by Peter James
He scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. ‘So, you went to your medium.’
She nodded, and took the cigarette he offered. ‘Mr Ford has given me rather a lot to think about. He claimed to have got through to Fabian; he was describing the accident.’ She lit the cigarette from the candle, looked around to see if any waiter was listening, and leaned across the table. ‘He said that someone in the car was shouting out that a lorry was coming straight at them.’
‘Could have picked that up from the papers – or telepathically from you.’
She shook her head. ‘He was killed by a car, not by a lorry; there was no lorry.’
Main looked puzzled. ‘It said in the paper –’
‘That’s the point,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s the whole point! It said in the papers that it was a lorry, so I was convinced he had read the papers, and put two and two together. I went to Cambridge this afternoon and had a chat with Otto, the boy who survived. I asked him to tell me what happened just before the accident. He said that they’d seen what they thought was a lorry coming, and that Fabian had shouted out that there was a lorry.’ She drank some wine and drew heavily on her cigarette, then stared hard back at him.
He shrugged. ‘Could be telepathy: you picked the message up from Fabian, just before the accident, in your subconscious, but it did not register, then Ford picked it up from you.’ He shrugged again. ‘That’s rather a complex way of looking at things. Or –’
‘Or Ford is genuine?’
‘I don’t know about that. Remarkable.’
A waiter appeared. ‘Was it the pigeon for you, madam?’
‘No, me.’
Alex waited in silence until the food had been served, then leaned forward again. Do you know where I could find a handwriting expert?’
‘Handwriting?’
‘Yes, I don’t know what they’re called – the sort of person the police would use to see if something was forged.’
‘There’s a chap I’ve used from time to time in my research; thought I’d have a go at disproving the Dead Sea Scrolls.’ He smiled, wryly.
‘To annoy your father?’
He looked pensive. ‘No, a long time after –’ he paused, and stared sternly at his pigeon, as if it had committed a misdemeanour.
‘Looks very nice,’ she said.
‘Dead rat,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Dead rat,’ he repeated.
‘Dead rat?’
‘Yes. Had a name like Dead Rat. Derat, Durat, Dendret. Dendret he was called.’
‘Is there anything that you don’t know?’ she smiled.
‘I don’t know why I ordered pigeon; I just remembered I can’t stand the stuff.’
‘I’ll swap with you.’
‘No, no, good Lord, no. A chap’s got to accept the consequences of his actions.’ He gave her a strange look, which for an instant disturbed her.
‘You don’t have to be a martyr any more these days, we’ve evolved past that.’
‘Touché,’ he said, prodding the pigeon dubiously with his fork.
She felt comfortable with all the junk in the Volvo around her, her feet nestling in an undergrowth of papers, parking tickets, cassettes. The car had a homely, lived-in feeling, like an old boat. ‘Do you ever clean your car out?’
‘No, gosh, no. Usually change it when the ashtray gets full.’
She smiled, and stared at the ashtray, jammed open, crammed with dried out butts. ‘What do you call full?’
The wipers smeared the rainwater across the screen, splaying out the lights of London in front of her like a kaleidoscope.
‘Does it bother you, going back to the house on your own?’
She shrugged. ‘No. I’ve got used to it; Fabian only came down in the holidays.’
‘Would you ever like to have any more children?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m too old, too set in my ways.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Ancient,’ she smiled. ‘Sometimes I feel very ancient.’
She watched the white, oranges, reds, exploding and sliding away in front of her eyes, heard the roar of the engine, felt the force of braking, heard the sluicing of the tyres cease suddenly. The wipers clacked in front of her, clack, clack, clack, almost in tune with the rattle of a taxi engine and the beat of the music from a disco nearby; clack, clack, two tiny instruments in the orchestra of the London night.
‘I can’t have any more children,’ she said. ‘We had –’ she paused; the knowledge was still painful, perhaps now more so than it ever used to be; she ran her tongue along her lower lip and watched the show.
He double-parked outside her house and kept the engine running. ‘Thanks for the meal,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come in?’
She noticed a strange expression flicker across his face for an instant, almost of fear, she thought.
‘I’d better get back to work.’
‘Tonight?’
‘A chap can’t keep the world waiting for ever.’
‘Nor his agent.’
‘No. Gosh, no.’
‘Look – would you mind just coming in for a second, so I can show you the postcard, see what you think?’
Again she saw that same flicker across his face and this time there was no doubting the fear that was there. She stared at him, feeling uncomfortable herself now, wondering what was disturbing him, what had been able to break through the seemingly impenetrable defences that he carried around with him, like a shell.
He stared through the windscreen for a moment, saying nothing, then pushed the gear lever into reverse, with a strange, resigned motion, as if conceding defeat, and turned to look over his shoulder.
He seemed to be having difficulty climbing the steps, as if pushing against some unseen force. She watched him, hesitantly; it was as if he was wading through deep water.
He stopped as they reached the front door, and swayed, putting his hand on to the door frame for support. His face went sheet white, and he began to sweat. He closed his eyes tightly, and she looked at him, afraid.
‘Philip? What’s the matter?’
He looked up, rivers of sweat torrenting down his face. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine. I’m fine. It’s going; I’ll be all right.’
‘What, Philip?’
‘It’s all right.’ He looked at her nervously. ‘It’s all right. Fine.’ He smiled.
The smell hit them as they walked in through the front door. A vile, hideous stench. Alex gagged, turned around, and gulped in lungfuls of air from the street. Main put his hand over his nose, and looked around, silently.
‘What is it?’ She turned on the hall light; everything looked normal. ‘It’s like a dog –’
He shook his head. ‘No, not a dog.’
She went into the kitchen, with her handkerchief over her nose. ‘Not in here,’ she said, lifting it away. ‘Hardly smells at all in here.’
Main came down the stairs. ‘No smell upstairs either.’
She went back into the hallway, where the stench was far worse, then outside and stood on the doorstep and sniffed the wet night air. ‘It’s inside, Philip,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s a dead mouse or something?’ She looked at him, and saw him staring around wide-eyed, his face sheet white. ‘Philip? Why don’t you sit down? I’ll open the windows.’ She went into the drawing room and turned on the light; she felt her eyes pulled sharply down to the floor.
Lying there, as if they had been flung, were the postcard and the letter from Carrie.
The wall sloped sharply away from her. For an instant she had to bend her legs under the pressure, and then there was nothing beneath her at all, and she found herself running across the floor and crashing into the wall; she put her arms up for support and the wall seemed to push her away; she tottered back a few steps and fell over.
‘Alex? Are you all right?’
She stared up giddily and saw Main staring down; it was almost as if she was watching everything from a d
istance, that she could see herself lying on the floor, looking up at Main. She heard a voice, and it took a moment to recognize it as her own. ‘I – I must have tripped.’
She saw a hand floating in the air; it gripped hers, pulled her up; she watched herself put her arms around Main, then suddenly, quite vividly, felt the crumpled softness of his jacket and the warmth of his chest. She hugged hard and felt his strong back muscles. ‘On the floor,’ she said. ‘They were under the telephone when I went out, weighed down; someone’s moved them.’
She felt his firm hands on her back, trembling; or was it she who was trembling, she wondered.
‘Calm down, girl, calm down.’
She could tell from his tone that he was struggling to suppress the anxiety in his voice. What’s the matter with you, she wanted to say. What the hell’s the matter with you? She stared at him. ‘Just another of those tricks of my mind?’
He looked down at his battered brown brogues, and coughed. His voice went into a quiet whisper, as if he was talking to himself. ‘No, good Lord, no, it’s not a trick.’ He looked up at the ceiling and around the walls, pensively, still ruffled by anxiety. ‘Drains, most likely.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, bending down and picking up the card and letter. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
‘Could I have a drop of whisky?’
‘Help yourself; I’ll put some coffee on.’ She went out of the room.
Main walked to the cabinet, and poured himself a large whisky. Then he picked up the card and letter and walked over to an armchair. He sniffed again, and winced, looking up at the ceiling, then sat down, slowly. He held the whisky under his nose, and sniffed it gradually, then closed his eyes tight.
‘Our Father,’ he said, ‘which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come – ’
‘Philip? Are you asleep?’
He opened his eyes with a start, and felt his cheeks reddening. ‘Hmmm,’ he replied, fumbling for his cigarettes.
‘What do you think?’
‘Think?’
‘About the letter?’
He looked down at the letter and read it carefully. He shrugged. ‘Seems pretty definite. What does she mean, “weird”?’
‘Not the content,’ she said. ‘The handwriting. Look at the postcard.’
‘It’s a little different,’ he said. ‘Might have been written balanced on her knees, or when she was stoned; looks basically the same.’
‘But your friend Dead Rat would be able to tell?’
‘Dendret?’
Alex saw his head suddenly whiplash around, as if trying to catch sight of something behind his shoulder, staring wildly. ‘Are you O.K.?’
‘What?’
She sat down on the arm of the chair and shivered. ‘I don’t think I can keep the windows open for ever; they don’t seem to be making much difference.’
‘Much difference?’
She put her hand on his forehead. It was damp and cold. ‘Do you want to lie down?’
He stared blankly ahead, across the top of his whisky, and said nothing. Alex went out to pour her coffee; when she came back in, he was still sitting there. The smell in the room was venomous.
She sat down beside him again, on the arm of his chair, and saw the sweat again on his face. ‘We’d be better in the kitchen – it’s fine in there.’ She looked at him, unsure that he had heard, and put her hand on his forehead again; she wondered for a terrible moment if he had had a stroke.
‘I don’t belong here,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I’m not wanted here.’
‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’ she said, becoming alarmed at his incoherence. She waved her fingers in front of his eyes, looking for a flicker of movement, but there was none. ‘Philip, do you want me to call a doctor?’ She waited. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Hallo, Mother.’
The words were gentle, crystal clear, as if Fabian was standing right beside her.
She whirled around, stared out at the hallway, then at the open windows. She ran over to them and looked out. The street was empty, nothing out there except the dark and the parked cars and the rain.
She had not imagined it.
She stared at Main, who was now trembling violently.
‘Mother.’
The words had come from Main.
She watched him shaking, breathing heavily, and sensed the room getting colder. She saw the sweat running down his face, and watched him clenching his knuckles, so tight she thought his hands would break.
She stayed watching him.
Mother.
The word rang around inside her.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, pushed his arms away from his body, and shouted in his own voice, ‘No, I say, no!’ He stared around the room, as if lost, confused, breathing deeply, then stared at Alex with eyes filled with terror, eyes that scarcely recognized her. ‘I – must – go,’ he said, slowly, hesitating after each word. ‘I – must – go – now. I should not have come.’
‘What’s happening, Philip, please tell me.’
He stared fearfully around the room with the same expression on his face that she had seen on Iris Tremayne’s, then he walked determinedly out into the hallway.
‘Stay and talk to me.’
‘Come with me.’
She shook her head.
‘I’ll wait for you in the car.’
‘Dendret,’ she said. ‘Where do I find Dendret?’
He opened the front door and went outside, a complete stranger suddenly.
‘Philip!’ She heard her own voice, shrill, afraid, like the call of a lost chick. She turned and looked around the hall. She grabbed her bag, her coat and her keys, closed the door and ran down to the pavement.
Main was sitting in the Volvo in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke; as she slammed the door, he started the engine and drove off
‘Philip, I want to stay here.’
He ignored her, and turned left into the King’s Road. She looked at his face, which was expressionless. He was driving fast and she was being thrown around in her seat. The seat-belt warning light was flashing and clicking like a furious insect and she tried to ignore it. He said nothing until they were inside his flat.
He gave Alex a brandy and sat down with his whisky, stared at the floor then let out a low whistle. Alex sniffed the brandy and drank some; she felt it burning deep inside her stomach, clutched the huge balloon tightly with both hands and drank again, gratefully.
‘What happened?’
He whistled again and pulled out his cigarettes.
‘Was that Fabian speaking, or you?’
He offered her the pack, still without saying anything, and she shook her head, pulling one of her own out.
‘You don’t want to admit it, do you?’ She watched his face redden, as the torment built up inside him, and wished for a moment that she too had said nothing. ‘I’m sorry.’
She heard the click of his lighter and watched him stare at the tiny flame that was dancing in the draught; he stared at it intensely as if it was a genie he had summoned up to help him.
‘Very unusual,’ he said, suddenly.
Alex noticed for the first time how tired he was looking; his skin seemed to be hanging limply from his face, like a flannel on a washing line, everything wrung out of it.
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged and said nothing.
‘Do you remember, in your last book, something you wrote?’
He drew hard on his cigarette and stared out into space; Alex shuddered; for an instant as the smoke drifted around him, he reminded her of a picture she had once seen of sallow ghouls in an opium den.
‘You said that we are all prisoners of our genes.’
There was no flicker of response.
‘You said that we cannot fight the programmes we are born with, and we cannot change them; the only liberty we have is to disagree with them.’
Slowly he nodded his head.
‘That they were chosen for u
s at the moment of conception, random pickings from the selection of genes in the father’s sperm and the mother’s egg. In that split second is determined everything that is to be inherited or left out from each parent. Right?’
He turned and looked vaguely in her direction.
‘You’ve inherited your father’s powers, and you don’t want to admit it.’
He looked away from her again and into space.
‘Please explain it to me Philip; please explain what happened.’
‘Just a theory, that’s all,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘Just a theory, girl. There’s no proof.’
‘Not in genetic engineering?’
‘That’s a different sphere.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’
He stared down at the floor. ‘Maybe,’ he said quietly. ‘But it is considered unlikely. The colour of your hair is transmitted in genes, the shape of your nose. Psychic power is something different –’ He shrugged. ‘It’s meant to be a gift.’
‘Intelligence isn’t passed on in genes?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
‘I always thought intelligence was considered a gift.’
‘Not at all.’
‘What about behaviour? Is that passed on in genes?’
‘To an extent.’
‘So why not psychic powers?’
He stared at her for a moment, then looked away.
‘Why didn’t you want to come into the house? What happened?’
‘It’s all hokum, girl; I don’t know where these spirits, voices, manifestations, whatever come from. We can only see a very narrow band of light waves, hear a narrow band of sound waves. Perhaps when we die we leave behind us imprints in other waves outside these, and some people are able to tune into them and pick them up. It doesn’t mean they are still alive, somewhere else, doesn’t mean that at all.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘That they’ve left an imprint, like a photograph. The trick is being able to see it.’ He tapped his head. ‘We probably all have the power, but most of us don’t know how to use it; some do and keep quiet all their lives; some become mediums; it’s a good con.’ He looked at her, colour beginning to return to his face. ‘I didn’t want to con you.’
