had much experience in this field, Mrs – er – I’m sorry – I can’t remember your name?’

  ‘High – Johnson.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean, experience?’

  ‘In the spiritual world?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your son came through very clearly; I am correct, yes? It was your son you wanted to contact? His name is Fabian, or Adrian?’

  He knew who she really was; somehow he had found out.

  ‘You’ve done your research well,’ she said, coldly. ‘You’ve been very thorough; but you’ve made just one mistake.’

  He raised a single eyebrow.

  ‘My son wasn’t killed by a lorry, but by another motor car.’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, I wasn’t there; I can only go by what I’m told.’

  ‘Or by what you’ve read.’

  He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Read?’

  ‘The crash was reported in the newspapers, Mr Ford,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how many papers, but it was in the Daily Mail. They reported that it was a lorry. I noticed, as I came in, the Daily Mail on your desk.’ She waited for the explosion of anger, but none came. Instead, he looked hurt, puzzled, and shook his head thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quietly, ‘you obviously have a poor opinion of the integrity of mediums.’

  The sincerity of his voice made her hesitate, and she felt herself begin to blush. She looked at his neatly groomed hair, his immaculate white shirt and snappy grey tie and the matching handkerchief bouffed out of the breast pocket of his suit. She looked at his tiny pink hands with their manicured nails and the huge vulgar ring, and then back at his face. Smooth. He could have been an insurance salesman.

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t do research, Mrs Johnson. I don’t read obituary notices. I don’t scan the papers for reports on road accidents and try to link them up with my clients; I don’t delve back into the old school records of my clients, trying to dig up facts they’ve long forgotten that I can hit them with.’ He smiled. ‘In any event, with the amount of people who come here giving me fictitious names, how could I get anywhere with any consistency?’

  Alex looked away guiltily from his searching eyes, and heard his gentle voice continue.

  ‘Nor do I dole out only good news to the bereaved; I relate what I hear. That’s my gift, that’s all I can do.’ He raised his eyebrows apologetically. ‘We have a misconception about the departed. We think that because they have moved on, they have gained integrity.’ He shook his head. ‘It takes more than one life and one passing to gain integrity – and integrity is just one of many things we have to learn in our journeys through this life and the next. Spirits can tell lies, frequently they do; they can get things wrong too. You see, things don’t get improved, suddenly, by passing into the next plane. If you have a lousy memory in this life, it isn’t going to alter suddenly in the next.’

  She saw his meek, apologetic smile and did not want to hurt him. ‘My son had a very good memory.’

  ‘Accidents happen very fast. They can be very confusing; the whole business of going over is very confusing, that’s why I don’t like to try to communicate with the very recently departed, not really before at least three months; this was only in the last few weeks, wasn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Normally, I am not aware of much of what I am saying during a sitting, and at the end I can scarcely remember it at all; this is quite different; never in all my life have I known anything so vivid. Please don’t be cynical, we should continue.’

  ‘You got something else wrong too,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘What was that?’

  ‘You were talking about someone called Harry – you said that something was odd, that it seemed to be a girl called Harry.’