by Peter James
‘Con me?’
He thought carefully before speaking. ‘I had a feeling I might pick Fabian up; what good would it do you? Raking it all up, giving you some false hope that he’s out there somewhere.’
She stared at him, leaned forward and crushed out her cigarette, startled at how fast she had smoked it. ‘You’re lying, Philip,’ she said.
‘I’m not lying, girl. I’m just trying to put it into plain English.’
‘If that’s all it was, you wouldn’t have been so frightened. You were terrified about something. About what?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re imagining it; that’s what happens when people dabble in this.’
‘Philip.’ She looked at him. ‘Please look at me. You’re my friend. Do you seriously expect me to believe that if there is such a thing as an imprint that can be left behind, that after twenty-one years, all that is left of Fabian are two words? Hallo, Mother? Stop being evasive and tell me the truth.’
He picked up his whisky glass and studied it; he swirled the whisky around, sniffed it testily, then studied the glass again, carefully, as if searching for a hidden hallmark. He spoke without looking at her. ‘It’s possible there’s a presence in your house; a malevolent one.’
Something wet and slimy trickled down her spine. She shivered, and drank some more brandy; it tasted like dry ice. She pulled the glass away sharply, her mouth burning, stared around the room, closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. ‘Surely, if there’s a presence, it’s Fabian?’
‘Those who – believe in this are of the opinion that evil can be a very mischievous thing: that it can prey on the victims of grief, take advantage of their weakness, and their blindness to the truth.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Rogue spirits, girl. One of them might be conning you now; trying to pretend he’s your son.’
She stared at him for a long time in silence, trembling, despair soaking through her; she stared at him as if he was an outcrop of land to which she was moored; the last piece of land on earth.
‘Why?’ she said, finally, helplessly.
‘Spirits sometimes try to come back.’
‘Do they succeed?’
‘There is evidence that they can possess people; and influence them. For good and – for bad.’ He smiled, wryly.
Alex shook her head. ‘You amaze me; you’re so cynical, and yet – I don’t know – you know so much more, don’t you; you’re like a stage, sometimes, with a hundred backdrops.’
He smiled. ‘No, good Lord, no.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t overestimate me, girl.’
‘Why do they try to come back?’
He twisted his glass round in his hand, then looked at Alex. He looked away, around the room, then back at his glass, twisting it again. Finally he looked up at her, his face heavy with doubt. The words came out slowly, as if dragged against some tremendous inner reluctance. ‘Because they have unfinished business.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Arthur Dendret had a sharp pointed beard and a sharp pointed head; he moved around his office in short clockwork-like stages, as if governed by a program inside him.
Every inch of the available floor and shelving space of the cramped office was covered with untidy bundles of documents, and equally untidy stacks of reference books, and the walls were hung with cold, lifeless prints of Regency Terraces which revealed nothing about him. In contrast to his own size, his desk was vast and almost completely empty. The only relief on the acreage of flat green leather was a neat blotter, a magnifying glass and a framed photograph of a stern woman.
‘Please, sit down.’ He pulled off his gold half-rimmed glasses, peered accusingly at them and then replaced them. He laid both hands on the blotter, squinted at Alex and gave a wide, almost imbecilic grin.
She stared at his brightly checked suit, and his drab woollen tie, the colour of slime. ‘Philip Main gave me your name.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His face screwed up like a sponge, he blinked furiously, and raised an arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. ‘Dead Sea Scrolls. Very interesting. Thought he might have been on to something, for a time, but of course it ended up a blind alley; always does with the Scrolls, don’t you think?’
Alex smiled politely. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.’
‘No, well, he’s a determined chap. Still –’ He leaned back and looked expectantly at her.
Alex opened her handbag and laid the postcard and the letter on the wilderness. He stared at them for a moment, opened his drawer and pulled out a pair of tweezers. In turn he picked each one up and placed it down in front of him. ‘Not Dead Sea Scrolls, these,’ he said, ‘not Dead Sea Scrolls at all.’ He grinned, then chuckled, his shoulders moving up and down several times as if pulled by strings. He turned the postcard over with the tweezers. ‘Ah, Boston, Cambridge, MIT, know this view well. Had a puncture on this bridge once; not a good place to have a puncture; not a good country to have a puncture in, America; not in a Peugeot, anyway.’
Alex stared at him curiously.
He pointed his index finger upwards. ‘They have these spikes they put through the wheel, to get the tyre off; you can’t do it on a Peugeot.’ He turned the postcard back over. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want to know if the person who wrote the letter is the same person who wrote the postcard?’
Dendret picked up the magnifying glass and studied several lines of the letter carefully, then leaned over slightly and studied the postcard. As he read, his lips pursed and the action elongated his nose. He reminded Alex of a rather aggressive rodent.
Quite decisively, he put down the glass and leaned back in his chair; he looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again and stared directly at Alex. ‘No, not at all. The writing on the postcard’s a very poor imitation of the writing on the letter; there are eight points of difference clearly visible, just through the glass. The t bars for instance.’ He shook his head. ‘No, quite different. The spacing; pressure, slant, the loops – look at the loops! There really is no comparison to be had.’
He looked irritated, thought Alex, as if he had been expecting a glass of fine claret and only been given plonk. He picked the tweezers up and placed the items in front of her, without attempting to hide his disdain.
‘I – er – I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘As a layman, I – ’
‘No, of course, you wouldn’t.’ His tone had become almost belligerent. He took a deep breath and stared for a moment at the photograph of the stern woman; it seemed to calm him down, very slightly. He no longer stared at Alex, but through her. ‘Frankly, I would have thought a child of six could have told those weren’t the same.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Alex, equally acidly, ‘I don’t have a child of six.’
Dendret produced an invoice pad from his drawer, pulled out a gold pen from his pocket. He wrote on the pad, then turned it upside down on to his clean blotter. ‘That will be thirty pounds.’
Alex looked down at the imprint of the writing on the blotter, then at the crisp white piece of paper that he put down in front of her, using his fingers this time, not the tweezers.
She paid him in cash, and he slipped the notes possessively into his wallet, like a rat storing away food, she thought.
‘Do give my regards to Mr Main.’
She sat in her car and stared at the postcard with a heavy heart. She read it for the hundredth time: ‘Hi Mum, This is a really friendly place, lots of things happening, met some great people. Will write again soon. Love C.’
She looked at the franking. The word ‘Boston’ was just discernible. She tried to concentrate; who did she know in Boston? Or had been to Boston? Or anywhere in the States? Who had posted it? And the others? Who? Fabian? He’d never been to America, so far as she knew.
She drove straight to Cornwall Gardens, and rang Morgan Ford’s bell. A woman’s voice crackled through the entry-phone, and the latch released with a loud buzz.
She walked nervously up th
e stairs, and Ford’s door was opened by a cluttered-looking girl with thickly lensed glasses and a thatch of floppy hair that covered most of the rest of her face; she reminded Alex of an Old English Sheepdog.
‘Ah-ah,’ said the girl, ‘Mrs Willingham? Mr Ford won’t keep you a moment.’
Alex shook her head. ‘No, I don’t have an appointment. I wondered if it was possible to see Mr Ford just for a quick moment?’
The girl smiled nervously. ‘I think it would be best to – ah – make an appointment.’ She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again, whilst her head nodded up and down.
‘I saw him yesterday, you see. It’s just something I want to ask him – it’s very important.’
The shifting of the girl’s weight increased in tempo. ‘I’ll speak to him for you,’ she said, earnestly but dubiously. ‘Ah – ah – what did you say your name was?’
‘Mrs Hightower.’
The girl nodded her head again and marched off in great long ungainly strides, her body stooped forward. Alex looked around the corridor; it was narrow and drab, with a gaudy red carpet and rough white rendering on the walls; it gave no clue at all as to the almost baroque magnificence of the drawing room it led to.
The girl clumped back towards her clutching a large diary. ‘I’m afraid Mr Ford doesn’t remember you at all.’
‘But it was only yesterday!’
The girl shook her head. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘It must be in your book, surely?’
The girl opened the diary. ‘What time was it?’
‘Half past ten.’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘We had a Mrs Johnson then.’
Alex felt herself blushing. She stared at the thick lenses: it was like looking at the girl’s eyes through the wrong end of 2 telescope. ‘Ah, yes, of course; I gave my maiden name.’
‘Mrs Shoona Johnson?’ said the girl, dubiously.
‘Yes.’
‘One moment.’ She trotted off again. This time Morgan Ford himself followed her out. He looked up at Alex, and smiled politely. ‘Ah yes, you came – wasn’t it yesterday?’
Alex nodded, and looked at his tiny pink hands and the enormous rhinestone ring. He was in a different grey suit today, a snappier one, with a louder tie and grey shoes with large gold buckles; yesterday he had looked like an insurance salesman, today he looked more like a games show host. ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you,’ she said, ‘but I need to talk to you very urgently.’
He looked at his watch, and she saw the faint flicker of irritation on his face, which he managed to keep from his voice. ‘I can give you just a couple of minutes, until my appointment arrives; I mustn’t keep people waiting, you see,’ he said, kindly.
The cats were still on sentry duty by the gas log fire, and watched her suspiciously.
‘Perhaps you could remind me,’ he said.
‘My son was killed in a road accident in France; when a driver drove on the wrong side of the autoroute.’
‘It does ring a bell.’ He nodded to himself. ‘You must forgive me – I see so many people.’
‘You got very excited yesterday.’
He frowned. ‘I did?’
For a moment she wanted to shout at him, clout him on the ear. Then despair took over and the anger slipped away. ‘It’s no good,’ she said, ‘if you can’t remember what happened; I wanted to ask you about something my son said.’
‘Please – sit down.’
Alex sat in the same chair and saw the torn approaching her, slowly, walking in a wide arc.
Ford smiled at her, with a slightly distant look in his eyes. ‘Perhaps if you gave me something close to you, a bracelet or a watch?’
‘I gave you my watch yesterday.’
‘That would be the best, then.’
She nodded and unclipped the clasp.
He sat down beside her, and held the watch out. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘ah yes. Very strong feelings.’ He shook his head. ‘Incredible; remarkable. What is it you want to know?’
‘I was rude to you yesterday, because I didn’t believe what you told me. Certain things have happened since then.’ She looked at him carefully, searching for something shifty in his face, for a flicker, a blush, for the hint of something uncomfortable. But all she saw was a polite smile. ‘You told me that my son, Fabian, wanted to come back; what did you mean?’
Ford looked at her. ‘There are feelings coming through that are immensely strong. There is a spirit here who is earthbound, presumably your son, but there are so many other things going on, much conflict, I sense a girl, I’m sorry, there isn’t time now, but we must do something. He is earthbound, confused; we must do something for him.’
‘What do you mean, earthbound?’ She heard the buzzer ring in the hallway.
‘That he hasn’t gone over. It’s a common occurrence, I’m afraid, in a sudden death, like an accident or a murder; the spirit needs to be helped over. He may not be aware that he has died, you see.’ He smiled.
‘There’s nothing –’ she paused ‘– nothing malevolent?’
He smiled and handed her back the watch. ‘There’s evil everywhere; but we protect ourselves against it. Simple procedures – there is no need to worry – providing we conduct everything properly.’ He looked at her and she tried to read his expression.
Without warning, the cat jumped into her lap, and she felt her heart miss a beat.
‘The environment is very important. You see, an earthbound spirit gets lost very easily; nothing is familiar; he tries to talk to people and wonders why they don’t answer back.’ Ford smiled. ‘He has no energy, because he has no body to give him energy. We have a circle, and the circle creates energy, like a beacon. He can find his way to the circle, then we can bring in spirit guides who can take him off, over to the other side.’
‘Do you mean a séance?’
Ford winced. ‘Circle is better; I think séance has a rather vulgar tone to it; seaside gypsy ladies and all that.’ He smiled again.
‘I know you’re in a hurry – I’ll be quick. You said yesterday that a girl was coming through, someone called Carrie. Can you remember anything about that?’
He shrugged. ‘There were so many channels yesterday, all trying to come through, so much confusion.’
‘It’s very important.’
‘I’m sure it will all become clear when we start the circle. Now, we need somewhere suitable, somewhere familiar to your son; in your home would be best, if you have no objections?’
Alex shook her head.
‘What about your husband?’
‘We’re separated.’
He nodded. ‘Was your son fond of your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I would like your husband to be there. We need people to give the power; it’s very important to have some people close to him. Are there any brothers or sisters?’
Alex shook her head.
‘Do you have any other relatives?’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘My husband’s very sceptical, I’m afraid.’
‘So are you.’ He smiled, a warm kind smile. ‘It is important. A father can give you so much energy in a situation like this.’
Alex stared at him hesitantly, but said nothing.
‘Also, if you have any other friends, people that knew him, who would be prepared to come, it would be helpful. I can bring people, you see, but it is much better if there are others that knew him.’
‘How many others?’
‘At least two others. We must have a minimum of five, preferably more. Now, let’s make a date. The evening would be best; do you have a room without windows?’
‘I have a photographic darkroom.’
‘Perfect.’
‘No, I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be big enough.’
‘Any room would do, perhaps his own bedroom would be best; but it’s a room you should not use for anything else as long as the circle continues. You must make sure the windows are well sealed,
so that no light can come in, no light at all, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you must eat nothing for six hours before. No one must.’
‘Six hours?’
‘And everyone must have a bath before and wear clean clothes. These are my rules and they must be obeyed.’
Alex listened to the gentle lilt of his voice and frowned at the detail; why did these people have to be so obsessed with ritual, she wondered? Why couldn’t they just get on with it?
‘You must clean the room thoroughly, hoover very carefully. Evil attaches to dirt, you see, the dirt in the room, on our bodies, the waste products in our systems; we must give evil the least possible chance.’ He stood up and she followed him down the corridor; the new arrival was nowhere to be seen. Who was it, Alex wondered? What did they look like? Why had they come?
‘Margaret!’ said Ford, loudly. ‘Could I have the diary?’
The secretary trotted obediently out of a door and handed the book to him. ‘A Tuesday or a Thursday would be best,’ he said, ‘and you must keep the same day each week clear for several weeks ahead. It may be immediate, it may take a while; continuity is essential. Now, today is Tuesday; no, there wouldn’t be enough time. How about this Thursday? Could you manage that?’
She nodded. ‘Somehow.’
He showed her out himself. ‘You must persuade your husband,’ he said. ‘It really is most important.’
‘Yes.’
She tried once more to read his face. It seemed that there was something beyond that gentle smile; something that he knew and did not want to tell.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘I believe everyone is wonderful and has something special to offer the world.’ The woman whispered the words in an awestruck Californian accent, as if her personal discovery was a secret she wished to keep from the three million radio listeners. Alex wondered if she was holding the interviewer’s hands and staring into her eyes. ‘Tibetans will tell people if they’re troubled to go and walk under pines, they’ve been doing it for fifteen hundred years.’
‘Gosh!’ said the interviewer.
‘Crap,’ said Alex, leaning forward and snapping off the radio. The world was full of people who’d discovered the secret of life, who saw it lying in undigested lumps of sweetcorn in their stools; Christ, did you have to stare down lavatories or walk under pines to cope with life? Lucky for them that they had the time. Lucky for them that they had nothing better to do.
