A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  I scream.

  In the mirror, I see someone standing in the corner behind me, by the shower stall.

  I want to run, but I cannot. I cannot move. I am paralysed by fear. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck, stiff like bristles.

  Melanie Hagan leans casually against the wall, smiling curiously, her eyes on mine. I am not sure how I recognize her. Although for a time in my childhood I was possessed by her, we have never met.

  Until now.

  She is unchanged from the day she died.

  I see her lips move in the mirror. When I hear her voice, it seems closer than her physical presence, like a whisper in my ear. ‘Remember me,’ she says.

  Somehow I break the spell and turn.

  Nobody is there. I am alone.

  I look back in the mirror.

  Her reflection has gone.

  I try to tell myself I imagined it. But I know I did not. She was here.

  The light goes out, plunging me abruptly into utter blackness. Suddenly I am chilled to my bones, and have the feeling that I am falling helplessly through space.

  I cry out. I scream, and go on screaming . . .

  61

  A light goes on. I am not sure where. I can see the angle of a door, my door. It swings back. My mother hurries in. I know it is my mother, though I see her only in silhouette.

  And I know this is my room. I am back, for some reason, in Saracen Springs.

  My mother kneels by my bed and puts her arms around me, the way she did when I was a little girl.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. You had a bad dream.’

  I start to say, ‘No, it wasn’t . . .’

  But my mother has switched on a light. I see myself in the mirror on the wall opposite. And I see my mother.

  ‘Mommy I was . . . I was trying to find a way to help Daddy . . .’

  ‘You had a dream, my darling . . .’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Again I look into the mirror. I am ten years old. And my mother is exactly the way she always has been: young looking, beautiful, no longer the worn-out old woman I just left.

  But that was no dream. It was something more. I know it. I have never been as sure of anything in my life. I have to persuade her. I have to make her understand what just happened.

  ‘Mommy we have to call Mr Schenk!’

  ‘Sssh, now, try to go back to sleep.’

  ‘He has to go to Germany. There’s a policeman there . . .’

  ‘Darling, stop it, please . . .’

  ‘You have to believe me! You have to, Mommy!’

  ‘All right, all right, we’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘No, now! There’s man in Chicago who can save Daddy, but he’s going to die. He’s called Lenny Rearden. We have to find him . . .’

  62

  Tom had not been expecting a visit from Clare that morning. From the time of his transfer from the prison hospital to the county jail, after the court had refused him bail, he felt he had been treated more like a man already proved guilty rather than one awaiting trial. Visits were restricted, and he had to allocate the hours available to time spent with his lawyer as well as his wife. Julia, who had visited him in the hospital, had not been allowed, at his insistence, to see him in prison. They had already arranged that when the trial began she would be taken on a long vacation by Clare’s parents as a way of shielding her from the ghoulish publicity that the case was certain to attract.

  He followed the guard to the room where he spoke with his visitors through bullet-proof glass, their voices distorted by the less-than-perfect speaker system. The first thing he noticed was that his lawyer was present on the far side of the screen as well as Clare. And for the first time ever there was the hint of a smile on his face.

  But it was Clare’s eyes that told Tom at once that something had happened. Something they had been praying for. A miracle.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, one hand pressed flat against the glass as though to defy the separation it imposed between them, ‘it may be a while yet, but we’re going to get you out of here. We found a man in Chicago, Murray Schenk has been over to Hamburg, there’s a DNA match between an old crime and Brendan Hunt . . .’

  ‘Hold it, hold it,’ Tom said, trying to slow her down. ‘What’s this about Chicago? And Hamburg?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain now—’

  The lawyer cut in. ‘Tom, they’re dropping the charges against you. There’s paperwork to be done, but as soon as it’s finished you’ll be released.’

  ‘It’s true, darling,’ Clare said, tears of happiness running down her face now. ‘You’re coming home.’

  Tom stared at her, with the numbed, unthinking conviction that this had to be some kind of mistake.

  Or a trick.

  But this was Clare. How could it be a trick?

  ‘You’re coming home,’ she said again.

  Acknowledgements

  Anyone interested in the notions underlying this story should read Tom Shroder’s excellent book, Old Souls: the Scientific Evidence for Past Lives, published by Simon & Schuster in 1999. In it he examines in depth the work of the remarkable Dr Ian Stevenson, whose website (www.childpastlives.org/stevenson.htm) is well worth a visit.

  Aside from the particular thanks I owe to my editor Suzanne Baboneau and my agent Irv Schwartz, I want to thank my old friend Barry Hanson for his helpful comments on certain key aspects of the story. I also thank Ian, Gabriel and Sabrina Chapman for their illuminating comments on a first draft which I thought was finished, but wasn’t.

  Read on for an extract from David Ambrose’s thrilling new novel

  Twisted

  One

  I shifted into reverse and slipped off the handbrake. The clutch as always shuddered, and then the car shot back.

  There was a sharp impact and a loud crunch, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass hitting the road.

  All I needed.

  I got out and prepared to confront the person who had rear-ended me behind the Albert Hall, and I could see right away this wasn’t going to be easy. At a conservative estimate, I was looking at a hundred grands-worth of shiny black Porsche 911 with its nose up the ass of my Fiat Uno rust-bucket.

  The woman, who stepped coolly out of the black leather interior, was every bit as high-end as the wheels she was driving. Dressed, made up and manicured to perfection, wearing pale-tinted aviator sunglasses, she was in no mood to take prisoners.

  ‘What d’you think you were doing, pulling out like that without looking!’

  ‘Hey,’ I counter-punched, ‘I wasn’t pulling out, I was backing out. You ran into me, lady.’

  I pointed to the arrangement of our respective vehicles. ‘You turned in without looking if there was any place to go.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I was just trying to park, and you shoot out like a bat from hell.’

  Her English was fluent, but there was an accent, probably French. There was something about her that made me think of those cool little movies with subtitles I remembered from film studies at college. It was hard to tell her age. Over thirty, under fifty I’d have said. Women with money seem able to hold time back for about that long, but not much longer.

  ‘There’s a presumption in law,’ I said, trying to sound more sure of my facts than I really was, ‘that anyone who runs into the back of somebody else is responsible.’

  ‘Presumption in law!’

  She spat the words back at me with a scorn that brushed aside all argument.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, starting to get really pissed at her attitude, ‘you’re going to pay for this!’

  I jabbed a finger at the crumpled back end of my car, which sagged ominously towards the nearside wheel. She ignored me and took out a mobile phone and dialled. With a practised flick of her hair – dark blonde, not quite shoulder length – she put the phone to her ear. It was answered immediately.

  ‘I’m in Kensington. Somebody’s run into my car.’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s a lie!’

  She pretended not to hear me, but I knew she could because I could hear every word she was saying even with her back to me.

  ‘Can you send someone over for the car, I haven’t got time for this.’

  It wasn’t a request, it was an order. She sounded like she was used to giving them.

  ‘Your car,’ I said loudly so she couldn’t ignore me again, ‘is perfectly all right, apart from a couple of scratches. But look at mine!’

  She half turned and waved at me impatiently to be quiet.

  ‘Do what? I can’t hear you,’ she said into her phone, covering her other ear. Then she tipped her head to one side to peer at my licence plate, which was dangling limply from one remaining screw. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve got his number.’

  With barely controlled anger I bent down, ripped the plate loose, and held it out to her.

  ‘Here,’ I said, ‘keep the bloody thing – as a souvenir!’

  She looked mildly surprised but not remotely alarmed by the gesture. Her eyes went from the licence plate to me, then she turned away to finish up her call.

  ‘Listen, don’t bother sending anybody. I think I can drive the car, I’ll be okay.’

  I dropped the bent piece of metal on the ground with a clatter.

  ‘You think!’

  My voice came out higher than normal, with a strangled quality. I cleared my throat to get it back under control.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with your car that a lick of paint won’t fix. And if there were anything wrong, it would be entirely your fault.’

  Once again she gave no sign of hearing me, just calmly finished her call, flicked her phone shut, and turned back to me with an air of finality.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s just exchange details and I’ll have my, you know, people get in touch.’

  I started to fumble through my pockets, hoping to find something to write with and so avoid the bother of having to hunt through my car, or, worse, the indignity of having to borrow a pen from her.

  For the first time her lips curved slightly into the hint of a smile. But I wasn’t sure it was a friendly one.

  ‘You know what,’ she said, ‘why don’t we just let him take care of it?’

  She was looking over my left shoulder towards Kensington Gore, and I turned automatically to follow her gaze. What I saw made my stomach convulse into a hard knot. A motorcycle cop was making a leisurely U-turn and heading our way. I felt the blood drain from my face with every inch that he came closer.

  She saw it. When I turned back to her there was a different look in her eyes. She was suspicious now.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, cursing the sudden tremor in my voice, ‘we’ll do it your way. I’ll pay for the damage. I accept full responsibility. Let’s just agree, and get out of here.’

  She folded her arms. It was a confrontational gesture, with the hint of a threat behind it. But there was something more. She was intrigued now, and completely sure of herself. She had me pinned down like an insect on a specimen board, and she knew it.

  I desperately wanted to look over my shoulder to see how close that cop was, but I didn’t want to show how scared I was. I heard his bike rev, then fall silent. There was a soft metallic sound, and I imagined him propping the machine up, then starting that very particular slow march of authority in our direction.

  ‘You accept responsibility?’ she repeated slowly, using the emphasis as a kind of verbal eyebrow lift.

  ‘Yes.’

  She took a moment to respond. It felt like an age.

  ‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’ she said finally, and almost, I thought, flirtatiously playing with me.

  ‘Please, trust me.’

  ‘But why this sudden change of heart, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Turner,’ I said quickly. ‘Joe Turner.’

  ‘From America?’

  ‘Yes. Look, can’t we just . . . ?’

  I could hear the cop’s footsteps now, almost on us. She must have had a clear view of his approach, though her eyes never left mine, watching me squirm. She leaned in towards me slightly, speaking softly, almost in a whisper.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Any problem here?’

  Even though I knew he was there, I still jumped at the sound of the cop’s voice. Then I turned, forcing a smile onto my face and giving my best impersonation of Mr Cool-and-in-control-of-everything.

  ‘Just a little bump, officer. I’ve accepted responsibility, everything’s settled.’

  He glanced at the two cars, weighing up the situation.

  ‘Looks to me,’ he said, ‘more like the lady ran into you.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly, ‘that’s not what happened.’

  He eyed me curiously, sensing my awkwardness and waiting for an explanation. As the silence lengthened and it became painfully obvious that I didn’t have one, she spoke.

  ‘Joe is being very gallant, but you’re right, officer. It was my fault.’

  I turned. She had removed her glasses and, to my amazement, gave me a glittering smile.

  The cop looked at her. ‘Do you know this gentleman?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’re good friends. In fact we’re heading to the same appointment together. Only I wasn’t sure of the way, so I was following him. When he turned in here, I stupidly didn’t realize that he was parking, and did the same.’

  She beamed me another smile, as though acknowledging my tacit confirmation that this was what had happened. I tried to pick my jaw up off the ground without using my hands.

  Miraculously, the cop didn’t see my expression. He was distracted by the card she had produced from her purse and was holding out to him.

  ‘If you need any details, please call this number. I don’t think there’s anything more, is there?’

  The cop took the card and looked at it. He had already decided that this was the kind of woman he needed to be on his best behaviour with, and what he read on the card seemed to confirm it.

  ‘Thank you, madam, but I don’t think we’ll need—’

  A horn honked loudly nearby. A truck was trying to get around the rear of the Porsche in the face of oncoming traffic.

  ‘You’d better move your car,’ he said, stepping out into the road to take charge of things. ‘I’ll make some room for you to back out.’

  ‘Joe,’ she said brightly, ‘why don’t you come with me?’

  I just stared at her, beyond amazement now.

  ‘Better put some money in the meter,’ she added, gesturing to the wedge of red that had just flagged up, ‘or you’ll have the traffic wardens after you.’

  I obeyed in silence, then tamely stepped around to the passenger door of her car and got in beside her. While the cop held the traffic back, she reversed out, then slipped into drive, and we moved off.

  Two

  Catherine felt suddenly light-headed. What was she doing, she asked herself, covering for a total stranger who was obviously in some sort of trouble with the law? True, he didn’t look like an axe murderer or a serial killer. In fact he was quite a nice-looking kid, no more than twenty-five or six, she would have guessed.

  Then she remembered that Ted Bundy guy she’d read about some years back. Good-looking, a real charmer when it suited him. Probably murdered around a hundred women, it was reckoned, before they put him in the electric chair.

  But no, nothing bad could possibly happen here, not in central London, not in full sight of the Albert Hall!

  So what was she doing? A forty-one-year-old married woman picking up a handsome kid?

  Was that what she was doing? Picking him up?

  No way. Nothing had been further from her mind. It just happened, that’s all. Impulse.

  As a matter of fact, the kid looked as ill at ease and unsure of himself as she felt. One of them had better speak, or this silence was going to get embarrassing. She struggled to think of what to say, but thankfully he spoke first.

  ‘That . . . that wa
s really amazing,’ he said haltingly, ‘what you did back there. I mean wow! Thanks.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said, grateful that he’d given her the chance to play it cool. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, really, you were absolutely terrific. You didn’t have to do that, but . . .’

  ‘I’ll drop you round the corner here,’ she said, turning left into Queensgate, ‘is that all right?’

  ‘Fine. Perfect.’ He looked over his shoulder to see the traffic cop already on his bike and heading in the opposite direction. ‘I’ll go back and pick up my car.’

  Catherine scanned the parked cars on the long, straight avenue of Regency facades. ‘Let me see if I can find a parking spot. I can use my friend’s garage, but it’s a hassle . . .’

  As she spoke, a car backed out of a metered space just ahead. She slowed, signalled, and moved in. Then she turned off the engine and they looked at each other.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be able to drive that car?’ she asked.

  ‘No problem.’

  She reached for the door, but before she got it open he said, as though wanting to make a confession, ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m so antsy about getting involved with the cops.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘I could see at once you were an international terrorist or desperate criminal.’ Then added with a casual smile, ‘Your visa’s run out, or what?’

  ‘My insurance, actually,’ he said. Then added quickly, ‘But I’ll pay for the damage to your car. Just give me a week or ten days, I promise I’ll do it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, really, it does. I mean . . .’

  He broke off. She imagined him thinking that he ought at least to put up a token protest at being let off so lightly. He seemed to look for the words, not find them, and then his face creased into a smile of gratitude.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said finally. ‘At least let me buy you a drink.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I really do have an appointment and I’m already late.’