The Omega Factor

by Jack Gerson

  'I hope so,' he rose to his feet. 'Eh, Sheila,' he added.

  'Yes?'

  'Didn't you come to collect something?'

  She laughed and went into the bedroom. She came out a minute later with a dress under her arm.

  'Told you.I left things here now and then,' she explained. 'I need this one. Night out with the girls. Keep my mind off Michael.'

  At the door, she stopped and turned. 'It's not easy... keeping my mind off him. See you!'

  After she had gone he sat back contemplating his brother's seeming good fortune and lack of appreciation of that good fortune. He would have to talk to Michael when next he saw him. He should see him soon too, make sure he would see him.

  Crane had never been a particularly moral man in the conventional sense but he had some old-fashioned ideas about how to treat women. He believed in honesty in all his relationships. Before he had married Julia there had been a number of girls, both at university and afterwards in Ayrshire, and London. He had prided himself on never making promises he couldn't keep; never lying about his feelings; and terminating relationships directly whenever he knew they were over.

  He smiled to himself. All that honesty and at least one lady had assured him he was the most completely direct male chauvinist she had ever encountered. Perhaps Michael was going one better. Not that that was the problem. It still nagged away at Crane that Michael was taking a walking holiday, the last thing he would ever do. And Crane knew it wasn't a cover for tactful reticence. In the past Michael had gone off with the occasional female and done so with a broad wink to his elder brother. No, it wasn't the usual suspect weekend this time. It was something else.

  But now was not the time to worry about Michael. Crane had come to Edinburgh to meet Edward Drexel, now known as Dexter.

  Leaning over he picked up the Edinburgh telephone directory from beside the phone and thumbed through it until he reached the Dexters.

  There weren't many Dexters in Edinburgh and the one he was looking for was the third from the top : 'E. C. Dexter, Antiquarian Books'. The address was in a sidestreet just off the Grassmarket.

  Crane stretched out his hand to lift the telephone and then changed his mind. The shop might not be open but at least he could stretch his cramped legs and get the lie of the land. He'd had enough of his car, he would walk.

  The rain had stopped and he walked leisurely across the Meadows. Twenty minutes later he was strolling over the cobbles of the old Grassmarket. The stones were still damp from the rain and reflected watery yellow street lamps. The old dark buildings gave the street a timeless air broken only by the occasional neon sign behind a shop window. This was part of the Edinburgh of John Knox, Mary Stuart, of horses' hooves on the cobbles, the flash of swords drawn over diverse religious and political passions.

  The side street was narrow, less a street than a lane. At first it seemed to Crane it was a dead end until he realised that it narrowed into a bottleneck opening out some twenty-five yards on. The buildings brooded over the lane, all of them almost certainly of sixteenth- or seventeenth-century origin.

  'E. C. Dexter, Antiquarian Bookseller' was neatly printed above a solid wooden door beside a dusty bow window. The sign above the shop was faded, the paint of the lettering, peeling. In the window itself were a few ancient volumes, their titles indistinguishable. Behind the window however was the yellow light of an electric light bulb. Someone was still inside.

  Crane opened the door and went in.

  Behind the door, one step down led to a large square room. The walls were lined with bookcases, volume upon volume crowding in on one another. In the centre of the room was a large table also stacked with books, its farther end clear but for some papers, a receipt pad and what passed for an ancient cash register. Behind the table was the only break in the bookshelves, a large open fireplace in which a coal fire was burning. The room itself was lit by two bare electric light bulbs which hung from the ceiling.

  At first Crane thought the shop was empty. Then his eye caught a movement in a dim corner of the room, a shadowed recess barely reached by the two rings of light from the bulbs. A girl moved into the nearest pool of light.

  It was difficult to conceive that such a pale smooth skin could ever age. There was an alabaster quality about the girl's face, a cold, timeless quality. She was no older than twenty, Crane was sure, but his impression was that she had never been younger, never would be older.

  She was of medium height and wore an oddly incongruous combination of clothes; a black, polo-necked sweater below which was an imitation Victorian skirt, frilled below the hip and reaching to just below the knee. Long straight hair, mousy coloured, tumbled down her back and strands fell over her forehead and around the eyes. The eyes were deep set, dark and unblinking. Crane thought if the old saying, the eyes are the windows of the soul, were true then this young girl had misplaced her soul, abandoned it in some nameless lost region of her consciousness.

  She stared at him in silence. In her right hand was an open book, as if she had been disturbed while reading.

  'Good evening,' Crane said. 'I wonder if it would be possible to see Mr Dexter?'

  No answer came from the girl. A puzzled, uncertain look came momentarily over her eyes then she glanced towards the far end of the room. There, a heavy oak door was ajar.

  'Ask the gentleman to wait, Morag. Won't be a moment!' a voice called from beyond the door.

  The girl, Morag, looked back at Crane, gave a slight nod and then, ignoring him, sat at the edge of the table, placed the open book on the table in front of her and started to read silently as if once again she was alone in the room.

  Crane felt a chill run through him, a draught of cold air coming from under the front door. He walked around the table and stood in front of the fireplace contemplating the flames in the hearth. Then looking up he found himself staring at a large reproduction of Landseer's 'Stag at Bay' which hung crookedly above the mantelpiece.

  'Ghastly, isn't it?' the well-modulated English voice broke in on his thoughts. 'Never liked Landseer. A kind of puking pseudo-rugged sentimentality. But it's what my American customers like.'

  Crane turned to face the speaker. He was a thin, wiry figure of a man, his head covered in unruly tufts of sandy hair which merged into grey. He was slightly smaller than Crane with a scholarly stoop, and remarkably clear blue eyes for a man who must have been nearly seventy. But, like the girl, Morag, his most outstanding feature was the skin of his face. Unlike her, however, his skin was like yellow, crinkled parchment, lines deeply etched into the forehead, grooves running from the sides of the thin mouth to the edge of the jaw, deltas of wrinkles burrowing around the corners of his eyes.

  He was dressed in an old pair of stained flannel trousers and a pullover of thick ribbed wool, threads of which protruded at intervals around a number of small holes. He was carrying a mug of brown liquid which he placed carefully at the edge of the table before holding out his right hand, the fingers of which, Crane noted, were discoloured as if stained by chemicals.

  'I'm Edward Dexter.'

  They shook hands perfunctorily. His hand was hot and slightly sticky and slid out of Crane's hand with barely a grip.

  'Am I disturbing you?' Crane asked politely.

  'Only our evening cocoa. Keeps the chill out. More effective than spirits,' Dexter, as he called himself, gave an apologetic smile. 'How can I help you, sir?'

  Crane hesitated, uncertain as to how he should approach his subject. Then he decided to be as straightforward as possible. 'I'm afraid I didn't come to buy books, Mr Drexel.'

  Drexel gave no indication that he had noted the use of his real name. 'I didn't think you did, Mr Crane,' he replied coolly.

  Crane registered mild surprise at the use of his name. Drexel grinned, showing yellow teeth.

  'The photograph in Sunday's newspaper is a fair enough likeness, Crane.'

  With a brief nod Crane went on, 'I'm planning a second series of articles on the same subject, Mr Drexel
, and as you have quite a reputation...'

  'Had, Mr Crane, had a reputation,' Drexel cut in.

  'Had a reputation then, for clairvoyance. Among other things. But clairvoyance is all I'm interested in at this time. I'm therefore hoping you might help,' Crane explained and then added, 'Of course I would not reveal your present whereabouts if you didn't wish it.'

  'How did you find me?'

  If he said anything he'd be betraying a confidence, Crane knew. If he owed little to the alcoholic old man in Bethnal Green, he owed something to his own reputation for integrity. He didn't reply.

  Drexel gave a small grimace that might have passed for a smile. 'Alfred Oliphant,' he said.

  Crane tried not to react but he couldn't control the surprise he felt at Drexel's accuracy.

  "You must have offered him money,' Drexel went on. 'Oliphant only betrays confidences for money. Indeed he makes a habit of it. Still, I'm surprised. I've always thought his fear would overcome his avarice.'

  Frowning, Crane wanted to say something about the reference to fear. What fear? Had Oliphant cause to be afraid of Drexel? Behind him the girl turned over a page of the book she was reading and the page rustled like a dead leaf in the wind.

  'Oliphant thought you could be of help to me,' Crane explained, feeling ineffectual.

  Drexel affected surprise. 'Me? No, that's all in the past. All my... experiences. Now I simply sell books.'

  'Oliphant praised your psychic abilities very highly. He believes you were quite unique in your field.'

  'I was talented in certain esoteric fields. There is documentary proof.'

  'I'd rather see for myself.'

  Drexel was silent for a moment, staring at Crane, blue eyes piercing in their intensity.

  'But you do see, don't you?' Drexel broke the silence.

  Crane found himself at once cold and then damp with perspiration. His head seemed too heavy for his shoulders and he felt disorientated. The room swam around him, books in the shelves leaning in upon him. He told himself it was fatigue; the result of the long drive from London.

  'I'm sorry. I don't understand,' he said, feeling he should understand some implication in Drexel's question that was evading him.

  Drexel had the mug in his hand and was sipping cocoa. 'Come now, you have your own... abilities.'

  'As a journalist...' Crane faltered.

  'No, not simply as a journalist,' Drexel seemed to be peering over the lip of the mug. 'You would deny yourself, Mr Crane? I wonder why.'

  The room settled back into its normal position. Crane wondered what on earth the man was talking about.

  Drexel, however, had changed the subject with a gesture of his left hand. He was asking a question now.

  'But what do you want from me, Crane? Not simply a demonstration of clairvoyancy. No, you want more. But what? What kind of demonstration? Table tapping, a child's game? Ectoplasmic manifestation? Messy. Perhaps your own private little Black Mass? Maybe it's that. With a few attractive females writhing naked in front of you? Perhaps Morag there?'

  The girl did not look up but continued to be engrossed in whatever she was reading.

  'She's virginal, I believe,' Drexel went on, his thin mouth twisting with inner amusement. 'Although who can tell nowadays? Something like that you want? Tell me, come on. What piece of sensationalism would appeal?'

  Crane controlled the anger rising within him. 'I'm not interested in sensationalism!' he said tersely.

  'It's all sensational, you know. Whatever you say, it is. But you do want to be impressed, don't you? What was it Diaghilev said to a young artist? Etonnez-moi! Astonish me! You want to be astonished, don't you?'

  'If you can, I promise I shall be suitably astonished,' Crane replied affecting a lightness he did not feel.

  'But why should I bother with demonstrations or explanations?'

  Crane searched in his mind for an answer that he thought might appeal to Drexel. 'For money?' No reaction. 'Or just for the hell of it?'

  Drexel laughed aloud. 'That appeals to me. Not money, but for the hell of it, yes, I like that. But at this moment without a little thought it's not so simple.'

  'I shall be in Edinburgh for a couple of days at least,' Crane said quickly.

  'Did you have any particular demonstration in mind?'

  'Anything involving clairvoyance,' Crane replied and something came into his mind. 'I heard over the radio about a woman disappearing hereabouts. How about doing a Hurkus?'

  Drexel looked up at him, a momentarily startled look, quickly suppressed. 'Why did you mention that?'

  Crane shrugged. 'It was fresh in my mind. And even the authorities were impressed with the Dutch clairvoyant Peter Hurkus' abilities to find people. Of course if it's outside your capabilities..?'

  'Nothing is outside my capabilities, Mr Crane!' Drexel cut in acidly. 'But I have no interest in locating bodies, no matter how unusual the circumstances of...'

  'Bodies?' Crane interjected. The word came out automatically, without thought.

  'A mere figure of speech,' Drexel said. I take it the woman is still on this earthly plane.'

  He stopped and turned away from Crane, taking a few paces towards the door at the rear of the room. 'Anyway you do not need me to find her. You are capable of doing that yourself,' he went on. 'However if you insist on some sort of demonstration from me I shall need time to consider.'

  Crane was puzzled. What on earth was Drexel talking about? Capable of doing what himself? Why would he not need Drexel to find the woman?

  A twinge of pain behind his right eye caused Crane to blink. It passed in a second. Drexel now was standing framed in the rear doorway.

  'Come tomorrow,' Drexel said. 'Tomorrow evening. Late. After eleven. I have some cataloguing to do. Eh, and no tape-recorders.'

  Crane turned away automatically. Behind him the girl must have risen without sound from her seat at the table. Now she was at the front door holding it open. Crane glanced around to bid Drexel goodnight but behind him the room was empty.

  FOUR

  Night again. Eyes open, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. Michael's room. Michael's clock ticking. Loud. Very loud. Or is it the night silence echoing the sound back louder and louder. Somewhere a car engine starts up. Somewhere outside in the distance, moving off, the noise tapering into silence.

  The room is in darkness except for a fringe of light coming from around the curtains.

  He turned over once and then back again. Sleeping and not sleeping. Thought merging into dream. Not the recurring dream, thank God for that, not the nightmare. New images this time.

  Newspaper headlines against the ceiling. The blank page he saw in London and then it was no longer blank but with a headline he could read quite clearly.

  MISSING WOMAN

  NO FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.

  He moved his head from side to side against the pillow and forced his eyes shut. But he was waiting, he knew he was waiting and something else would come.

  He was walking along a narrow street, the houses leaning in upon him, threatening to crush him. At the end of the street he was staring up at an enormous eye which stared back at him, unblinking, penetrating, seeming to move forward all around him.

  Then the street vanished and he was in a room, a bare cold room, smooth walls broken only by occasional cracks and on one side by a patch where the smoothness had gone and the bricks could be seen, uneven and some broken. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees around the room but each wall was the same. At first there seemed to be no door and then as he turned a second time there was a door, a steel door studded with heavy, round steel rivets.

  The door was open and standing on the other side was the girl, Morag, her eyes wild, her mouth open in a tormented scream. But it was a silent scream, soundless, without pitch or tone, without echo. Her eyes were glazed and unflickering and behind her stood Drexel, one hand on her shoulder, laughing.

  The door slammed shut again soundlessly and he looked away because he kn
ew that behind the door was something he could not bear to see. He looked away and the wall came rushing towards him and he found himself shouting as if for help, yet knowing there was no help.

  Crane woke up. Daylight streamed around the edges of the curtain. From below came the sound of traffic. He eased himself onto one elbow and found his sheets were damp with perspiration. He swung his legs out of bed and found himself staring at his hands. They were trembling.

  He made himself a cup of strong black coffee which he drained quickly. As he was dressing later a piece of paper fell from his trouser pocket. It was Anne Reynolds' telephone number written in Julia's precise neat handwriting. He looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. She might still be at home. He went over and dialled the number.

  The voice at the other end of the line was low and pleasant. 'Tom! Hello, how nice to hear you. Julia rang me last night and told me you'd be in touch.'

  'It's been a long time, Anne,' he said trying to match the voice with the memory of her face. 'How about having dinner with me tonight. I have to see someone later but...' Anne Reynolds cut in on him. 'Look, I've got a couple of friends coming round this evening. Why don't you come here?'

  Crane hesitated. He didn't feel in the mood for strangers. 'Perhaps another night,' he replied hesitantly. 'Oh, please come. You'd be doing me a favour. Liven the evening up a bit. Impress them entertaining a celebrity.'

  'Oh, come off it...'.

  'I won't take no for an answer. See you about seven-thirty.'

  He heard her replace the receiver. He smiled to himself. She was making sure he couldn't refuse the invitation. Well, why not? Do him good. Julia would approve. He hung up his own receiver and stretched. It occurred to him he was hungry.

  An hour later, washed, shaved, dressed and breakfasted on bacon and eggs, Crane contemplated the day. He would not be seeing Drexel until late that night. Sometime after dinner at Anne Reynolds' flat he would make his way to the Grassmarket and find out whether Edward Drexel had some kind of gift or whether he was merely another charlatan.