Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  After twelve months of ‘staring’ experiments, ‘double-blind’ tests, ‘dreamwork’, ‘filtering’ and more, Gabriel was outperforming the rest of the class by a wide margin. By this time he was champing at the bit. He wanted to get into the field and work on actual problems and he did not appreciate his mentor’s caution.

  ‘What the hell is he waiting for?’ he would complain to Frankie. ‘You’re already working on cases, and I don’t want to sound conceited, sweetie, but I’m better at this than you.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘Come on, Frankie. I love you too much to BS you. You know it’s true.’

  Frankie sighed. ‘OK. Why don’t I see if I can’t get Alexander to rope you in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gabriel agreed eagerly. ‘The old man has a real soft spot for you. Give him that killer smile and bat your eyelashes, why don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes, Gabriel,’ Frankie said strongly, ‘you’re a total asshole.’

  But she did actually manage to get Mullins to allow Gabriel to assist on some relatively minor cases. There was the recovery of a stolen T’ang horse from the Qing period. The tracking down of a lost manuscript. Another time he and Frankie were paired with a veteran RV to pursue the whereabouts of the perpetrators of an Internet scam.

  They were not always successful, of course. Remote viewing was free energy. Harnessing that energy was like threading a needle in a hurricane. Specific data such as exact street addresses could not be accessed as easily as opening a telephone book. Furthermore, remote viewing was often a less than comfortable business. Remote viewers referred to the ‘seeing’ process as slamming the ride and the ride often took you into someone else’s mental space. That was not always a warm and cosy place to be.

  Not that Gabriel subscribed to the clichéd image of the tortured psychic forever at the mercy of his dark gift. He was no victim; he was a warrior. And the thrill of success was addictive. He became hooked on the massive surge of self-satisfaction that accompanied every ride.

  To a certain extent he was leading a schizophrenic life. On the one hand was Oxford, his friends and his studies; all-nighters in the library, papers, tutors, swot groups, ‘boat races’ in the pub. On the other was Eyestorm. The only link between the two worlds was Cecily Franck. Inevitably, the fact that they were both living a kind of double existence deepened the bond between them. It was an exciting time.

  And then the Cartwright case came along.

  Six weeks later he quit Eyestorm, left Oxford and headed for London and a different life.

  Entry Date: 28 May

  I was dreaming of R. last night. He was smiling at me and his hands reached for mine. The idea that I will never see that lovely angel smile of his again is so painful I sometimes feel my mind shutting down.

  M. is losing patience with me. She thinks I’m stuck in the past—‘wallowing’ as she puts it. And she wants us to look for someone new to play with. Maybe she’s right: the work is so important. It needs to continue. But I am heartsick. Where will we find someone like my sweet boy again? Someone who is looking for new challenges, not new comfort zones. A searcher. An initiate. A man apart.

  For what it’s worth, we built another room last week. In this room will live a man with the head of a baboon. Thoth. God of magic and writing. Of alchemy and arithmetic and astrology.

  I must meditate upon my name.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gabriel knew who was on the other side of the door before he opened it. He had expected her to turn up on his doorstep ever since his meeting with William Whittington three days ago, but he was suddenly feeling completely unprepared. Thirteen years. A long time by anyone’s standards.

  She rang the bell again.

  As he opened the door he got an immediate whiff of her perfume. Jasmine, cinnamon and the hint of a more exotic bloom. Her tastes had changed. She used to prefer lighter, more woody scents. But her eyes were still the same. Clear grey eyes set underneath delicately feathered eyebrows, which looked like the wings of a bird in flight. Cecily Franck. No, not Franck. Whittington. Mrs William Whittington III, to be exact.

  ‘Gabriel.’ She smiled at him, a tentative smile. For a moment he thought she was going to hold out her hand, but then she leaned over and her lips brushed his cheek. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ She smiled again and the smile was slightly bolder this time, though the expression in her eyes was still wary.

  He stepped back and held the door wider. She walked past him into the room.

  ‘Oh.’ Her voice was surprised. She looked around her, her gaze taking in the satisfying proportions of the loft, the glow of lights filling the skyline outside the windows. ‘This is lovely.’

  ‘Thank you. Let me take your jacket.’

  She turned round and allowed the jacket to slide down her arms. The rustle of the fabric sounded expensive. The drape of the deceptively simple dress she was wearing suggested that someone had taken a great deal of care over both cut and design.

  He gestured at the sofa. ‘Please.’

  She sat down on the very edge of the seat, but then, probably realising how tense she looked, settled deeper into the cushions.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Sherry. If you have it.’

  He walked to the drinks cabinet and took out a glass and a bottle of bone-dry Amontillado. Another change, here. She never used to drink. Well, no doubt all the fancy cocktail parties and glamorous socialising of her new lifestyle necessitated her moving on to something a little more sophisticated than Ribena.

  She took the glass from him. He noticed she wore no rings. The light of the floor lamp gave a golden sheen to her brown hair. He sat down in the deep leather armchair, which stood in the shadow, outside the circle of light.

  She was staring down at the amber liquid in the glass, frowning slightly. As he watched her he was surprised at how detached he felt. After all, he had loved this woman. Not only that, she had been his first love. And what with the first cut being the deepest and all that, surely he should feel some emotion; a little quickening of the pulse, at least. Instead, here he was, his mind Zen-calm, his heartbeat even. Pretty amazing.

  ‘You look good, Gabriel. You’ve hardly changed.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re supposed to respond in kind, you know.’ She smiled faintly. ‘It’s only polite.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. You look great.’ Which was actually true. Her face had matured and she had lost the baby fat she had still carried around when she was twenty. She looked elegant, groomed, and she had the air of a woman who was sure of herself and her abilities.

  She had become a stranger.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’ She glanced around her.

  ‘So have you.’

  She flushed at the irony in his voice. ‘You’ve met William. He’s a remarkable man.’

  ‘Indeed. How old is he?’

  The flush deepened. ‘Sixty-three.’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well. He looks good for his age.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ There was something in her voice now which he didn’t understand. Not that he was all that interested. Time to cut to the chase and end this.

  ‘Why are you here, Frankie?’

  She placed the glass on the side table flanking the sofa and looked at him steadily. ‘You know why I’m here.’

  ‘Your husband sent you.’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘This is me coming to you. But, yes, I’m here on his behalf.’

  ‘Why didn’t you approach me yourself in the first place?’

  ‘We thought you might be more interested if you thought it a purely financial arrangement. If you had given him a chance, William would have explained how he can make it very much worth your while.’ She paused. ‘I hope I’m not offending you.’

  ‘Money never offends me.’

  There was a tiny mole at the side of her cheek, just above her jawbone. He remembered it well. She saw him looking at it and touched
her fingers involuntarily to her face. And in that movement, slightly awkward, he suddenly saw the old Frankie. The shy but determined girl whose smile had been enough to make him dizzy. She used to have such faith in him; it had made him feel ten foot tall. Until the day her face went blank with disappointment. Disappointment in him… the man she was supposed to love no matter what.

  He took a deep breath, looked away. ‘You should go to the police. They deal with missing persons.’

  ‘The police have given up. Oh, they don’t say that, of course. But it’s obvious. And I also think they believe Robbie’s not so much missing as wanting to be missing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Robbie and William have a rather… problematic… relationship. Robbie took off once before. William finally tracked him down to a commune in California. Sort of a New Age hideout where they start the day with a group hug and grow hemp and weave baskets. You know the kind of place I’m talking about. That was three years ago.’

  ‘So what makes you think he’s not there now?’

  ‘He’s not.’

  Below in the street someone was pressing the horn of a car impatiently. The sound was strident, irritating.

  He leaned forward and smiled at her. ‘So Daddy and his little boy don’t get along.’

  ‘You could say that.’ There was hostility in her eyes now. She clearly didn’t like where this was going.

  ‘Let me guess. The heir doesn’t measure up. Footsteps too big to fill. Parental expectations too high?’

  She didn’t answer, but he sensed he had hit the bullseye.

  When she spoke again, he could hear her trying to keep her voice level. ‘I wouldn’t have come to you if there was any other choice, Gabriel. I’m asking you to help me… for old times’ sake.’

  Old times’ sake? God, what a cliché. What a crock. And suddenly he was angry. Gone was his calm. His breathing came fast and he knew his face was flushed.

  ‘You’ll be a rich widow one day. With no son around, things will be a whole lot less complicated when it comes to the will. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Her face contorted. ‘What the hell’s happened to you?’

  He stood up, his movement so violently abrupt that she flinched. ‘OK. Enough of this. I can’t help your husband. Not in the way you want. You of all people should understand that.’

  ‘He’s dying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘William. He’s dying.’

  He stared down at her, his mind refusing to compute what she said. ‘What do you mean, dying?’

  ‘Just that. Another year, eighteen months at the most.’ Her face was eerily serene. Her hands were clutched together so tightly, the veins stood out at the wrists. ‘William wants to be reconciled with his son. As you can imagine, it’s become a matter of urgency to him. I don’t think that will be possible. I think Robbie is dead. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.’

  He sat down heavily. His remark about the rich widow suddenly seemed unbelievably crass. ‘If he’s dead, Frankie, then what do you expect of me?’

  ‘I want to find out what happened to him. I want William to know why his only child disappeared. I can’t give him that certainty. I wish I could. You can. You have the gift.’

  ‘You have the gift as well.’

  ‘No, I have an aptitude, that’s all. You have the fire. I don’t.’

  He didn’t deny it; what she said was true. Her RV skills had been of a high enough level to get her into Eyestorm, and she had worked hard at sharpening a natural talent. But practice, craft and discipline can pump up the muscle of the mind only so far. Despite Alexander Mullins’s insistence that remote viewing was merely a latent sense that can be refined and developed by hard work and application—like honing a reflex action or developing a nose for wine—every RV knows that there comes a point where remote viewing moves not only beyond science but also beyond art. Capricious energy. Flashes of fantasised lightning illuminating the dark side of the brain. Some were better at slamming the ride than others.

  ‘I take it you’ve tried to locate him yourself.’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded emphatically. ‘And that’s why I don’t think he’s alive any more.’

  ‘You sensed nothing.’

  ‘Total strike-out. No ride. And I knew him well, Gabriel. Before he moved into his own place, we had lived in the same house for almost a year.’

  Gabriel knew that Frankie’s cognitive style relied heavily on personal rapport. She needed to establish some kind of emotional connection with her subject in order to generate any psi data. The more she knew of her subject’s feelings and emotions, the more likely she was to get a reading when she exercised her RV skills. Therefore, if she had actually lived in the same house as her missing stepson, the personal framework she needed to ‘switch on’ would already be in place. If Frankie couldn’t sense Robert Whittington at all, that was bad news. Sadly, it meant she was probably right. He was in all likelihood dead.

  She reached down to her ankles and picked up her handbag. Opening the bag, she extracted from it a buff-coloured envelope and from the envelope a photo.

  ‘That’s him. Robbie.’

  The face in the picture was young and handsome. A thick thatch of hair sprang from a high forehead in a riot of short glossy curls. Gabriel was able to detect a hint of William Whittington’s hawkishness in the set of the younger Whittington’s eyes and nose, but that was where the similarity between father and son ended. Robert’s mouth was soft and his chin rounded. And the eyes. God, the expression in the eyes was shockingly vulnerable. Such innocence. Gabriel couldn’t recall the last time he had seen such trust and acceptance in the gaze of anyone over the age of three.

  ‘Will you do it?’ She didn’t add the words ‘for me’ but they hung in the air as surely as though she had spoken them out loud.

  He didn’t answer. Carefully he placed the photo on the arm of the chair, nudging it away from him.

  The corners of her mouth sagged and she closed her eyes briefly. Then, with a swift graceful motion, she got to her feet. Her voice was formal. ‘May I have my jacket, please?’

  In silence he helped her slip back into the jacket.

  He opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Frankie.’

  She stood, half-turned, her body facing the door, her head twisted to one side.

  ‘Damn you.’ Her voice held no passion.

  ‘Frankie, come on…’

  ‘I love my husband. I would do anything to restore some peace to his world. I’m begging you, Gabriel. For once, just once, think of someone besides yourself. You’ve never used the ride for anything but selfish purposes.’

  He was starting to get angry. ‘You can say that—’

  ‘I can say that because it’s true. Alexander was right. The lives you saved, the good you did, was incidental. It was all about you and the ride. And because of one bad ride you’ve decided to discard it like some worn-out shoe that no longer fits.’

  She turned round and faced him directly. ‘Do you know how jealous I was of you at Eyestorm? That shocks you? Sweet little Frankie jealous of the man she loved? Well, guess what. There were times my envy was eating me up. There you were, slamming the ride so sweetly, with such ease, and treating it with such utter disrespect.’

  He was stung. ‘I never disrespected it.’

  ‘You were arrogant. And as for the rest of us… in your heart of hearts you had contempt for us all. We were just a bunch of dogged second-raters as far as you were concerned.’

  He stared at her, speechless. The ferocity in her eyes pushed against him with almost physical force.

  ‘Why did you decide to quit, Gabriel?’ She leaned forward, standing on tiptoe so that her face was almost level with his. ‘Did you really quit because of Melissa Cartwright or was it simply because your pride was hurt so badly that you couldn’t face the possibility of failure again?’

  ‘Get out.’ He looked down at his hands. They were actually trembling. He could feel the bloo
d draining from his face. ‘Get out.’

  Her eyes suddenly stricken. ‘Gabriel, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Just leave. Please.’

  She lifted her hand as though to place it on his arm. ‘If you change your mind…’ her voice trailed off uncertainly, ‘my telephone number is on the back of the photograph.’

  He didn’t answer. After a brief moment she let her hand fall to her side and turned away from him. Her footsteps were heavy. At the bend in the hallway she paused and he thought she was going to look back at him. But then she continued walking and disappeared from sight.

  He was suddenly deathly tired. He tried to make his mind a blank, to shut out the scene he had just lived through; the emotions which had sapped his energy and his mental calm. Melissa Cartwright. Ash-blonde hair and violet eyes. Very pretty. In life, that was.

  No. Stop this. It would lead to nothing. What he needed was rest. Sleep. And tomorrow he would wake up and life would continue as before. He liked his life the way it was. He had worked hard at it. There was no room in it for old ghosts.

  Just as he was about to turn off the light, his eye fell on the photo of Robert Whittington where it lay on the arm of the chair. For a moment he hesitated. But then he flipped the switch sharply, leaving the young face with the absurdly vulnerable eyes to stare gently into the darkness.

  Entry Date: 3 June

  It is time to stop grieving. R. is gone.

  Time to take life by the scruff of the neck again. To go to work.

  What gives meaning to life? What is passion? These were the questions R. was trying to answer.

  R. was a seeker. We were helping him on his journey. We allowed him to play the game. A sublime game: a divine experiment which would have helped him find the answers he was looking for. But in the end, the light was too strong for him. He could not go the distance.