The Omega Factor

by Jack Gerson

  'Fancy a trip to Edinburgh?'

  'When?'

  'Tomorrow,' he yawned.

  'Be serious.'

  'I am not only serious, I am grim. Come on. Just for a few days.'

  She was sitting facing him now. She stared across in mock suspicion.

  'Why? Fishing?'

  'Could be. After.'

  'After what?' she asked.

  'After I find and interview Drexel.'

  'The antiseptic gentleman who indulged in that old ritual sex magic?' She was smiling now.

  'The very one. If I can find him.' Crane suddenly knew he was going to find Drexel. Irrational, he thought, but he knew.

  'Much as I'd like to, my darling,' Julia said with genuine regret, 'I'm up to my eyes at work just now. Fred needs constant attention.'

  Fred was her name for the complex computer of which she was in charge.

  'I need constant attention too,' Crane replied. 'But if you prefer a computer to a red blooded male...'

  'Fred's always there. And he resents your insinuations,' she went on. Fred was an old subject of repartee between them. 'Anyway why the sudden rush to Edinburgh?'

  Before he could reply a cold thought seemed to come to her. 'Nothing wrong with Michael, is there?'

  'As far as I know my younger brother is in perfect health. And supposedly studying for his Ph.D. If he's not having it off with every female in Edinburgh.'

  'Like his elder brother used to?'

  'I was too busy getting my degree. And I hadn't the time to take a Ph.D., far less chase females. No, according to Oliphant Drexel is alive and living in Edinburgh. He can't be a young man and I do want to talk to him.'

  Julia became serious. 'He's that important?'

  'I don't know,' Crane shrugged. 'And I won't until I talk to him. But he's the last of a dying breed. Oh, he's probably a complete phoney, but a lot of people did think he had genuine clairvoyant powers.'

  'You believe that?'

  Another shrug. 'In all my research for the first series I only met a few people who had... something extra. And I was never sure what it was. I'd like to see what Drexel can do.'

  'Black magicians! Ugh! I prefer it when you confine your research to the British Museum. And the odd pub.'

  Crane felt suddenly cold. He shivered. Something out of true. He realised what it was.

  'Did I say he was a black magician?'

  'Magician was mentioned. And all that stuff in your notes about sex magic... I just thought...'

  Crane relaxed again. 'Even so-called white magicians practised sex magic'

  'But women didn't die with white magic?'

  'You're much too curious, darling,' he said. 'It's an unhealthy subject anyway. Be glad when I'm onto something cleaner...'

  'Like political corruption? Scandal in public life?' Julia was almost laughing now.

  'I think I'm glad you're not coming with me, Julia. This is supposed to be a serious set of articles. Still if you're not coming I could stay with Michael.'

  'An obvious bid to recapture your lost undergraduate youth. Without me, you'll be chasing all Michael's young ladies over Edinburgh.'

  'Come with me and make sure I don't.'

  She shook her head, 'I'd love to, but I can't.'

  He stood up and stretched. It would soon be midnight.

  'Then how about a little elementary sex magic to be going on with?'

  They went into the bedroom. He knew he wouldn't dream tonight. But there was something else, a feeling at the back of his mind, a tiny quirk of uneasiness; and it was to do with his proposed trip to Edinburgh.

  Ten minutes later he had forgotten about it.

  THREE

  Julia woke from a deep sleep. Crane was shaking her gently by the shoulder. He was fully dressed. She blinked and sat up, glancing at the clock by the bed.

  'It's only seven o'clock,' she yawned up at him.

  'Told you I wanted to get an early start.'

  She pulled back the bedclothes and slipped out of bed.

  'You'll need a good breakfast.' She looked round for her dressing gown.

  Crane stood back admiring her figure. Sometime during the night she had slipped on a thin, revealing nightdress. He found himself thinking the flimsy material only emphasised her sexuality. After five years of marriage she excited him even more than on the first night they had gone to bed together. He smiled at the thought. A cliché of popular romantic novels, yet, by God, it was true.

  'I'll make you some bacon and egg...' she went on.

  'I've already had it. And there's hot coffee in the pot for you,' he broke in, going round to his side of the bed and lifting the telephone.

  'Who are you phoning?'

  'Michael,' he replied and then was struck by an afterthought. 'Do me a favour. I forgot to take my rods out.'

  Julia smiled. 'It's all just an excuse to go fishing. You better bring back at least one salmon.'

  'I'll need something to keep me amused since you're not interested in coming with me,' he said, as he dialled the Edinburgh number.

  She picked up her pillow and threw it at him.

  'Give Michael my love and tell him he was right. I should have waited for him to grow up.'

  The receiver at the other end was lifted surprisingly quickly considering the early hour. Michael Crane's voice came through, alert and wide awake.

  'Tom! How is big brother?'

  'I'm okay. And Julia sends her love. How are you?'

  'Tell Julia I'm still mad about her body. And her mind too. But I'm really basking in reflected glory. Your articles yesterday are quite a talking point. Half the crowd here think you're brilliant and perceptive...'

  'That's nice,' Crane said, waiting for the barb. It came at once.

  'And the other half think you're an idiot wasting your time writing about nut-cases and things that go bump in the night. Of course... me, well, you don't expect me to read all that occult rubbish?'

  Crane, knew he should be used to being ribbed by his brother but somehow it still grated on him after so many years. Their relationship had always had an abrasive edge, honed by the nine-year difference in their ages; and perhaps too by Michael's knowledge that since their parents' death he owed so much to his elder brother.

  Crane blamed himself. There were times in the early days when he resented the expense of putting Michael through public school. He had felt he had to match his brother's education with his own. It had cost him a considerable amount of money and though he no longer minded that, he did find himself irritated by his younger brother's flippant attitude to his studies and his casual acceptance of everything he received.

  'Thank you for your support, but forget the article,' Crane went on. 'Listen, I'm driving to Edinburgh this morning. Just for a few days. First, can you put me up? Second, how about some fishing? We could go up to Perth...'

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then Michael coughed.

  'Sorry, Tom, but I'm just leaving. Wester Ross. Thought I'd get a bit of walking in. Blow the cobwebs away.' There was another pause and then he went on. 'Don't worry, my thesis is going to shatter academic circles in Edinburgh with its sheer brilliance. But I do need a bit of a change. Still you can have the flat. I'll leave the key with the woman downstairs.'

  Crane heard a sound in the background.

  'Someone at the door,' Michael said quickly. 'Probably my lift to the station. Look, treat the flat as your own. Orgies every night. And give my love and sympathy to Julia. Got to go. See you next time, eh?'

  The receiver at the other end was replaced. Crane hung his receiver up thoughtfully.

  Four hundred miles away in Edinburgh Michael Crane opened the door of his flat. A tall man with a thin, almost cadaverous face stood on the doormat looking down at him.

  'Ready, Michael?'

  'Ready, Dr Martindale.'

  Crane drove off the North Circular Road onto the Ml an hour later. Taking it at a steady speed he reckoned he should be in Edinburgh by five
o'clock in the afternoon.

  He wished Julia had been with him. Apart from anything else she did keep him from getting drowsy at the wheel on a long journey. He had thought for a few moments just before he left that she might change her mind. She'd looked quite miserable as she helped him on with his heavy suede car coat.

  'I'm... I'm sorry I'm not coming,' she said then a thought seemed to strike her. 'Why don't you look Anne Reynolds up?'

  'I haven't seen her for a couple of years. Is she in Edinburgh?'

  ... Anne Reynolds, pleasant, attractive, standing in the doorway of the flat two years ago, a gin and tonic in hand, handling an over-amorous, drunk journalist with tact and firmness until Crane and Julia had reached her.

  'Not used to these wild London parties,' she'd explained with a smile. 'Just an old academic blue stocking me.'

  Anne and Julia had been at London University together. She had been the solitary bridesmaid at the registry office wedding, standing beside Julia, in a sweater and skirt, with a jacket thrown carelessly over her shoulders. Crane had taken an instant liking to her, feeling she was good for Julia; a woman friend who was undemanding but reliable. But, shortly after their marriage she had left London and apart from the occasional visit they had seen little of her.

  Julia explained, 'She's got some kind of research fellowship at Edinburgh University. I'll give you her home number. Give her a ring. Keep you out of mischief.'

  'I have no intention of getting into mischief. But I'll ring her up.'

  Julia had always insisted Anne was the clever one. First class Honours in bio-physics; that was a fact Crane himself found a little daunting. But it didn't show, as far as he could remember. She had been one of those rare working women who never talked about their work. She and Julia had that in common. Apart from the occasional references to Fred, the computer, it occurred to him that he hadn't the faintest idea what Julia fed into it. Perhaps he should be grateful, he thought. He'd never been interested in mathematics or physics. For that matter he'd never been very good at either subject.

  He drove through the maze of motorways called Spaghetti Junction and on to the M6 eighty minutes later. He switched the car radio on to find himself listening to the morning service on Radio Four. His mind wandered as he overtook a growling articulated lorry. There was something there, at the back of his mind, and it worried him.

  It wasn't the dream this time, he thought. The dream seemed remote, its details misty, something in the distant past. Yesterday was always the distant past. He was concerned about what was with him now.

  Michael.

  To do with Michael.

  He remembered.

  Michael was going on a walking holiday in Wester Ross. Perfectly normal. Many people went on walking holidays.

  But Michael Crane hated walking He'd always hated walking. He'd bought his first car, an aged Triumph, at eighteen, with money lent to him by his brother. He used it almost to cross the road. A year before he'd sold his third car to save money and then proceeded to spend anything he saved on taxis.

  Michael Crane who hated to walk across the road was going on a walking holiday? Stupid, it was, but the inconsistency nagged at Crane.

  A watery sun followed Crane the length of England but as he drove north of the Scottish border towards Edinburgh it started to rain and the downpour increased as he turned off the motorway and onto the narrow winding road that led from the border to the capital.

  It was nearing seven o'clock in the evening when he drove through the dusk to Michael's flat in a quiet side street off the Meadows. The grey stone of what had once been a fashionable tenement glistened in the rain, reflecting the street lamps.

  Parking the car at the kerb, Crane climbed one flight of stairs in what the Scots called a close. Obtaining Michael's key from a small, silver-haired woman, and politely rejecting her offer of a cup of tea, he climbed another flight of stairs and let himself into his brother's flat.

  On graduating with a second class Honours degree in economics, Michael, with the aid of a loan from Crane, had bought the two room flat some two years earlier. Initially he had furnished it with junk, but Crane noted with some pleasure, the living room now had a decent settee and two deep armchairs. The table was the same old piece of furniture, its polished wood ringed with the signs of innumerable beer and whisky glasses. In a corner was a small thirteen-inch colour television set.

  When Crane entered the heavy curtains were drawn and there were other signs that Michael had left that morning in a hurry. A half-empty cup, its contents, cold coffee with a scum of milk floating on top, lay in the hearth. An ashtray was full of cigarette ends. Beside the telephone was the crust of what had been a piece of toast.

  Crane put his suitcase down and collecting the debris took it into the tiny oblong kitchen. In the sink were two unwashed plates. Crane smiled to himself. Michael hadn't changed. Still left everything until he could be bothered.

  In the bedroom he was pleased to see that at least the bed had been made, if rather roughly. He deposited his suitcase in the bedroom, went back into the living room, lit a cigarette, switched on a small portable radio on the mantelpiece, as an afterthought lit the gas fire and sat back in the nearest deep armchair to relax. He was stiff and tired after his drive and there was a trace of cramp in his right foot. He told himself he should get the position of the accelerator adjusted in his car.

  '... might hopefully lead to the end of the fighting in the streets of Beirut.' The slight drawl of the Scottish newsreader issued from the radio. The change of accent was not unpleasant to his ears. The newsreader continued: 'Edinburgh and Lothian Police made a request to the public today for any information regarding the whereabouts of Mrs Margaret Christie, the forty-five-year-old widow who disappeared from her flat in Morningside just over a week ago...'

  Crane's attention drifted away as the voice of the newsreader gave way to the incidental music that heralded the latest instalment of the BBC's never-ending story of country life. He wondered whether his judgement of his younger brother was at times too peremptory, too harsh. Looking around the flat he thought it was tidier than his own bedsitter when he had been a student. Yet he'd only had one room and a great deal less money than Michael. And Michael did irritate him with his off-hand acceptance of all that had been, and still was, being done for him. Would he, Crane, have been any different had their roles been reversed? And why, anyway, did he worry about it?

  Yet he did worry. There were times Julia told him, he worried about trivia, concerned himself with detail and, faced with the larger crises in life, handled them with casual self-assurance. Strange to be like that; self-assured on the one hand, nervously irritable on the other. He wondered why.

  Another sound intruded on his consciousness. He sat up erect as a key scraped in the lock of the outer door and he heard it open. He swivelled round as the living room door opened.

  The girl, not more than twenty with light brown hair, started as she saw him.

  'Oh!' she said, hazel eyes wide with surprise.

  'Hello!' he said, smiling.

  The girl stood for a moment looking down at her feet.

  'Eh... you'll be Michael's brother?'

  'That's right,' he replied, rising to his feet. He winced feeling a twinge of cramp in his right foot.

  The girl smiled nervously. 'I recognised you from your picture. In yesterday's paper, you know.'

  'My wife says it's a lousy likeness.'

  She considered that for a moment and then said, 'It makes you look older.'

  He accepted the statement with a wry nod.

  'I expect you're wondering what I'm doing here?' she went on, blushing now. 'And with a key too?'

  'I expect you'll tell me.'

  She came towards him and sat awkwardly on the arm of a chair. 'I left some stuff here,' she waved a hand vaguely as if in explanation. 'I am a friend of Michael's.'

  Crane found himself childishly amused at her embarrassment. 'I thought you might be.'

&
nbsp; 'He... he sometimes puts me up for the night.'

  You live far away?'

  For the first time she smiled, 'Quite near, actually.'

  'I see. Well, help yourself to... to whatever you came for...' He sat back in the chair.

  She nodded and rose. 'I'm sorry... I'm Sheila Martindale. Has Michael ever mentioned me?'

  Crane shook his head. 'He never tells me anything worthwhile.' He looked at her, affecting to be looking around the room. Good legs, and a good figure. Slightly top heavy but he approved of that. Ten years ago he would have considered it well worthwhile. A stab of irritation went through his mind. Damn it, he hoped Michael was paying attention to his thesis. And if he wasn't, could Crane blame him?

  Another thought. He put it into words. 'Look, I've just arrived and I'm parched. How about some tea?'

  'No, thanks,' she replied, then at once decided enthusiasm would be diplomatic. 'But I'll make you some. I... I know where everything is.'

  In five minutes she placed a large mug of hot tea beside him. 'I could make you something to eat?'

  'Tea'll be fine. I'll eat later. Tell me, how long have you known Michael?'

  'Just over a year. We met at a union disco,' she gave a disarming smile. 'Instant hatred. I thought he was conceited, completely self-centred and he needed a shave.'

  Crane nodded sagely. 'That's a pretty fair description of my brother.'

  'Of course, I'm very fond of him,' she added quickly.

  'Then I think he's very lucky.'

  She hesitated for a moment. 'Would you mind telling him that when you see him.'

  Crane looked at her questioningly.

  She gave a nervous shrug. 'It's just that I think he's cooling off. Haven't seen him much in the last couple of months and now this walking holiday...'

  'I've been wondering about that too.'

  'He hates walking, Mr Crane. Mind you, I think he does need a holiday. He's been working pretty hard. Looks ghastly at times. If only I could believe he was going where he said he was going.'

  Crane frowned, going over in his mind his own suspicions. 'Why would he lie?'

  She blushed again and threw back her head almost defiantly. 'I suppose it's just me being stupid. Suspicious. The green-eyed monster. Worrying that somebody's taken my place. That's about it. Look, I must go,' she made a movement towards the door. I hope I'll see you again some time.'