Shadows

‘Ready?’ he asked.

Joubert nodded gently.

Lasalle turned to Kelly who flicked a switch on the EEG and, immediately, the five tracers began to move back and forth gently across the paper.

The Frenchman reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket watch. He dangled it before Joubert, the golden timepiece twisting round slowly.

‘Now, keep your eyes on the watch,’ he said, seeing that his colleague’s gaze had drifted to the spinning object. Lasalle began rolling the chain between his thumb and index finger.

‘You can hear only my voice,’ he said. Then, to Kelly: ‘Turn off the lights will you?’

She left the EEG and scuttled across to the light switch, flicking it off. The room was immersed in darkness, lit only by a spotlamp near the foot of the couch. The single beam

occasionally glinted on the watch making it look as if it were glowing.

‘You can see nothing but the watch,’ said Lasalle. ‘You can hear nothing but my voice. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Joubert, throatily.

‘I am going to count to five and, as I do, you will become increasingly more

tired. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘By the time I reach five you will be asleep but you will still be able to hear me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

Kelly moved slowly and quietly back towards the EEG, glancing down at the read-out. The lines made by the tracers were still relatively level. None showed too much movement. Just a gentle sweep back and forth.

Lasalle began counting.

He saw his companion’s eyelids begin to droop but he kept spinning the watch even after Joubert had finally closed his eyes.

Kelly looked on with interest.

‘You are now in a deep sleep,’ said Lasalle. ‘But, you are able to hear everything I say. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Alain Joubert.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-six.’

Kelly glanced at the EEG read-out once again, noticing that the five tracers had begun to slow their movements until they were practically running in straight lines, only the occasional movement interrupting their unerring course.

“What is my name?’ Lasalle asked.

Joubert told him.

‘Can you tell me if there is anyone else present in the toom?’

‘A woman. I can see her.’

Lasalle frowned and inspected his colleague’s eyelids more closely. They were firmly shut. He reached back to the trolley behind him and picked up a stack of cards, each bearing a word.

‘Tell me what this word is,’ he said, running his eyes over the card marked DOG.

Joubert told him.

‘And this one?’

‘Cat.’

‘Again.’

‘Pig.’

Kelly noticed some slight movement from the fifth of the tracers.

Lasalle went through another ten cards and each time Joubert was correct.

‘I feel cold,’ Joubert said, unasked. Indeed, his body was quivering slightly and, when Lasalle gripped his hand the flesh was ice cold.

The movement from the fifth tracer became more pronounced. The other four, however, did not deviate from their almost arrow-straight course. Kelly swallowed hard. There was something distinctly familiar about this type of read-out. The vision of Maurice Grant flashed into her mind as the fifth tracer began to trace a jerky, erratic path on the paper. Whilst in a drugged, subdued state, it had been the same area of Grant’s brain which had shown activity. Now it was happening with Joubert.

‘I can see …” Joubert words trailed away.

‘What can you see?’ Lasalle asked him, urgently.

‘A room. Like this one but there is a woman working in it. She’s sitting at a typewriter with her back to me,’ Joubert said. ‘She doesn’t know I’m behind her, she didn’t hear me open the door.’

Kelly saw that the fifth tracer was now hurtling back and forth with such speed it threatened to carve a hole in the paper.

‘Who is this woman?’ Lasalle asked. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen her many times before.’

‘What is her name?’

“Danielle Bouchard.’

Lasalle swallowed hard.

‘Describe her,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

‘She is in her thirties, long, curly hair. It’s auburn, dyed I think. Her skin is dark, not negroid but coffee-coloured. She’s wearing blue eye make-up, some lipstick.’

‘Do you know her?’ whispered Kelly to Lasalle.

The Frenchman nodded.

‘She’s part Algerian, a beautiful girl, she works in an office just down the corridor,’ he said, quietly, one eye on Joubert who was now flexing his fingers spasmodically. In fact, his whole body was jerking involuntarily.

‘What sort of response is showing on the EEG?’ asked Lasalle.

‘There’s no activity in any part of the brain except for the area around the occipital lobe,’ she told him. ‘Exactly the same as the subject we had.’ She paused, mesmerised by the rapid movements of the tracer.

Joubert spoke again.

‘She is wearing jeans, a red top. There is a slight tear near the seam of the top, beneath her arm.’

‘Is she still typing?’ asked Lasalle.

‘Yes, she hasn’t noticed me yet.’

Lasalle chewed his bottom lip contemplatively.

‘This doesn’t prove anything,’ he said to Kelly. ‘Joubert could have seen this woman earlier today.’

Kelly looked once more at the EEG read-out. The fifth tracer continued its rapid movement.

‘I’m walking towards her,’ Joubert said. ‘She has stopped typing now, she is taking the paper from the machine. She still has her back to me.’ He was silent for a moment then the tone of his voice seemed to change, it became harsher, as if his mouth were full of phlegm. ‘I want her.’

‘Tell me what is happening,’ Lasalle ordered.

‘I grab her hair with one hand and put my other hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. She falls off the chair and I climb on top of her, I must hold her arms down. She is stunned by the fall, she has banged her head. I think she is dazed. I pull up her top to reach her breasts and I am squeezing them, making red marks on them.’

Kelly looked in awe at the fifth tracer which was moving so fast it was little more than a blur.

‘I try to keep my hand over her mouth to stop her screaming but she seems to be recovering. I must stop her. I am putting my hands around her throat. It feels so good, my thumbs are on her windpipe, pressing harder. Her eyes are bulging. I am going to kill her. I want to kill her.’

Kelly looked at Lasalle then back at the EEG with its wildly careering tracer.

i WANT TO KILL HER,’ bellowed Joubert.

There was a loud scream from outside the room, long and piercing. A moment’s silence and it was followed by another.

‘Bring him out of it,’ snapped Kelly.

‘Listen to me,’ said Lasalle. ‘When I count to one from five you will wake up.

Do you understand?’

No answer.

From down the corridor there was the sound of a slamming door then another scream.

‘Do you understand?’ Lasalle said, loudly.

‘Hurry,’ Kelly urged.

Joubert did not respond.

‘I can’t bring him out of it,’ Lasalle said, frantically.

He thought about shaking his colleague but he knew it would do no good. He swallowed hard and looked at Kelly who was already moving towards the door.

‘See what’s happening,’ Lasalle told her.

Kelly hurried out into the corridor and saw that, about thirty yards further down, there were four or five people standing outside one of the doors. A tall man with blond hair was banging on it, twisting the handle impotentiy. He put

his shoulder to it as he heard another scream from inside.

‘Joubert, listen to me,’ said Lasalle. ‘I’m going to begin counting. Five …’

‘There’s something happening,’ Kelly told him.

‘Four …’

The tall blond man was taking a step back to gain more impetus as he tried to shoulder charge the door of the other room.

‘Three …’

Joubert stirred slightly.

‘Two …”

Down the corridor, the blond man gritted his teeth and prepared for one final assault on the locked door.

‘One …’

Joubert opened his eyes and blinked myopically.

He too looked round as he heard the shriek of splintering wood. The blond man crashed into the door, nearly ripping it from its hinges. It slammed back against the wall and he stumbled into the room, followed by the others who had waited.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Jouberl, pulling the electrodes from his head.

Kelly walked back into the room, a look of concern on her face. She switched off the EEG and pulled the read-out clear.

‘What’s going on?’ Joubert demanded, getting to his feet. He crossed to the door and looked out in time to see the blond man supporting a dusky skinned girl in jeans and a red top from a room further down the corridor. Even from where he stood, Joubert could see that her top was torn, part of one breast exposed. The girl was bleeding from a gash on her bottom lip and there were several angry red marks around her throat.

Lasalle and Kelly joined him in the corridor as the others approached them.

‘What happened?’ asked Lasalle.

‘Danielle was attacked,’ the blond man told him.

‘Who by?’ Lasalle wanted to know.

As he spoke, the dark-skinned girl lifted her head, brushing her auburn hair from her eyes. She looked at Joubert and screamed, one accusing finger pointing at him. With her other hand she touched her throat.

The girl babbled something in French which Kelly did not understand. She asked Lasalie to translate.

‘She said that it was Joubert who attacked her,’ the Frenchman said.

‘That’s impossible,’ Joubert snorted, indignantly. ‘Anyway, why would I do such a thing?’ He looked at Danielle. ‘She’s hysterical.’

‘Well,’ said the blond man. ‘Someone attacked her. She didn’t make these marks herself.’ He indicated the angry welts on the girl’s neck. ‘But I don’t see how he got out. The door was locked from the inside.’

Lasalle and Kelly exchanged puzzled glances as the little procession moved past them, heading for the infirmary on the second floor. Danielle looked around, her eyes filled with fear as she gazed at Joubert.

‘How could I have attached her?’ he said, irritably, walking back into the room and sitting on the couch.

Kelly and Lasalle followed him.

‘Can you remember anything of the last five or ten minutes?’ Lasalle asked him.

Joubert shook his head, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Kelly was the first to spot it.

‘Joubert,’ she said, quietly. ‘Look at your nails.’

Beneath the finger nails of both hands were numerous tiny pieces of red cloth.

Exactly the same colour as the blouse worn by Danielle Bouchard. There were also several auburn hairs.

‘Astral travel.’

Kelly’s words echoed around the laboratory.

She looked at the pieces of cloth and hair which Joubert had scraped from beneath his fingernails and deposited in a Petri dish.

‘You said you felt cold, just before it all began to happen,’ she continued.

‘That feeling of coldness is usually associated with Astral projection.’

‘An Out of the Body Experience?’ said Joubert, incredulously.

‘Danielle Bouchard said she was attacked by you. I think she was right. You described her, you described how you tried to strangle her.’ She held up the EEG read-out. ‘There was a tremendous amount of activity in the occipital area of your brain at that time. That’s exactly what happened with Maurice Grant.’

‘But it isn’t usual for the Astral body, once projected, to appear in tangible form,’ Joubert countered. ‘Danielle Bouchard doesn’t just say she saw me, she says I touched her. Injured her.’

‘Have you ever felt any feelings of anger or antagonism towards her?’ Kelly asked.

‘Not that I’ve been aware of,’ Joubert told her.

‘But, subconsciously, you may harbour some feelings such as those, for her.

The hypnosis released those feelings, just as the drugs unlocked the violent side of Maurice Grant.’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the Astral body,’ Lasalle interjected.

‘The EEG read-outs seem to point to the fact that the area which controls the subconscious is housed in the occipital lobe,’ Kelly said. ‘The Astral body is controlled by the subconscious. It functions independently of the rest of the mind. That hidden area we’ve been looking for, this is it.’ She jabbed the read-out with her index finger, indicating the fifth line.

‘The subconscious mind controls the Astral body,’ Joubert repeated, quietly.

‘It looks that way,’ Kelly said. ‘You performed an act, while in the Astral state, which you could not have carried out while conscious.’

‘Are you saying that the Astral body is the evil side of man?1 said Lasalle.

‘The violent, cruel part of us.’

‘It’s possible. And hypnosis or drugs can release that other identity,’ she told him.

‘The other identity knows nothing of right or wrong,’ Joubert said. ‘It’s identical in appearance but not hampered by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality. A being which is completely free of the ethical restraints imposed upon it by society.’

Kelly caught the slight gleam in his eye.

‘The Mr Hyde in all of us,’ he said.

‘What?’ Lasalle asked, puzzled.

‘Jekyll and Hyde. One side good, one side evil. The conscious mind is Jekyll, the unconscious is Hyde only it may be possible for that evil side to function independently of its host.’

‘Think how this discovery will help the treatment of schizophrenia and other mental disorders,’ Kelly said.

‘But no one is to know of it yet,’ Joubert snapped.

‘Why?’ Lasalle wanted to know. ‘It is important, as Kelly says. People …’

Joubert cut him short.

‘It’s too early to reveal our findings,’ he rasped.

There was a long silence, finally broken by Lasalle.

‘Kelly,’ he began. ‘How do we know that everyone, every man, woman and child, doesn’t possess this inner force of evil?’

‘I think it’s safe to assume they do,’ she said, cryptically. ‘Only as far as we know, it can only be released by using drugs or hypnosis.’

‘As far as we know,’ he repeated, his words hanging ominously in the air.

Kelly looked at the dish full of hair and fabric and shuddered.

The clock on the wall above him struck one and Lasalle sat back, rubbing his eyes. He checked the time against his own watch and yawned.

He’d been hard at work since seven o’clock that evening, since returning from the Metapsychic Centre. Before him on the polished wood desk lay a 6000 word article which he had been slaving over for the past six hours. He’d stopped only once for a cup of coffee and a sandwich at about 9.30 but most of the sandwich lay uneaten on the plate beside the typewriter. He looked up and found himself caught in the gaze of a woman with flowing blonde hair whose

crisp green eyes he seemed to drown in.

The photo of his wife stood in its familiar place on his desk at home. Each time he looked at it he felt the contradictory feelings which had plagued him ever since her death. To look at her brought back all the agony which he had suffered when she’d been taken from him so suddenly, but he also found comfort in those green eyes — as if a part of her lived on and remained with him. He reached for the photo and studied her finely-shaped features. He, himself had taken the picture three years earlier. It was all that remained of her. That and

the memories.

He replaced the photo and shook his head, trying to dispel the drowsiness which was creeping over him like a blanket. He knew that he must go to bed soon but there was just one more thing left to do.

He picked up his pen, pulled the writing paper towards him and began writing: To the Editor,

You will find enclosed an article which contains details of a discovery as important as it is fascinating. Having worked at the Metapsychic Centre in Paris for the past twelve years I have encountered many strange phenomena but nothing of this nature has ever presented itself to me until now.

I realize that the subject of Astral Travel/Projection etc. is one which has fascinated people for many years but never before have facts been so far reaching in their importance as in the case I have recounted in my article.

I hope that you will see fit to publish this article as I feel it has far-reaching implications for all of us.

Yours sincerely,

Lasalle signed it, re-read it then pushed it into the envelope with the article. He sealed it and left it on the desk, deciding to post it in the morning on his way to the centre.

He wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk, standing at the sink while he drank it.

What they had discovered that afternoon was far too important to withhold.

Besides, Lasalle felt unaccountably ill at ease. The incident with Danielle Bouchard had worried him. Even as he thought about it he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly.

Others had a right to know the truth.

Whether Joubert liked it or not.

New York

Blake picked up a copy of Time then decided to wander across to the paperbacks to see if there was anything to pass the time on the flight home. He ran his eyes swiftly over the magazine shelves once more before turning to the books.

He could have been forgiven for not noticing the slim volume.

The cover bore the title: Journal of Parapsychology.

Blake reached for it, one of the cover stories catching his eye: Astral Projection: The Truth. He flipped open the magazine, found the table of contents and traced the article he sought.

He read the first three paragraphs standing there then he paid for the magazine and left the airport newsstand.

The voice of the flight controller told him that he should go through to the departure gate. Blake hurried to the washroom.

He had flown many times before but he still felt the same twinge of nerves each time. Nerves? Who was he trying to kid? Flying scared him shitless, it was as simple as that. Already his stomach was beginning to turn gentle somersaults. He found that he was alone in the room. He crossed to a sink and filled it with cold water, laying his magazines on one side.

He splashed his face with water, wiping off the excess with his hands when he could find no towel. Blake straightened up and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale, his eyes red-rimmed and as he glanced at his watch he saw that his hand was shaking slightly. He had ten minutes before his flight left. He scooped more water into his hands and onto his face, blinking as it stung his eyes. Blake peered into the mirror again.

The image of Mathias stared back at him.

Blake retreated a step, his eyes fixed on the vision in the mirror. The face of the psychic was immobile, only the eyes moved, those brilliant blue orbs pinning him in that hypnotic stare.

The writer tried to swallow but found that his throat was constricted. He raised both hands to cover his eyes.

He lowered them again slowly, peering into the mirror once more.

The image of Mathias was gone, only his own distraught face was reflected in the glass. Blake let out a relieved gasp and wiped the excess moisture from his face as he moved back to the sink. He peered down into the water.

This time it was his own reflection but the mouth was open in a silent scream, the eyes bulging wide in their sockets. The entire countenance was appallingly bloated and tinged blue.

‘No,’ rasped Blake and plunged his hands into the sink.

The apparition vanished and he stood there, immersed up to his elbows in water.

Indeed, the two men who walked into the washroom looked at him in bewilderment as he stood motionless, gazing into the sink, as if waiting for the screaming vision to re-appear.

‘Hey, fella, are you OK?’ one of the men asked, moving cautiously towards Blake.

He tapped the writer on the shoulder.

‘I said …’

Blake spun round suddenly, his expression blank. He looked like a man who had been woken from a nightmare.

‘Are you feeling OK?’ the man asked him again.

Blake closed his eyes tightly for a moment apd nodded. Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’ Then, fumbling for his dark glasses he put them on, snatched up his magazines and left the washroom.

‘Probably freaked out,’ said the first man.

‘Yeah, he looks like a goddam pot-head.’

‘And would you believe that?’ the first man said, pointing at the mirror above the sink where Blake had been standing.

Five jagged cracks criss-crossed the glass.

Paris

It sounded as if someone were trying to pound a hole in the door.

Lasalle hurried from the kitchen, leaving his dinner on the table. The banging continued, loud and insistent. He turned the handle and opened it.

Joubert barged past him, his features set in an attitude of anger.

For a moment Lasalle was bewildered but he closed the door and followed his colleague through into the sitting room where he stood, splay-legged, in front of the open fireplace. He was gripping something in his right fist. A thin film of perspiration sheathed his face, the veins at his temples throbbing angrily.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lasalle. ‘It must be important for you to come barging into my house like this.’

it is important,’ rasped Joubert.

‘Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’ Lasalle said, a note of irritation in his own voice. He glanced at his watch, it is seven o’clock.’

i know what time it is,’ Joubert snapped.

‘So what do you want?’

i want to talk about this.” Joubert brandished the object in his right hand like a weapon for a moment before slamming it down on the coffee table nearby.

‘What the hell do you mean by it?’

The copy of the Journal of Parapsychology lay before him on the table, bent open at the article written by Lasalle.

‘What the hell did you hope to achieve by writing this … garbage?’ Joubert demanded.

‘I felt that the discovery was too important to be hidden away,’ Lasalle explained.

it was my …’ He quickly qualified his words, it was our discovery. We agreed not to share it with anyone until the research was fully completed.’

‘No we didn’t. You decided that you wanted it kept secret,’ Lasalle reminded him. ‘I felt that other people had a right to know what happened.’

‘So you took it upon yourself to write this article? And your … friend. Does she know about it?’

‘Kelly? No. She didn’t know that I intended writing the article.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And even if she did, I don’t see that any of this is your business. I am not answerable to you, Alain.’

if news of this spreads we’ll have the press swarming all over the Centre. Is that what you want?’

‘Our discoveries on Astral projection are some of the most important ever made. Not just for our own profession but for others too. Many will benefit from our work. Hospitals, psychiatric institutions …’

Joubert cut him short.

‘And who will be credited with the discovery?’ he asked, eyeing his colleague malevolently.

‘Both of us of course. We …”

Joubert interrupted again.

‘No. Not both of us. You.’ He pointed at Lasalle. ‘You wrote the article.’

‘But I mentioned your name, how we worked together.’

‘That doesn’t matter, it’s you who will take the credit.’ He picked up the magazine. ‘What did they pay you for this?’ he asked, scornfully.

‘Ten thousand francs. Why?’

Joubert shook his head.

‘They bought weeks of work for ten thousand francs!’

‘The money isn’t important,’ said Lasalle.

‘And the recognition?’ Joubert wanted to know. ‘Will you want that? Will you be able to cope with that?’ His voice took on a sneering, superior tone.

‘Still, you have your little tablets to help you.’

‘Get out of here, Alain,’ Lasalle snapped. ‘Get out of my house.’

Joubert stuffed the magazine into his pocket and, with one last scornful glance at his colleague, he headed for the front door. Lasalle heard it slam behind him as he left.

Joubert brought the Fiat to a halt outside his house and switched off the engine. He closed his eyes for a moment, sitting in the shell-like confines of the vehicle, almost reluctant to leave it. He let out a long, almost painful breath and banged the steering wheel angrily. Damn Lasalle, he thought. He glanced down at the magazine which was on the passenger seat. It lay there as if taunting him and he snatched it up and pushed open the car door, locking it behind him.

As he reached the bottom of his path he heard the phone ringing inside his house. The Frenchman didn’t hurry himself. He found his front door key and unlocked the door, glancing down at the phone on the hall table as he entered.

It continued to ring but he hung up his jacket before finally lifting the receiver.

‘Hello,’ he said, wearily.

‘Joubert? About time.’

He recognised the voice immediately.

‘Dr Vernon, what do you want?’ he asked.

i want to know what’s going on.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Let me read you something then.’ There was a slight pause and Joubert heard the rustling of paper at the other end of the phone: ‘ “The discovery of this form of Astral projection is the culmination of many weeks of work and many years of study,” ‘ Vernon quoted.

‘Lasalle’s article,’ said Joubert.

‘You were supposed to report any findings directly to me and now I read this plastered all over the magazine. What do you think you’re playing at?’

‘Don’t lecture me, Vernon. That article was nothing to do with me. Perhaps you

should ask the girl who works for you what she knows about it,’ the Frenchman hissed.

‘Who are you talking about?’ Vernon wanted to know.

‘Kelly Hunt. She’s here. She’s been with us for a week or more.’

There was a shocked silence, interrupted only by the occasional hiss of static.

‘Vernon.’

‘Yes.’

i said she’s been with us for more than a week,’ Joubert hissed.

i had no idea where she was,’ Vernon said, irritably. ‘I gave her some time off while the enquiry took place here. I didn’t know she was going to work with you.’

‘Well, she knows everything. You won’t be able to hide anything from her any longer, Vernon.’

The Institute Director sighed.

‘Anyway, that’s your problem. I have my own with Lasalle,’ Joubert continued.

‘We cannot afford any more disclosures similar to the one in this magazine,’

Vernon said, cryptically. ‘As it is, this might alter our plans slightly.’

‘You take care of the girl. I’ll handle Lasalle. And I tell you this, Vernon, there will be no more disclosures. I will see to that.’ He hung up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘No more.’

There was a malevolent determination in his voice.

London

As the 747 touched down, Blake breathed his customary sigh of relief. The plane slowed down and he allowed himself a glance out of the window. Heathrow was covered.by a film of drizzle which undulated and writhed like a living thing. The writer had tried to sleep on the flight back but had been constantly interrupted by the woman next to him who insisted that he should ‘look at the wonderful view’. Blake had made the fatal error of telling her that he wrote books about the paranormal and had been regaled by her tales of tea-leaf reading and contacts with the spirit world. She had, she assured him, been blessed with this gift of second sight as compensation for the death of her smallest child five years

earlier and the subsequent departure of her husband with another woman. Blake had nodded politely and smiled a lot during the verbal barrage, as was his habit. She had apologised for not having read any of his books but promised she would. Blake had smiled even more broadly at that point. He wondered if it was a general thing with writers, that anyone they spoke to immediately swore they would rush out and buy every book that writer had written.

Despite the distractions he had managed to snatch an hour or so of sleep but it had been troubled and he had woken, it seemed, every ten minutes.

At one point he had jerked bolt .upright in his seat, his body bathed in sweat, the last vestiges of a nightmare fading from his mind. The plane had crashed into the sea but he had survived the impact only to be drowned in the wreckage.

Now, as the plane came to a halt he got to his feet and stretched, trying to banish some of the stiffness from his joints. He checked his watch and noticed that he’d forgotten to adjust it according to the time difference. The clock on the plane showed 6.07 p.m.

After Blake had recovered his baggage he made his way through the terminal to the waiting taxis outside.

The drive took longer than he’d expected but, as the vehicle drew closer to his home he shook off some of his tiredness.

‘Where do you want to get out?’ the driver asked.

Blake directed him.

‘Nice gaff,’ said the driver, admiring Blake’s house. ‘Must have cost a fair old screw, eh?’

The man was obviously fishing for a tip and Blake didn’t disappoint him. He gave him fifteen pounds and told him to keep the change.

‘A reasonable screw,’ he said as he walked away from the cab, suitcase in

hand.

His house was set back from the road and was surrounded by a sufficient expanse of garden to protect him from the neighbours on either side. A privet hedge, which needed trimming, fronted the property and waist-high wooden fencing formed a perimeter elsewhere. There was also a garage built onto one side of the building. It housed a second-hand Jaguar XJS which he’d bought from a friend

three years earlier.

As Blake made his way up the short path he fumbled for his front door key and inserted it in the lock. The door opened, and the familiar cloying scent of paint greeted him. He’d had the place redecorated prior to leaving for the States and the aroma hung thickly in the air. Biake flicked on the hall light and the porch light. He smiled to himself. When his porch light was on it always reminded him of running up the Standard at Buckingham Palace. It was his mark that he was now in residence.

He stepped over two weeks worth of mail which lay on the mat, closed the front door behind him then scooped it up. There were circulars, four or five letters (most of which he could identify by their postmarks) and a couple of bills.

The writer dropped his suitcase in the hall deciding that he would unpack later. Right now all he wanted was to pour himself a drink and flop down in a chair.

He passed into the sitting room, pulling off his shirt as he did so. It was warm in the room despite the fact that it had been empty for a fortnight. He drew back the curtains and the dull twilight dragged itself into the room.

Biake switched on the lamp which perched on top of the TV. He poured himself a large measure of brandy, topped it up with soda and took a hefty gulp, then he selected a record from his massive collection, dropped it on to the turntable and switched on the Hi-Fi. While Elton John warbled away in the background, Blake skimmed through his mail. The bills he noted and then stuck in a bulldog clip on the shelf near the fireplace, the circulars he balled up and tossed into the nearby bin. Then he opened his letters. There was one from his accountant, one from a group calling itself ‘The Literary Co-operative’ (a bunch of struggling local writers to whom Biake had spoken before) and what looked like a couple of fan letters. Blake was always happy to receive mail from the public and he read them both with delight.

He finished his drink, re-filled his glass and wandered into the kitchen.

Peering out of the back window he saw several lumps of dark matter on his patio.

‘Cat shit,’ he muttered, irritably. ‘I’ll buy a cork for that bloody thing.’

He was referring to the overfed Manx cat which belonged to the family next door. It had taken to using

his garden as a toilet whenever it could and, obviously, while he’d been away, had taken full advantage and dotted its calling cards about in abundance.

The writer opened his freezer and took out a pizza which he stuck under the grill. He didn’t feel particularly hungry and, being basically lazy anyway, frozen food was heaven sent for his purposes. He left the pizza beneath the glow of the grill and returned to the sitting room.

It was large but comfortable and ‘lived in” like the rest of the house. On the walls, framed carefully, were a number of film posters. Taxi Driver hung near the hall door whilst the wall nearest the kitchen bore an American print of The Wild Bunch. Beside it was Halloween.

But, pride of place went to a yellowed poster which hung over the fireplace.

It was Psycho, and it bore Hitchcock’s signature. Blake had been given it as a gift from a friend in the film business last time he had visited L.A.

The writer was not a man to overindulge in luxuries but, when he did, three things occupied him more than most. Films, books and music. His bookcase bulged, not with learned tomes and priceless first editions but with pulp creations. He read for entertainment, nothing more. Alongside the books, each one in its individual case, were video cassettes of his favourite films. Up to 300 in all.

His study, however, was a different matter.

Blake had been pleased, when he had bought the house, to discover that it not only possessed an attic but also a double cellar which ran beneath the entire building. He had converted the subterranean room into his study. Every day he retreated down the steps to work, free of the noises and distractions of everyday life.

Buried beneath the ground as it was, it reminded him of working in a giant coffin.

He kept the door locked at all times. The cellar was his private domain and his alone.

The smell of pizza began to waft from the kitchen. He ate it from the foil wrapper, saving himself any washing up. Then, still clutching his glass, he headed through the sitting room into the hall where he unlocked his case.

His notes were on top and Blake lifted them out carefully, hefting them before him. They had a satisfying heavy feel.

The fruits of so much research. The hard part was almost over. Another week or so of note-taking and preparation and he could get down to the serious business of writing.

As it was, there was one more thing be had to do.

Blake opened the cellar door, peering down into the blackness below. He smiled broadly to himself and flicked on the light.

‘Welcome home,’ he murmured and walked in.

Before he descended the steps he was careful to lock the cellar door behind him.

The silence greeted him like an old friend.

New York

Across the untarnished brilliance of the azure blue sky the only blemish was the thin vapour trail left by a solitary aircraft.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun, even so early in the morning, was a shimmering core of radiance throwing out its burning rays to blanket the city in a cocoon of heat.

The heavens did not weep for Rick Landers but there were others who did.

There were a handful of people at the graveside as the small coffin was lowered into the hole. Toni Landers herself stood immobile, eyes fixed on the wooden casket as it slowly disappeared from view. The only part of her which moved was her eyes and, from those red-rimmed, blood-shot orbs, tears pumped freely, coursing down her cheeks and occasionally dripping on to her black gloved hands. There was a photograph of Rick on the marble headstone but she could not bring herself to look at it. Every now and then, the rays of sunlight would glint on the marble and Toni would squeeze her eyes tightly together but, each time she did so, the vision of Rick flashed into her mind —memories of that

day a week or more earlier when she had been forced to identify his remains.

She had gazed on the mangied body of her child, stared at the face so badly pulped that the bottom jaw had been ground to splinters. The skull had been shattered in four or five places so that portions of the brain actually bulged through the rents. One eye had been almost forced from its socket. The head was almost severed.

It would have taken a magician not a mortician to restore some semblance of normality to a body so badly smashed.

Toni sucked in a breath, the memory still too painful for her. She shuffled uncomfortably where she stood and the two people on either side of her moved closer, fearing that she was going to faint. But the moment passed and she returned her attention to the gaping grave which had just swallowed up her dead child. The priest was speaking but Toni did not hear what he said. She had a handkerchief in her handbag yet she refused to wipe the tears away, allowing the salty droplets to soak her face and gloves.

Against the explosion of colours formed by countless wreaths and bouquets the dozen or so mourners looked curiously out of place in their sombre apparel.

Toni had deliberately kept the number of mourners to a minimum. She had phoned

Rick’s father in L.A. and told him but he had not condescended to put in an appearance. Amidst her grief, Toni had found room for a little hatred too. But now as she watched the ribbons which supported the coffin being pulled clear she felt a cold hand clutch her heart, as if the appalling finality of what she was witnessing had suddenly registered. Her son was gone forever and that thought brought fresh floods of tears from the seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of her pain.

This lime her knees buckled slightly and her two companions moved to support her.

One of them, Maggie Straker, her co-star in her last film, slipped an arm around Toni’s waist and held her upright. She could hear the other woman whimpering softly, repeating Rick’s name over and over again as if it were a litany.

It was Maggie who first noticed that there was a newcomer amongst them.

The grave stood on a slight rise so his approach had been masked by the mourners on the far side of the grave.

Jonathan Mathias stood alone, a gigantic wreath of white roses held in his hand. He looked down at the final resting place of Rick Landers then across at Toni.

She saw him and abruptly stopped sobbing.

Mathias laid the flora! tribute near the headstone, glancing at the photograph of Rick as he did so. He straightened up, listening as the priest finished what he was saying. He paused for a moment then asked those gathered to join him in reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

Mathias stood by silently.

When the ritual was complete the mourners slowly moved away, back down the slight slope towards the black limousines which stood glinting in the sunlight like so many predatory insects. They too looked alien and intrusive amidst the green grass of the cemetery.

Mathias did not move, he stood at the head of the grave, gazing down into its depths at the small wooden casket. And it was towards him that Toni Landers now made her way, shaking loose of Maggie’s supportive arm.

i hope I’m not intruding,’ the psychic said, softly.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Toni told him. She glanced down at the wreath he’d brought. ‘Thank you.’

Maggie Straker approached cautiously.

‘Toni, do you want me to wait I …’

‘It’s OK, Maggie.’

The other woman nodded, smiled politely at Mathias then made her way down the slope behind the other mourners. Toni and the psychic stood alone by the grave.

‘What will you do now?’ he asked her. ‘What are your plans?”

She sniffed.

‘I’m going to spend some time in England with friends,’ Toni informed him. ‘I can’t bear to be around here. Not now.’ She wiped some of the moisture from her cheeks with a handkerchief which Mathias handed her. Toni turned the linen square over in her hands.

‘You knew he was going to die didn’t you?’ she said, without looking at him.

‘Yes,’ Mathias told her.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. There was nothing you could have done about it.’

‘Was there anything you could have done about it?’

i wish there had been.’

He took her hand and, together, they made their way down the slope towards the waiting cars. But Toni hesitated momentarily, looking back over her shoulder towards the grave.

Towards her son.

It was over.

He was gone.

All that remained now were the memories.

She felt more tears streaming down her cheeks and Mathias put his arm around her shoulder, leading her away. She felt a strength and power in that arm and, as she looked up at him, a thought entered her mind. She looked back once more towards the grave of her son but this time there were no more tears.

A slight smile flickered briefly at the corners of her mouth.

Again she looked at Mathias.

Oxford

The smell of menthol was strong in the air.

Dr Vernon made loud sucking sounds as he devoured another of the cough sweets.

The office smelt more like a pharmacy now.

Kelly crossed her legs, slipping one shoe off, dangling it by her toes as she waited for Vernon to finish reading the report.

It was her first day back at the Institute since she had returned from France barely thirty-six hours ago. In many ways she had been happy to return. The relationship between Joubert and Lasalle had deteriorated seriously since the appearance of the tatter’s article. The atmosphere had not been a pleasant one to work in and Kelly had decided that it was time to leave them to it. Armed with what she had learnt in France she was more confident about her own research, enjoying a newly-found enthusiasm which came only with a measure of success. However, she was worried about Lasalle. During the past week she had seen him wilt visibly beneath the open hostility displayed by Joubert. Loathe to intervene, Kelly had been a helpless spectator at their confrontations, each more vehement than before. She found it difficult to understand how so many years of friendship could, for Joubert, have been ruined so quickly and for what seemed a relatively minor aberration on Lasalle’s part.

But, the question had plagued her for a while.

Kelly could still not understand why he had reacted so violently to Lasalle’s article. People did have a right to know the facts, there was no disputing that. Joubert seemed not to agree. Despite her desire to return to England, Kelly had been somewhat reluctant about leaving Lasaiie having seen his psychological deterioration over the past seven or eight days. The tranquilizers seemed to be of little help to him, despite the fact that he had upped the dosage from 45mg to 75mg a day. He was in a perpetual daze, a condition doubtless helped by the effect of the drugs. Kelly had felt something akin to pity for him. She hoped he wasn’t becoming unbalanced again.

Nevertheless, she had decided to leave the Metapsychic Centre and had arrived home at around noon nearly two days ago.

Vernon’s call had come within one hour of her return.

It was as if somehow he had been watching her, waiting for the right moment before calling.

She had not been surprised by the call itself, only by the urgency in the Institute Director’s voice as he had asked her to return to work as soon as possible and to present him with a full report on what she had witnessed while working at the Metapsychic Centre.

Not until she had replaced the receiver did she begin to wonder how Vernon had known of her whereabouts.

She had certainly not mentioned her intentions when she left the Institute two weeks earlier.

Now, she sat impatiently, watching him as he leafed through her report. Kelly wondered if she should say something to him. Ask him how he knew where she had been? She bit her tongue for the time being.

There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation, she told herself, although she wasn’t altogether convinced.

She administered a swift mental rebuke. She was allowing her imagination to run away with her. She was becoming paranoid.

Wasn’t she?

‘Presumably you’ve noted everything which took place at the Metapsychic Centre during your time there?’ Vernon asked, waving the report before him. ‘There’s

nothing you could have left out or forgotten?’

‘I wrote down everything which I felt was relevant to the investigation,’ she told him, a slight trace of anger in her voice. She was becoming annoyed at his patronising tone.

Vernon shifted the menthol sweet to the other side of his mouth and tapped the report with his index finger. He was gazing into empty air.

‘The area of the brain which controls the Astral body also controls emotions and desires,’ he said, abstractedly.

‘Yes,’ Kelly said. ‘But emotions and desires not present in the conscious mind. The Astral body appears to be the alter-ego and, from the material I collected on Grant and Joubert, it can become a tangible force.’

Vernon nodded.

‘It sounded like a form of bi-location at first,’ said Kelly. But I’ve never heard of a bi-locative presence becoming tangible before.’

‘There was an American named Paul Twitchell,’ Vernon explained. ‘In the early sixties he began to teach what he called the Eckankar doctrine. A number of his pupils claimed to have seen him, in solid Astral form, while he was actually miles away.’ Vernon sighed. ‘But, Twitchell was one on his own. This …’ he picked up the report. ‘This is more unusual.’ He paused once again.

‘It would explain many of the problems we have concerning the inner self, even some mental disorders.’ He chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’ve left nothing out?’

‘I’m positive,’ Kelly said in exasperation.

‘Kelly, you don’t need me to tell you how important this information is to our work, to …’

She cut him short, infuriated by his treatment of her.

‘I’m not a fool, Doctor Vernon,’ she said. ‘Everything that I saw is noted down in my report, some of the conversations are verbatim.’

He nodded, placatingly, as if trying to calm her down.

‘But there is one thing I’d like to know,’ she told him.

Vernon eyed her warily.

‘How did you know I was at the Metapsychic Centre?’

‘I was in contact with them,’ Vernon said. ‘One of the investigators told me.’

Kelly wasn’t altogether satisfied but she didn’t press the matter. A heavy silence descended, finally broken by the woman.

‘Have you seen anything of John Fraser since he left here?’ she asked.

Vernon shrugged.

‘He came back about a week ago to collect some things.’ His tone abruptly changed, his eyes narrowing. ‘Why do you ask?’

She detected the defensive note in his voice.

‘I was just curious,’ Kelly told him.

‘Fraser has no more business here,’ Vernon said, acidly.

Another long silence punctuated the conversation, the only sound being made by the Institute Director as he crunched up his cough sweet. Kelly eyed him suspiciously. Vernon was usually a calm, unflappable man but, in the last twenty minutes or so, he had revealed another side of his character — one which she had not seen before. His calmness had been replaced by a tetchy impatience, the unflappability giving away to an anxious and defensive demeanour. When he finally spoke again, however, some of the urgency had left his voice.

‘Could what happened to Joubert be duplicated outside laboratory conditions?’

he asked. ‘I mean the Astral projection which he underwent.’

i don’t see why not,’ Kelly told him. ‘He was hypnotised, it was as simple as that. It should be perfectly possible to recreate the condition in another subject.’

Vernon nodded slowly, his grey eyes fixed on a point to one side of Kelly. She did not move. He didn’t speak. Finally, she rose. ‘If that’s all, Doctor …” She allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else.’

‘Could I have my report please?’

Vernon put his hand on the file.

Til keep it for now,’ he said, his eyes fixing her in an uncompromising stare.

She hesitated a moment then nodded, turned and headed for the office door.

Vernon watched her leave.

He slumped back in his seat as she closed the door, his eyes falling to the report which lay before him. Long moments passed then he picked it up and dropped it into the black attache case which stood beside his desk.

Before replacing it, he locked the case.

Kelly nodded politely to Dr Vernon’s secretary as she walked out but she barely succeeded in masking her anger.

What the hell was Vernon playing at? she wondered. Since she’d returned he’d been like some kind of Grand Inquisitor, wanting to know every last detail of what happened in France. And why should he want to keep the report she’d made?

He’d already perused it half a dozen times while she’d sat before him. That, apparently, was not sufficient for him.

She walked briskly down the corridor towards the stairs, her heels clicking loudly on the polished tile floor. Down one flight of steps to the first floor then along another corridor she walked until she came to Frank Anderson’s office. Kelly tapped lightly on the door then walked in.

The room was empty.

She cursed silently and turned to leave but, before she did, she crossed to his desk and found a piece of paper and a pen. Kelly scrawled a quick note and left it where Anderson would see it.

A thought crossed her mind.

If Anderson could find it easily then so too could Vernon. The Institute Director had a habit of wandering, uninvited, into his investigators’ offices and this was one note which she did not want him to read. She stood still for a moment,

wondering what she should do.

‘Need any help?’

The voice startled her but she spun round to see Anderson in the doorway. A smile of relief creased her lips.

‘Frank. I was looking for you,’ she said, balling up the note and stuffing it into the pocket of her shirt.

‘I gathered that,’ he said, pulling at one frayed shirt cuff. ‘What can I do for you, Kelly?’

‘You were a friend of John Fraser’s weren’t you?’ she said, lowering her voice.

Anderson looked puzzled.

‘Yes.’

“I need to speak to him.’

‘I haven’t seen him since he left here. He hasn’t been in touch.’

Kelly frowned.

‘But you know where he lives?’ she asked.

Anderson nodded.

‘And where he spends most of his time,’ he said, smiling. ‘The first is his home address, the second one is the pub he uses most often.’

Kelly turned to leave, scanning the piece of paper.

is something wrong?’ Anderson called after her.

‘That’s what I want to find out,’ Kelly told him and left him alone.

Anderson heard her footsteps echoing away and frowned. What did she want with John Fraser?

The hands of the dashboard clock glowed green in the gloom.

9.36 p.m.

Kelly parked the Mini in the gravelled area beside the pub and sat behind the wheel for a moment. High above her, rain clouds spat erratic droplets on to the land. It was warm inside

the car — muggy and uncomfortable. Kelly felt her tee-shirt sticking to her back as she leant forward and she squirmed. It felt as if someone had wrapped

her upper body in a damp towel. She clambered out of the car, relieved to find that there was a slight breeze. Rain spots momentarily stained her jeans as she walked towards the building, ignoring the dirty water from puddles which splashed her ankle boots.

‘The Huntsman’ was a large pub about a mile outside Oxford. It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t quaint but it was functional. There was a cheap and, consequently, popular restaurant attached to it which did not, on this particular night, appear to be too busy, hence her ease of parking. Normally the area was jammed with vehicles. Not so tonight. Kelly tried to see Fraser’s car but, in the darkness, identification was almost impossible. She decided to try the lounge bar first. It was crowded with people. In groups; in couples, on their own. One corner was occupied by seven or eight men who were playing cards around a large oblong table. Kelly scanned their faces, accidentally catching the eye of a ginger-haired youth in his late teens. He winked at her then directed his companion’s attention to this slim newcomer. A chorus of subdued whistling and cheering rose from the men. Kelly turned away from them, searching the bustling bar for Fraser.

There was no sign of him. She decided to try the Public bar.

If the noise inside the Lounge bar had been loud then in the Public bar it bordered on seismic proportions. A jukebox which was obviously set at full volume spewed forth an endless stream of the latest chart hits as if trying to drown out the clack of pool balls or the thud of darts as they hit the board.

To add to the unholy cacophony, in one corner of the large room an electronic motor-racing game occasionally punctuated the din with the simulated explosion of a crashed car. Whilst, beside it, the ever hungry Pac-Man noisily devoured everything before it.

Kelly scanned the bar but could not see Fraser. She decided to sit and wait for him. There was a table near the door but it was occupied by a young couple who looked as though they were about to breach the Indecent Exposure act.

The youth had his hand buried beneath his girlfriend’s miniscule skirt while she was rubbing his crotch with a speed which looked likely to cause friction burns.

The bar seemed to be populated almost exclusively by youngsters, most of whom were teenagers. She drew several admiring glances as she perched on a bar stool. When she’d finally managed to attract the barman’s attention, she ordered a shandy and fumbled in her purse for some money. As he set her drink down she deliberately took her time counting out the change.

‘Do you know John Fraser?’ she asked him.

The barman nodded, wiping perspiration from his face.

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Has he been in here tonight?’

‘Not yet, but he will.’ The barman smiled.

‘You sound very sure,’ Kelly said.

‘He hasn’t missed a night since I’ve worked here and that’s two years.’ A call from the other end of the bar took the man away.

Kelly sipped at her drink and turned slightly on the stool so that she could see the door through which Fraser must enter.

‘Hello, stranger.’

She spun round again to see that the voice came from a tall, black-haired youth who was leaning on the bar beside her. He was dressed in a grey sweater and maroon slacks. His companion, like himself, was in his early twenties, his hair cut short and shaped so that it appeared as if his head was flat. Spots and blackheads dotted his face liberally. He smiled, his gaze drawn to Kelly’s breasts.

‘Do I know you?’ she said, trying to suppress a grin.

‘No,’ said the black-haired youth. ‘But we can soon put that right, can’t we?’

He introduced himself as Neville. His friend as Baz.

Kelly nodded politely, forced to sip at her drink again to prevent herself laughing. This was the last thing she needed.

‘I haven’t seen you in here before,’ said Neville. ‘I would have remembered if

I had.’

Kelly smiled, aware that Baz was still gazing at her breasts as if he’d never seen a woman at close-quarters before. She had little trouble convincing herself that might well be the case.

‘It’s a bit noisy in here,’ Neville said, as if telling her something she didn’t know. ‘Fancy a walk?’

Tm waiting for someone,’ she told him. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Neville, looking quite hurt.

‘I’m waiting for a girlfriend actually,’ Kelly lied.

Neville seemed to perk up. He nudged Baz in the ribs, momentarily interrupting his appraisal of Kelly’s shapely body.

‘That’s even better. We can make it a foursome when she gets here.’

Kelly smiled again.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said, flashing her green eyes at him. ‘She’s more than just a friend.’

Neville looked blank.

Baz looked even blanker.

‘We’re very close,’ Kelly continued, barely able to keep a straight face.

It was Baz who spoke the revelatory words.

‘She’s a fucking lesbian,’ he gaped, already pulling his colleague away as if Kelly had just announced she had bubonic plague. She chuckled as she saw them leave, casting anxious glances at her as if they thought she was going to follow them. Kelly took another sip of her drink and checked her watch.

9.58.

Where the hell was Fraser?

Another ten minutes, she decided, and she would drive to his house.

She finished her shandy and ordered an orange juice instead.

She had her back to the door when Fraser walked in.

He strode to the far end of the bar where he was engulfed by his usual drinking companions. Kelly turned her attention back to the door, occasionally checking the faces in the bar.

Almost by accident she spotted who she sought.

She slid down off the stool and walked across to him, tugging at his arm.

‘Fraser.’

He turned and saw her, a mixture of surprise and distaste in his expression.

‘Who’s your friend, John?’ one of the other men asked, admiringly.

Fraser ignored the remark, addressing himself to Kelly.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he wanted to know.

Kelly told him.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she added. ‘It’s important.’

‘I’m not sure I’ve got anything to say to you, Kelly. You or anyone else concerned with the bloody Institute.’

“I need your help.’

‘How can / help you? Is Vernon looking for more human guinea pigs?’

“It’s Vernon I want to talk to you about.’

Fraser relaxed slightly, more intrigued now than annoyed. He picked up his glass and motioned to an empty table close by. They sat down, watched by the group of men standing at the bar.

‘So what’s suddenly important about the good doctor?’ he said, sarcastically.

‘Listen,’ said Kelly, leaning close to him to make herself heard over the blare of the jukebox. ‘When Vernon dismissed you, it wasn’t because you protested about the research was it?’

Fraser sipped at his drink.

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m not playing games, Fraser,’ snapped Kelly, angrily. ‘I came here tonight because I thought you could help me.’

He raised a hand in supplication.

‘OK, what are you talking about?’ he asked.

‘You mentioned something to Vernon about the research, about it being of benefit to one person in particular.’

Fraser shook his head slowly.

‘Did you mean Vernon himself?’ she continued.

He didn’t answer.

‘And there was something else,’ she persisted. ‘About what Vernon was hiding that he’d been hiding for a time. What did you mean?’

Fraser downed what was left in his glass.

‘Have you ever heard Vernon talk about his wife?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t even know he was married.’

it’s not something he likes to broadcast, at least not any more.”

Kelly leaned closer as the jukebox launched another high decibel assault.

‘For all I know, his wife could be dead now,’ Fraser continued. ‘Something happened to her about six years ago. No one knows what it was and, so far, no one’s found out. Vernon’s too clever for that. But, whatever it was his wife disappeared and nobody knows where she is now.’

‘How do you know this?’ Kelly demanded.

‘Vernon’s quite a respected figure in our little community. When the wife of a prominent man goes missing there’s always the odd rumour floating about.’

‘Could he have killed her?’ asked Kelly, warily.

i doubt it. Perhaps she left him. Upped and walked out. The intriguing thing is, what made her leave? Whatever happened to her he’s certainly managed to keep it quiet.’

Kelly ran her index finger around the rim of her glass, gazing reflectively into the orange fluid.

‘And you think he’s using the research to help his wife. Indirectly?” she said, finally.

it’s a possibility.’

‘But how is our work on the unconscious mind going to help his wife?’ she mused aloud.

‘You won’t know that until you know what’s wrong with her. Or what happened to her anyway.’

Kelly sipped at her drink, thoughts tumbling through her mind. The sounds of the jukebox, the pool table and the electronic games seemed to diminish as she considered what she had heard.

‘What could have happened that was so bad Vernon would keep it secret for six years?’ she pondered.

Fraser could only shrug his shoulders. He started to rise.

‘Where are you going?’ she wanted to know.

‘To get another,’ he said, indicating his empty glass. ‘What about you?’

‘No thanks. I’d better get going. Look, thanks for the help. I appreciate it.’

He nodded.

“You can contact me at home if you want to,’ he began. ‘My address …”

She smiled.

‘Anderson gave me that too,’ she confessed.

‘Frank always was thorough.’

They exchanged brief farewells and Kelly left.

As she emerged from the pub she found that the rain which had merely been spotting earlier had now been transformed into a fully-fledged downpour. She ran to her car, fumbling for her keys as the warm rain drenched her. She slid behind the wheel and sat there, gazing out through the rivulets of water which coursed down the windscreen. Kelly ran a hand through her hair and then wiped her palm on her jeans. Through the cascade of rain she could see Fraser’s Datsun.

Fraser.

Could he be right about Vernon’s wife? Kelly wondered.

She started her engine and guided the Mini out onto the road.

High above her, a soundless flash of lightning split the clouds, reaching earthward as it lit the heavens with cold white light.

Kelly felt an unexpected chill creeping around her.

It was almost 11.05 by the time John Fraser left the Public bar of ‘The Huntsman’. (

He had not consumed as much booze as he normally did and he felt almost abnormally clear-headed. Fraser rarely got drunk no matter how much he had and tonight, especially, he felt only a pleasing calmness. He climbed into his car and, at the third attempt, started the engine. He made a mental note to get his battery checked.

The rain continued to pelt down and the storm which had been building all night had finally broken. Thunder shook the sky while the lightning etched erratic lines across the tenebrous heavens.

As he pulled out of the pub car park, a lorry roared past and Fraser stepped on his brakes.

The pedal sank mournfully to the floor beneath the pressure of his foot.

The car continued to roll.

The lorry swerved slightly to avoid the Datsun and Fraser gripped the wheel in terror, as if awaiting the impact, but the larger vehicle swept on, disappearing around a bend in the road.

‘Jesus,’ murmured Fraser, stamping on the brake pedal. This time the car stopped dead.

He tried it once more.

No problems.

He shook his head and drove on. Bloody brakes. He’d only had them checked the day before.

She had not slept much the previous night. Her mind had been too active, all too ready to present her with snap answers to questions for which she so badly sought concrete solutions.

Kelly glanced down at the piece of paper on the parcel shelf and re-checked Fraser’s address. A sign post at the corner of the street confirmed that she had found the right place. She turned the Mini into the street and slowed down, scanning the doors for the number she sought.

The storm of the night before had cleared the air and the sun shone brightly over the carefully maintained houses with their neat gardens. Kelly saw an old man mowing his front lawn. On the other side of the street a youth was busy washing his car.

‘Number fifty-nine,’ she murmured to herself, squinting at the houses. ‘Number fifty-nine.’

She saw it and pulled the Mini into a convenient parking space, switching off the engine. Kelly sat behind the wheel for a moment gazing at the house. She was reasonably sure that Fraser had told her everything he knew about Vernon but she had spent half the night wondering if there might just be something else which he might have neglected to mention. Perhaps in his own home, away from the noisy distractions of the pub, he might be able to give her some more information. Exactly what she was going to do with it she wasn’t yet sure.

Confront Vernon?

Why should she need to confront him?

Kelly shook her head, as if trying to force the thoughts to one side, then she pushed open the door and climbed out.

There was a pleasing smell of blossom in the air, as if someone had opened a gigantic air freshener. The sun, broken up by the branches of the trees which flanked the road, forced its way through the canopy of leaves and blossom to brush warming rays against her skin. The blossom itself, stirred by a gentle breeze, fell from the trees like pink tears.

Kelly walked up the path to the front door of number fifty-nine and rang the bell. As she stood there she noticed that the garage door was closed. There was no sign of Fraser’s Datsun. She hoped that he was at home.

A minute passed and no one answered the door. Kelly rang again, this time keeping her finger on the bell button for a time.

At last she heard movement from inside.

The door swung open and she found herself confronted by a rotund, middle-aged woman in a dark blue dress. Her greying hair was swept back from her forehead, giving her round face a severity which it perhaps did not merit.

‘Mrs Fraser?’ Kelly asked.

‘No. I’m her sister,’ the woman said, eyeing Kelly up and down. ‘Who are you?’

Kelly introduced herself.

‘I used to work with John Fraser,’ she explained. ‘It was him that I wanted to see really.’

The woman didn’t speak at first then, slowly, she lowered her gaze and her voice softened.

‘My sister is upstairs sleeping,’ she said, quietly.

Kelly didn’t have to be a detective to realize that something was wrong.

‘And Mr Fraser?’ she asked.

‘He was killed in an accident last night. His car hit a tree. He was dead before they got him to hospital.’

New York

There were two of them waiting outside the house.

One was smoking a cigarette and pacing agitatedly up and down while the other squatted on the pavement and adjusted his camera. Both of them would occasionally stop what they were doing and peer in the direction of the building.

Toni Landers replaced the curtain, wondering if the newsmen had seen her.

She had not seen these two before although, since her son’s death, so many had thrust themselves at her with notepads and microphones that she doubted if she would remember faces. The actress walked across the room to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large measure of J&B which she downed virtually in one swallow, coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way to her stomach.

The house was deathly silent. She had given Mrs Garcia some time off, promising to ring her when her services were required again. Exactly how long that would be even Toni herself was uncertain of. On the sofa before her the copy of Variety was folded open at an appointed spot and she glanced at it briefly before returning to her vigil at the window.

As she stood gazing out at the two newsmen, she thought how odd it had been that she should discover the story in such a journal. She had read with interest that Jonathan Mathias was to visit England to appear on a TV special.

She had seen him as her last hope. The only one she knew who possessed the kind of abilities she had need of. Toni didn’t intend to allow him to slip away.

She had need of his services.

There was a loud beeping sound and she looked out to see that the Ford Sedan had pulled up outside her house. The

driver was banging the horn.

Toni drained what was left in her glass then scuttled for the front door, re-adjusting the dark glasses as she did so. She waited a second then walked out.

Immediately, the two newsmen approached her and she winced as the flash bulb momentarily hurt her eyes.

ll have nothing to say,’ she told them.

‘How soon will you be returning to the stage?’ the first man asked, ignoring her declaration.

She swept on towards the waiting car.

‘How will your son’s death affect your career?’

The flash bulb exploded again, closer to her this time.

Toni struck out angrily, knocking the camera from the photographer’s hands. It crashed to the ground, the lens splintering.

‘Hey lady,’ he shouted. ‘That’s an expensive fucking camera.’

She pulled open the rear door of the Ford and glanced at the driver.

it ain’t my fault your fucking kid is dead,’ the photographer roared as the car pulled away.

‘Where to, Miss Landers?’ the driver asked.

She checked her watch. She had enough time.

‘Kennedy,’ she told him.

Paris

The occasional gusts of wind stirred the bells in the church tower, whistling through and around them to form a discordant, ghostly melody.

Michel Lasalle stood by the graveside and read the inscription on the headstone.

Madelaine Lasalle; 1947-1982

Loved More Than Life Itself. The wind stirred the flowers which adorned the grave, their

white petals standing out in dark contrast to the darkness of the night.

Lasalle bent and removed them, laying them on one side.

He reached for the shovel.

Putting all his weight behind it he drove the pointed implement into the ground, pressing down on it with his foot, levering a huge clod of dark earth from the top of the grave. He tossed it to one side and continued digging. He could feel the perspiration soaking through his shirt as he toiled, gradually creating a mound of mud beside the grave. When he had excavated half of the plot he paused and pulled his shirt off, fastening it around his waist by the sleeves as if it were some kind of apron. Then he continued digging.

It took him nearly thirty minutes to reach the coffin.

He heard the sound of metal on wood and stood back triumphantly, jamming the shovel into the damp earth at the bottom of the hole. Lasalle dropped to his knees and began clawing the final covering of dirt from the casket. He split two finger nails as he did so, scrabbling there like a dog trying to find a bone. Blood oozed from the torn digits but Lasalle paid it no heed. Only when the last fragments of earth had been pulled free did he straighten up, reaching once more for the shovel. He slid the pointed end beneath one corner of the coffin and weighed down on it.

The screw which held it in place was rusted and he had little difficulty removing it. In fact, none of them presented too much of an obstacle and, with a grunt of satisfaction, he succeeded in prising the lid free. It came away with a shriek of splintering wood and he flung it aside.

A cloying stench of decay rose from the body of his dead wife.

Lasalle stared down at the corpse, his gaze travelling inquisitively up and down it. The skin on the face and neck was dry, drawn taught over the bones.

The eye sockets were gaping, empty caverns filled only with a gelatinous substance which, from the left eye, had dribbled down the remains of the cheek. A thick yellowish fluid resembling pus was seeping from both nostrils.

The mouth was open to reveal several missing teeth. The gums had dissolved and the tongue resembled little more than a strand of withered brown string. One hand lay across the chest, the skin having split and peeled back to reveal brittle bone beneath. The bottom of the coffin was stained with a rusty substance which looked black in the darkness.

Lasalle stepped into the coffin and knelt on the legs of his dead wife, wondering if the bones would snap beneath him. He was sweating profusely and his breath came in short gasps. As he wiped a hand across his forehead, blood from his torn fingers left a crimson smudge on his skin.

Madelaine had been buried in a black dress and Lasalle now bent forward and lifted it, pushing the fusty material up until it covered her putrescing features and exposed her festering pelvic region. Lasalle felt the erection bulging in his trousers and he tugged them down. He fell upon the body and spoke her name as he thrust, the stink of his own perspiration mingling with the vile stench which rose from her corpse.

A shadow fell across him.

Lasalle looked up and his grunts turned to screams.

Joubert stood at the graveside, loking down at the obscenity before him, a smile etched on his face.

Lasalle screamed again and again.

Joubert continued to smile.

As he was catapulted from the nightmare, Lasalle gripped his head as if he were afraid it was about to explode. He could still hear screams and it was a second or two before he realized they were his own.

He sat up in bed, his body drenched and aching. As he swung himself round he discovered that he was shaking madly. His eyes bulged wildly in the sockets, the images from the dream still vivid in his mind.

He suddenly got to his feet and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it as the cascade of hot bile fought its way up from his stomach, gushing into his mouth. He bent double over the toilet and retched.

He staggered back, head spinning, and swilled out his mouth with water. Then, he staggered slowly back into the bedroom and sat down in the chair beside the window.

He did not sleep for the remainder of that night.

Oxford

It was a familiar drive for Blake. Although he hadn’t visited the Institute of Psychical Study for over a year he had not needed to consult a map in order to find the place. He’d left London early, avoiding much of the worst traffic.

The sun was shining with just enough power to make driving pleasant. Dressed in a pair of jeans and an open-necked white shirt, Blake felt comfortable and he whistled happily in accompaniment to the cassette as he swung the XJS into the driveway which led up to the Institute.

He found a parking space and turned off the engine, waiting until the track he’d been listening to had finished before getting out of the car. He slipped on a light jacket and made his way towards the main entrance of the building.

There was a notepad stuffed into his pocket and the usual array of pens too.

Blake chuckled to himself, remembering back to his days as a journalist when he’d dashed enthusiastically to each pissant little assignment armed with his trusty pad.

The entrance hall of the Institute was pleasantly cool and Blake paused, slowing his pace, trying to remember where he had to go.

He spotted someone emerging from a room ahead of him.

The writer was immediately struck by her shapely figure, the way her lab coat hugged her taut buttocks, the small slit at the “back allowing him brief, tantalising glimpses of her slim calves. She walked easily and elegantly on her high heels and he realized that she hadn’t noticed him.

‘Excuse me,’ he called, approaching her.

She turned and Blake found himself looking deep into her welcoming eyes. She smiled and the gesture seemed to light up her whole face. He chanced an approving glance at her

upper body, her breasts pertly pressing against the material of her electric blue blouse.

“You’re David Blake aren’t you?’ she said but it was more of a statement than a question.

He smiled broadly.

‘Fame at last,’ he beamed. ‘How do you know me?’

‘We have your books in our library, I recognize you from your photo on the jacket. It’s the dark glasses,’ she told him. ‘They’re quite distinctive.’

‘Well, they hide the bags under my eyes,’ he said, pleased when she chuckled.

‘You seem to have me at a disadvantage, you know me but I don’t know you.’

‘Kelly Hunt,’ she told him. ‘I work here.’

Blake shook her small hand gently.

‘You don’t fit the image,’ he said. ‘I thought all investigators were crusty middle-aged men.’

‘Not all of them,’ Kelly said.

‘So I see.”

They looked at each other for long moments, both liking what they saw.

is Dr Vernon in his office?’ Blake said, finally breaking the silence.

Kelly frowned slightly.

‘Are you here to see him then?’ she asked.

Blake explained that he was. Kelly told him how to reach the Institute

Director.

‘Well, it’s nice to have met you. Miss Hunt,’ he said, heading for the stairs which led up to Vernon’s office.

‘You too,’ Kelly said, watching as he disappeared out of sight.

She wondered exactly how friendly he was with Vernon.

Vernon was already on his feet, right hand extended, when Blake entered the office.

The men exchanged pleasant greetings and the writer sat down, accepting the drink he was offered.

“Sorry to call on you at such short notice,’ he apologised. ‘But I’ve written about two-thirds of the book and I need to check some details before I can finish it.’

Vernon produced Blake’s letter from his desk drawer.

i got it yesterday,’ he said, smiling. ‘So, how are things in the book business?’

Blake shrugged.

it could be better I suppose but then again, it always could.’

‘And how’s your new book coming along?’

‘Fine, as far as I can tell. But then who arn I to judge?’ He smiled.

Vernon’s mood darkened slightly. He looked at Blake and then at the letter he’d received from the writer.

‘You say your new book is about the unconscious mind?’ he asked.

“The unconscious, dreams, Astral travel, that kind of thing. I’ve just got back from America, I spent some time with a man called Jonathan Mathias. You might have heard of him.’

Vernon nodded.

‘He’s a remarkable man,’ Blake said. ‘Powerful.’ The writer’s voice took on a reflective note.

‘How do you mean, powerful?’ Vernon wanted to know.

it’s difficult to explain. He performs acts of faith-healing and yet he’s an atheist.’ Blake paused. ‘But, most important of all, he claims he can control the subconscious minds of other people. Their Astral bodies.’

‘How?’ Vernon demanded, sitting forward in his chair.

Blake regarded the older man over the top of his glass.

it’s some form of hypnosis,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of that.’

Vernon eyed the writer suspiciously.

it’s an extravagant claim,’ he said.

Blake shrugged.

‘Like I said, he’s a remarkable man.’

The Institute Director reached forward and flicked a switch on his intercom.

‘Could you send Miss Hunt up, please,’ he said, then sat back in his chair once more.

‘Do you believe what Mathias says about being able to control other people’s subconscious minds?’ he wanted to know.

Blake was about to answer when there was a knock on the door, and, a moment later, Kelly entered.

She looked at Blake but, this time, he was surprised to find that she didn’t smile. He got to his feet.

‘David Blake,” began Vernon. ‘This is Kelly Hunt, one of our …’

Kelly cut him short.

‘We’ve met,’ she said, curtly. ‘Hello again, Mr Blake.’

The writer was puzzled by the coldness of her voice. All the earlier warmth seemed to have been drained from it.

‘Mr Blake will be conducting some research here for his new book, I’d like you to help him with whatever he needs.’

‘But my work …’ she protested.

‘His work ties in with your own,’ Vernon said, sharply.

‘I hope I’m not causing anyone any inconvenience,’ the writer said, aware of a newly found hostility in the air.

it’s no trouble,’ Kelly said, sounding none too convincing.

He smiled thinly.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get started.’ He thanked Vernon, then followed Kelly out of the office.

The Institute Director sat down at his desk and re-read the letter which Blake had posted two days earlier. He held it before him a moment longer then carefully, almost gleefully, tore it up.

‘Did I do something to annoy you?’ Blake asked Kelly as they headed down the stairs towards her office.

‘What gives you that impression, Mr Blake?’ she said.

‘Your attitude,’ he told her. ‘And stop calling me Mr Blake will you? My name’s David.’

‘What sort of research are you interested in?’ Kelly asked him, dutifully.

He repeated what he’d told Vernon.

‘The old boy seemed very interested,’ Blake said.

‘How long have you been friends?’ asked Kelly.

‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. Acquaintances might be more to the point. I’ve been to the Institute a few times in the past while I’ve been working on other books.’

‘How close are you?’ she asked.

Blake stopped walking.

‘What is this? Twenty questions?’ he asked, irritably.

Kelly also stood where she was.

‘Dr Vernon and I have met several times on what you might call a professional basis,’ Blake told her. ‘Although with all due respect, I don’t really see that it’s any of your

business, Miss Hunt.’

‘No, you’re right, it isn’t,’ Kelly confessed, some of the coldness having left her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Blake.’

He sighed.

‘David,’ he told her. ‘Look, we have to work together for a day or two, we might as well make the time pass pleasantly.’

‘David,’ she agreed, smiling thinly.

They began walking again but more slowly this time.

‘Why is it so important to you to know whether Vernon and I are friends’?’ he enquired.

i was curious.’

I’m still curious. When I arrived here, when we first spoke, everything was fine. Since I spoke to Vernon you don’t want to know me.’

it’s difficult to explain,’ she said, evasively.

‘Then don’t try,’ Blake said, smiling.

Kelly looked at him, aware that she felt more than a passing attraction for this man.

Blake was not handsome but his finely chiselled features and sinewy frame, coupled with the easy-going personality he exuded, served their purpose well.

“Vernon said you’d been doing work on dreams,’ he said.

‘That’s what I’m still working on,’ Kelly explained as they reached her office. She ushered him inside and motioned for him to sit down but, instead, the writer wandered over to the window and looked out across the rolling lawns which surrounded the Institute. Kelly seated herself behind her desk, studying Blake’s profile as he gazed out into the sunlit morning.

The weather’s too nice to work,” he said, quietly.

She smiled.

‘Standing there isn’t going to get your book written is it?’

Blake turned and nodded.

‘Quite right, Miss Hunt,’ he said.

‘Kelly,’ she reminded him.

It was his turn to smile.

‘How exactly can I help you?’ she asked as he seated himself opposite her.

‘I’d like to see the labs where you’ve been doing your research, ask you a few questions if that’s all right but, otherwise, just give me free run of the

library and I’ll be

happy. I’m not a difficult man to please.” He smiled that engaging smile once more and Kelly found herself drawn to him, to his eyes even though they were shielded behind his dark glasses. She felt a peculiar tingle run through her.

“Shall we start in the labs?’ she said, getting to her feet again.

He nodded.

‘Why not?’

Kelly led him out of her office.

The library at the Institute never failed to fascinate Blake. Built up, as it had been, over a hundred years, it had books which dated back as far as the sixteenth century. Before him on the table he had an original copy of Collin de Planncey’s ‘Dictionaire Infernale”. The pages creaked as he turned them, scanning the ancient tome, pleasantly surprised at how much of the French he could actually understand.

He’d been in the library for over four hours, ever since he’d, left Kelly back in her office. Now, with the time approaching 5.15 p.m., he heard his stomach rumbling and realized that he hadn’t eaten since early morning. The writer scanned what notes he’d written, realizing that he must check one or two discrepancies against his manuscript at the first opportunity. As it was, he replaced the old books in their correct position on the shelves, scooped up his pad and made for the stairs.

Kelly was on her way down.

i was coming to see if you needed any help,’ she said, the warmth having returned to her voice.

They had found it remarkably easy to talk to each other that morning. Their conversation had flowed unfalteringly and Kelly had felt her attraction for Blake growing stronger. She felt at ease in his company and she was sure the feeling was reciprocated.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked him.

He smiled and ran appraising eyes over her.

i think I found exactly what I was looking for,’ he said.

She coloured slightly and waited on the stairs while he made his way up. They both walked out into the hall which was now much colder than when Blake had first arrived.

‘Will you be back tomorrow?’ she asked him.

‘I got the information I needed,’ he told her, ‘with your help. But if I ever have a haunting you’ll be the first one I get in touch with. You’ve really been very kind. Thanks.’

‘Are you driving back to London now?’

‘Not yet. I’m going to have something to eat first and then I thought I might take you out for a drink this evening if you’re not doing anything else.’

Kelly chuckled, unable to speak for a moment, taken by surprise by the unexpectedness of his invitation.

‘If I’m in a good mood, I might even let you buy a round,’ Blake added.

‘What if I am doing something else?’ she asked.

‘Then I’ll have to wait for another evening won’t I?’

She shook her head, still laughing.

‘Can I pick you up about eight?’ he asked.

‘Eight will be fine,’ she told him. ‘But it might help if you knew where to pick me up from.‘1 She scribbled her address and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him.

‘Tell Dr Vernon I’ll be in touch,’ Blake said, and, for a moment, he saw a flicker of doubt cross Kelly’s face. ‘I’ll phone him and thank him for letting me use the library.’

She nodded.

Blake turned and headed for the door.

‘Eight o’clock,’ he reminded her.

She watched him go, stood alone in the hallway listening as he revved up his engine. He turned the XJS full circle and guided it back down the driveway towards the road which led into Oxford itself.

Kelly smiled to herself and returned to her office.

From his office window, Dr Vernon watched as the writer drove away. He paused a moment then reached for the phone and dialled.

‘Cheers,’ said Blake, smiling. He raised his glass then took a hefty swallow from the foaming beer.

Across the table from him, Kelly did likewise, sipping her Martini and meeting the writer’s gaze.

They were seated in the garden of ‘The Jester’, a small pub about a mile or so outside Oxford. There were three or four other people enjoying the evening air as well. It was still agreeably warm despite the fact that the sun was sinking, gushing crimson into the sky. When it got too chilly they could easily retire into the comfort of the lounge bar. Blake looked at his companion, pleased with what he saw. She was clad in a dress of pale lemon cheese-cloth, her breasts unfettered by the restraints of a bra. The writer noticed how invitingly her dark nipples pressed against the flimsy material.

With the sinking sun casting a halo around her, drawing golden streaks in her brown hair she looked beautiful. He felt something akin to pride merely being seated there with her.

Kelly noticed how intently he was looking at her and smiled impishly.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.

‘A very beautiful young woman,’ he told her. ‘But, I was thinking too.’

‘About what?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’m better off not knowing.’

Blake laughed.

‘I was wondering actually,’ he began, ‘how you came to be in the line of work you’re in. It is unusual for a woman, especially of your age.’

‘It was what I wanted to do when I left University,’ she told him.

‘How did your parents feel about it?1 he wanted to know.

‘They didn’t say much one way or the other. I’d worked in a library for a few months before I joined the Institute. They’d probably have been just as happy if I’d stayed on there. Security is the be-all and end-all in our family I’m afraid.’

Blake nodded.

“What about you?’ Kelly asked. ‘Writing’s a precarious business isn’t it? What made you want to write?’

‘Well, it wasn’t because I needed to share my knowledge with others,’ he said, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Not in the beginning anyway. I wrote a couple of novels to start with.’

‘Did you have any luck with them?’

He shook his head.

‘Writing fiction successfully needs more luck than talent. You need the breaks. I didn’t get them.’

‘So you turned to non-fiction? The stuff you write now?’

‘The ratio’s different. It’s fifty per cent talent and fifty per cent luck.’

‘You sell yourself short, David.’

‘No. I understand my own limitations that’s all.’

‘What about your parents. How do they feel about having a famous author for a son?’

‘Both my parents are dead. My father died of a stroke five years ago, my mother had a heart attack six months after him.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, David.’

He smiled thinly.

‘You weren’t to know,’ he said. ‘I just wish they could have lived to see my success that’s all.’

A heavy silence descended, rapidly broken by Blake.

‘Well, now we’ve got the morbid stuff out of the way,’ he said, with a reasonable degree of cheerfulness. ‘Perhaps we can carry on with this conversation.’

She sipped her drink and looked at him over the rim of the glass. Losing his

parents within six months of each other must have been a crushing blow and obviously he didn’t want to dwell on the memory.

‘I suppose you must be reasonably secure as a writer now,’ she said, attempting to guide the conversation in another direction.

‘You can never be secure in my business,’ he said. ‘One flop and it’s back to square one. It’s like walking a tightrope in a pair of wellies.’

Kelly chuckled.

‘Does it bother you living alone?’ Blake asked.

‘Not anymore,’ she told him. ‘It did to begin with but I’m used to it now.’

‘And you’ve never felt like getting married?’

‘No.’ She dismissed the suggestion as if he’d just asked her to commit suicide. ‘I’m not the settling down type, I don’t think.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he confessed.

‘You’re not telling me you haven’t been tempted. There must have been girls who you’ve been close too,’ Kelly said.

‘A couple. But none that I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a selfish devil. Sharing isn’t one of my strong points.’

‘Too much give and take, is that it?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, Kelly,’ he grinned.

‘That’s because I’m interested in you,’ she told him.

‘Now that is a compliment.’

They sat in silence for a time, looking at each other, enjoying the warmth of the dying sun, the smell of freshly cut grass and the gentle breeze. It stirred the trees which flanked the pub garden on one side. Birds nesting in the branches watched over the activity below them. Near to where Kelly and Blake sat, three sparrows were busily picking at a piece of bread thrown down by a young couple who were eating sandwiches. Somewhere in the distance Kelly could hear a cuckoo. She sat back in her seat feeling more relaxed than she had done for many months. The combination of the surroundings and Blake’s company had a calming influence on her. She wondered if he felt the same way.

The writer downed what was left in his glass and looked at Kelly. She still had most of her Martini left.

‘I’ll have to bring you out more often,’ he said, peering at the glass. ‘If one drink lasts you this long you’re going to save me pounds.’

They both laughed.

‘You have another,’ she said.

‘Very generous,’ Blake replied.

‘Let me get it,’ she offered, fumbling for her purse.

Blake looked indignant.

‘Let a woman buy drink for me?’ He winked at her. ‘Good idea.”

She balled up a pound note and tossed it at him, watching as he retreated back into the bar to fetch another pint. It was a matter of moments before he returned, holding the glass in one hand and her change in the other. He sat down and supped a third of it immediately, wiping the froth from his lip with his thumb.

‘Did Vernon say anything when you told him I’d left this afternoon?’ the writer asked.

‘No,’ Kelly said, suspiciously. ‘Should he have?’

Blake smiled, wryly.

‘You know, Kelly,’ he said. ‘I could be forgiven for thinking you’re a tiny bit paranoid about Dr Vernon.’

Kelly didn’t answer.

‘Every time I mention his name you go cold on me,’ Blake continued. “Why? Or is it my imagination?’

She took a sip of her drink.

‘Perhaps it’s my imagination,’ she told him, wondering if that was the answer.

Maybe she was becoming paranoid.

‘What do you mean?’

She thought about mentioning what had been going on, her suspicions and suppositions but then decided against it.

‘Forget it, David,’ she asked. ‘Please?’

He nodded.

Kelly finished her drink and pushed the glass away from her.

‘Do you want another one?’ the writer asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

‘No thanks.’

There was another long silence between them then finally Kelly spoke.

‘To tell you the truth, David,’ she began, wearily, ‘I’m a little bit concerned at the amount of interest Dr Vernon is showing in my research.’

Blake frowned.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Surely he’s got every right to be interested.

He is Director of the Institute after all. It’s only natural.’

‘But he seems obsessed with my work.’

She told him about the incident with Maurice Grant, her trip to France and how Vernon had insisted on keeping her report.

Blake didn’t speak, he merely finished the rest of his beer and put down the empty glass.

‘Well,’ she said, challengingly. ‘Do you think I’m being paranoid now?’

‘There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, Kelly,’ he said.

‘Don’t try and humour me, David.’ He was surprised at the vehemence in her words. ‘There are other factors too. Things which don’t make sense, which have no logical explanation.’ She emphasised the last two words with scorn.

‘Like what?” he wanted to know.

Kelly shivered as the slight breeze seemed to turn cold. She looked up and saw that the crimson of the setting sun had been replaced by a layered sky of purple. Kelly felt goose-pimples rise on her flesh and she rubbed her forearms.

‘I don’t feel comfortable talking about them here,’ she told him, as if she feared some kind of surveillance in the peaceful garden.

‘I’ll take you home,’ Blake said without hesitation.

They got to their feet and walked to the car park where the writer opened the passenger door of the XJS, allowing Kelly to slide in. He clambered in behind the wheel and started the engine, guiding the Jaguar out into the road.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, glancing across at her, a little puzzled by her silence.

She nodded, feeling more at ease within the confines of the car. She even managed to smile at the writer who reached across and squeezed her hand gently. Kelly felt the coldness draining from her, as if Blake’s touch had somehow restored her composure. She gripped his hand in return, reassured by his presence.

After a fifteen minute drive they reached her flat.

Kelly no longer felt the cold seeping through her and she looked at the writer almost gratefully.

‘Home,’ he said, smiling, and once more she found herself captivated by that smile of his. No, more than that. She was ensnared by it, drawn to him unlike any man before. He

exuded a magnetism which she found irresistible, almost in spite of herself.

‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.

‘I’m OK,’ she told him. ‘Thanks, David.’

‘For what?’ he wanted to know.

‘Just thanks.’ She reached across and touched his hand with her slender fingers. If any emotion registered in his eyes she couldn’t see it because his dark glasses now hid them even more completely. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’

Blake needed no second bidding. He climbed out of the Jag and locked his door then walked around and let Kelly out, watching appreciatively as she walked ahead of him, searching through her bag for her key. The writer enjoyed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked, the muscles in her calves tensing slightly with each step she took, perched on her backless high heels.

He followed her.

Her flat was, as he’d expected it to be both spotlessly clean and impeccably neat. At her bidding he seated himself in one of the big armchairs which flanked the electric fire. Kelly passed through into the kitchen and Blake heard water running as she filled a kettle.

She returned a moment later, crossing to the window to close the curtains.

Then she flicked on the record player, dropping a disc onto the turntable.

‘Do you mind some music?’ she asked.

“Not at all,’ he said.

The sound of Simon and Garfunkel flowed softly from the speakers.

‘Coffee won’t be a minute,’ she told him, seating herself in the armchair opposite and, as she did so, she found once again that her gaze was drawn to the writer.

is this your own place?’ Blake asked.

it will be eventually,’ Kelly told him. in another twenty years time probably.’ She shrugged. ‘By the time I’m an old, withered spinster at least I’ll own my own flat.’

Blake smiled.

i don’t think there’s much chance of you becoming an old withered spinster, Kelly,’ he said.

‘My mother keeps asking me why I’m not married yet.

Why I’m not knee deep in wet nappies and babies.’ Kelly smiled. ‘Parents love the idea of grandchildren until they actually have them. Then they complain because it makes them feel old.’ Kelly felt a warm thrill run through her as she relaxed in the chair, feeling quite happy to let Blake look at her, to examine her with his eyes. Every so often she would see them flicker behind the dark screen of his glasses.

‘Are you sensitive to light, David?’ she asked him. i mean, the dark glasses.’

She pointed to them.

‘Slightly,’ he said, i suppose that’s what comes of squinting over a typewriter for five years.’

The kettle began to whistle. Kelly got to her feet and walked back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which she handed to Blake. Then, she kicked off her shoes and, this time, sat on the floor in front of him, legs drawn up to one side of her.

‘Kelly, I don’t want to pry,’ Blake began. ‘But you said there were things about Vernon which you didn’t understand. What did you mean?’

She sucked in a weary breath and lowered her gaze momentarily.

‘From what you told me at the pub, I can’t see any reason to suspect that Dr Vernon’s up to something, especially not anything as sinister as you seem to think,’ said Blake. ‘What reasons would he have?’

‘David,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘I was responsible for what happened to Maurice Grant. What I did was wrong. It broke the rules of the Institute. The authorities could have closed the place. That Institute is Vernon’s pride and joy. He could have lost it because of me and yet he didn’t so much as give me a warning or suspend me.’ She decided to put down her mug.

instead, he protected me when he had every right to dismiss me on the spot.

Then, when I got back from France, he wanted to know everything that happened and he kept my report.’

Blake sat forward in his chair.

‘You make Vernon sound like a monster when all he tried to do was help you,’

he said.

‘He’s hiding something, David,’ she said, angrily. ‘John Fraser knew what it was. That’s why he was killed.’

‘Who’s Fraser?’

She explained as much as she knew about the events of the last two days.

‘But if Fraser was killed in a car crash, how could Vernon be involved?’ the writer wanted to know. ‘It was an accident, surely?’

‘He knew about Vernon’s secret.’

Another heavy silence descended, finally broken by Blake.

‘I don’t see how you can suspect Vernon of being involved in Fraser’s death,’

he said.

‘David, he won’t let anyone come between him and this research.’

‘Does that include you?’ Blake asked, cryptically.

It was at that point that the phone rang.

For long moments neither of them moved as the strident ringing filled the room. Then, finally, Kelly got to her feet and walked across to the phone, lifting the receiver tentatively, wondering why she felt so apprehensive.

Blake watched her, noticing the hesitancy in her movements.

‘Hello,’ she said.

No answer.

‘Hello,’ she repeated, looking across at Blake as if seeking reassurance.

Words suddenly came gushing forth from the caller at the other end, some of which she didn’t understand. Not merely due to the speed with which they were uttered but because they were in French.

‘Who is this?’ she asked, holding the phone away from her for a second as a particularly loud crackle of static broke up the line. ‘Hello. Can you hear me? Who’s speaking?’

‘Kelly. It’s Michel Lasalle.’

She relaxed slightly.

‘Listen to me, you must listen,’ he blurted, and Kelly was more than aware of the high-pitched desperation in his voice. His breathing was harsh and irregular, as if he’d been running for a long time. ‘I saw Madelaine,’ he told her, his voice cracking. ‘I saw her.’

‘You had a nightmare, Michel, it’s understandable …’

He interrupted.

‘No, I touched her, felt her,’ he insisted.

‘It was a nightmare,’ she repeated.

‘No. Joubert saw her too.’

Kelly frowned.

‘What do you mean? How was he involved?’ she wanted to know. She felt the tension returning to her muscles.

‘He was there, with me,’ the Frenchman continued, panting loudly. He babbled something in French then laughed dryly. A sound which sent a shiver down Kelly’s spine. ‘He watched me making love to her. She felt cold in my arms but it didn’t matter, she is still mine. I still want her.’

Kelly tried to speak but couldn’t.

‘Joubert has not forgiven me,’ the Frenchman said, softly. ‘I don’t think he ever will.’

‘Forgiven you for what?’ Kelly wanted to know.

‘Writing that article.’

‘Did he speak to you?’ she asked, wondering whether or not she should humour the distraught man.

‘He is always there, Kelly. Always. Watching.’

An uneasy silence fell, broken only by the gentle hiss of static burbling in the lines.

‘Michel, are you still there?’ Kelly finally said.

Silence.

‘Michel, answer me.’

She heard a click and realized that he’d hung up. For long seconds she stared at the receiver then slowly replaced it.

‘What was it?’ Blake asked, seeing the concern on her face.

She walked slowly back towards him and seated herself on the floor once again, reaching for her coffee. It was cold.

‘Kelly, who was that?’ the writer persisted.

‘Lasalle. One of the men from the Metapsychic Centre,’ she told him, then proceeded to relay what the Frenchman had said to her.

‘He’s convinced that it was real,’ she said.

Blake shrugged.

‘Nightmares are usually vivid,’ he said.

Kelly shook her head.

‘But Lasalle won’t accept that he had a nightmare,’ she protested. ‘He’s convinced that what he experienced actually happened.’ She sighed. ‘I hope to God he’s not heading for another breakdown. He had one when his wife died.’

She looked up at Blake. ‘And Joubert, he mentioned that Joubert was present in the nightmare. He sounded frightened of him.’ She lowered her gaze once more.

‘First Fraser, now Lasalle. One man’s dead, another is close to a nervous breakdown and all because of the research I’m engaged in.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, Kelly,’ Blake said, reaching out and gently lifting her head with his right hand.

She gripped that hand, aware of the combination of gentleness and strength in it but more conscious of the warmth which seemed to flow from it, from his entire being. She looked up at him, trying to see his eyes, searching for a glimmer behind the tinted screens which masked them. Kelly kissed his hand and moved closer to him, resting her own right hand on his knee as he slowly stroked the back of her neck beneath her hair. She squirmed beneath his subtle caresses, moving nearer, anxious to touch him fully. His other hand began gently kneading the smooth flesh of her shoulder and she closed her eyes.

‘What if Vernon is responsible for Fraser’s death?’ she said, quietly, enjoying the sensations which were coursing through her.

‘Then he’s a dangerous man,’ Blake said. ‘You should stay away from him.’

‘And Joubert?’

‘Kelly. If there is any possibility that either of them have some kind of psychic power then you’d do best not to let them know you suspect.’

‘But I must know the truth, David,’ she protested, turning to face him.

As she did so, Blake leant forward and kissed her. Their lips brushed gently for a moment then, unhesitatingly, Kelly pressed her mouth to his. Blake responded fiercely, matching her passion with his own desire.

Kelly snaked her hand up around his neck, as if reluctant to break the kiss.

When she finally did, she was panting softly, her eyes riveted to Blake. Her body was burning, as if fire were pouring through her veins. She felt her nipples, now stiff and erect, straining almost painfully against her dress and between her slender legs she felt a glowing moistness. Blake sensed her excitement and she could see that he felt similarly aroused by the contact they had enjoyed. Her hand strayed to the beginnings of bulge in his trousers, massaging and rubbing until Blake himself grunted under his breath.

Kelly moved away from him slightly, lying back on the carpet before him, inviting his attentions. The writer was not slow to respond and he joined her, his hands moving over the thin material of her dress until they came to her breasts. He rubbed gently, feeling the hardened points beneath his palms as she arched her back. Kelly felt as if she were floating, the warm glow between her legs becoming an all-consuming desire which filled every part of her. She took Blake’s left hand and guided it up inside her dress, moaning as his fingers stroked the smooth flesh of her inner thighs, pausing there for agonisingly exquisite seconds before moving higher. She felt his probing digits reach her panties, his forefinger hooked, pulling down the flimsy garment. She lifted her buttocks to allow him to remove them, watching as he first kissed the sodden material before laying it on one side.

She pulled him close to her, their mouths locking once more as she thrust her pelvis towards his searching hand, almost crying aloud as his finger touched the hardened bud of her clitoris and began rubbing gently. She fumbled for his zip and freed his bulging erection, encircling it with her slender fingers, working up a gentle rhythm as she teased his stiff shaft. For three or four minutes they remained like that and then she suggested they undress.

It took them mere moments then, naked, they were free to explore every inch of the other’s body. Blake lowered his head to her breasts and took first one nipple then the other between his teeth, rolling it gently as he flicked it with his tongue. Kelly felt his other hand trace a pattern across her belly before gliding through her soft pubic hair once more to search for her most sensitive area and she rolled onto her

side, allowing him to push his heavily muscled thigh against her. She ground

hard against him, eventually manoeuvering herself so that he was beneath her.

She straddled his stomach.

‘Take these off,’ she said, quietly, reaching for his dark glasses. ‘I want to see your eyes.’

Blake himself removed them and then turned to look at her.

Kelly felt as if the breath had been torn from her, as if someone had punched her hard and winded her.

Blake’s eyes were the colour of a June sky. A deep blue which she found overwhelming in their intensity. She felt as if she were a puppet, suspended by wires which came from those eyes, her movements and feelings controlled by them. A renewed and much more powerful surge of emotion shook her and she bent forward to kiss him. But, he gripped her waist and almost lifted her up on to his chest, smiling as she rubbed herself against him. He felt the wetness spilling from her, dampening his chest. She moved a little further so that he could reach her with his tongue.

Kelly gasped as she felt it flicking over her distended lips, reaming her swollen cleft before fastening on her clitoris. She spoke his name, her head thrown back as she surrendered to the feelings which were sweeping over her.

Kelly felt a tightening around her thighs, the first unmistakable sign of approaching orgasm. His hands reached up and found her swollen nipples, adding to her overall pleasure which was now building up like an impending explosion.

She twisted around so that she could reach his penis, lying on him in order to allow it to reach her mouth. She studied the bulbous head for a moment then took it into her mouth, wrapping her tongue around it, her free hand working away at the root, fondling his testicles. She felt him stiffen, realized that his excitement was a great as hers. But she needed him more fully. Kelly rolled to one side, kissing him briefly as she did so then she knelt over his groin, cradling his throbbing member in one hand, lowering herself slowly until it nudged her aching vagina. They both gasped as the union was completed. She sank down onto him, his shaft swallowed by her liquescent cleft.

Kelly knew that she would not be able to hold back any longer. She stared into Blake’s eyes and began moving up and down. The sensations began almost at once. She was aware only of the throbbing pleasure between her legs and his welcoming blue eyes which seemed to fill her entire field of vision. She could not look away from him and, as she speeded up her movements, she felt as though she were being joined with him, melting into him to form one entity.

The power of the orgasm made her cry out loudly. She bounced up and down on him, each wave of pleasure more intense than the one before. She had never felt anything so overwhelmingly wonderful in her life and that pleasure, almost impossibly, suddenly re-doubled as she felt him writhe beneath her as his own climax washed over him. Kelly moaned loudly as she felt his hot liquid spurt into her and she ground herself hard against him, coaxing every last drop from him. Shaking and bathed in perspiration, she slumped forward, kissing him gently, unable to look anywhere else but at his eyes.

They lay still, coupled together as he softened within her.

It was a long time before either of them spoke. The record player was silent, the record having finished long ago. Only the sound of the wind outside was audible.

‘You don’t have to drive back to London tonight do you?’ Kelly asked him.

‘You try getting rid of me,’ he said, smiling.

They both laughed.

Kelly ran a finger across his lips then kissed him softly.

Her gaze never left his deep blue eyes and, once more, she felt that glorious sensation of floating. As if she had no control over her own body.

Blake smiled broadly.

PART TWO

‘All human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil …’

— Robert Louis Stevenson

‘He who shall teach the child to doubt, Shall ne’er the rotting grave get out.’

— William Blake

London

The Waterloo Club, in the heart of London’s Mayfair, was a magnificent anachronism.

Founded a year after the battle of Waterloo by a group of Wellington’s infantry officers, the building was more like a museum. There was a subdued reverence about the place, much like that usually reserved for a church. It languished in cultivated peacefulness and had defied ail but the most necessary architectural changes since its construction in 1816. But, for all that, it retained an archaic splendour which was fascinating.

David Blake sipped his drink and scanned the panelled walls. The room seemed dark, despite the lamps which burned in profusion, complimented by the huge crystal chandelier which hung from the ceiling. There were a number of paintings on view including excellent copies of Denis Dighton’s ‘Sergeant Ewart capturing the Eagle of the 45th’, a picture which Blake remembered from a history book. Behind the bar was Sir William Allen’s panoramic view of Waterloo, a full fifteen feet in length. It hung in a gilt frame, as imposing a piece of art as Blake had seen. On another wall were two polished cuirasses, the breast plates still carrying musket ball holes. Above them were the brass helmets of Carabiniers, the long swords of the Scots Greys and various original muskets and pistols.

Blake was suitably impressed with the surroundings despite being somewhat perplexed as to why the BBC should have chosen such a setting for the party to welcome Jonathan Mathias to England. Other guests chatted amiably, some, like himself, gazing at the paintings and other paraphernalia. He guessed that there must be about two dozen people there, most of whom he recognized from one or other branch of the

entertainment industry.

He spotted Jim O’Neil sitting in one corner.,He was on the British leg of a European tour which had, so far, taken him and his band to ten different countries encompassing over eighty gigs. He was a tall, wiry man in his late twenties, dressed completely in black leather. The rock star was nodding intently as two young women chatted animatedly to him.

The writer was aware of other well-known faces too. He caught sight of Sir George Howe, the new head of the BBC, speaking to a group of men which included Gerald Braddock.

Braddock was the present Government’s Minister for the Arts, a plump, red-faced man whose shirt collar was much too tight for him, a condition not aided by his tie which appeared to have been fastened by a member of the thugee cult. Every time he swallowed he looked as though he was going to choke.

Next to him stood Roger Carr, host of the chat show on which Mathias was to appear.

Elsewhere, Blake spotted actors and actresses from TV, an agent or two but, as far as he could see, he was the only writer who had been invited.

He’d been a little surprised by the invitation although he had written for the BBC in the past, most notably, a six part series on the paranormal. When he learned that Mathias was to be the guest of honour he’d accepted the invitation readily.

At the moment, however, there was no sign of the American.

‘Do you get invited to many dos like this?’ Kelly asked him, looking around at the array of talent in the room.

Blake had been seeing her for just over a week now, driving back and forth to Oxford, staying at her flat most nights and returning to his home to work during the day. When he’d told her about the invitation, initially she’d been apprehensive but now, as she scanned the other guests, she did not regret her decision to accompany him.

There aren’t many dos like this,’ he told her, looking around, wondering where

Mathias had disappeared to.

The psychic arrived as if on cue, emerging from the club cloakroom like something from a Bram Stoker novel. He wore a black three-piece suit and white shirt, a black bow-tie at his throat. Cufflinks bearing large diamonds sparkled in the light like millions of insect eyes. The psychic was introduced to Sir George Howe and his group. All eyes turned towards the little tableau and the previously subdued conversation seemed to drop to a hush. It was as if a powerful magnet had been brought into the room, drawing everything to it.

‘He looks very imposing in the flesh,’ said Kelly, almost in awe. ‘I’ve only ever seen him in photographs.’

Blake didn’t answer her. His eye had been caught by more belated movement from the direction of the cloakroom as a late-comer arrived.

‘Christ,’ murmured the writer, nudging Kelly. ‘Look.’

He nodded in the appropriate direction and she managed to tear her gaze from Mathias.

The late-comer slipped into the room and over to the group surrounding the psychic. Kelly looked at him and then at Blake.

‘What’s he doing here?’ she said, in bewilderment.

Dr Stephen Vernon ran a nervous hand through his hair and sidled up beside Sir George Howe.

Blake and Kelly watched as the Institute Director was introduced. Words were exchanged but, no matter how hard she tried, Kelly could not hear what was being said. Gradually, the babble of conversation began to fill the room again.

Kelly hesitated, watching Vernon as he stood listening to the psychic.

‘Kelly,’ Blake said, forcefully, gripping her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get another drink.’

Aimost reluctantly, she followed him to the bar where Jim O’Neil now sat, perched on one of the tall stools. He was still listening to one of the girls but his interest seemed to have waned. As Blake and Kelly approached he ran an appreciative eye over Kelly whose full breasts were prominent due to the plunging neckline of her dress. A tiny gold crucifix hung invitingly between them. O’Neii smiled at her aiid Kelly returned the gesture.

‘Hello,’ said O’Neil, nodding at them both but keeping his eyes on Kelly.

The writer turned and smiled, shaking the other man’s outstretched hand.

Introductions were swiftly made. O’Neil took Kelly’s hand and kissed it delicately.

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Blake.

‘Make it a pint of bitter will you,’ the singer asked. ‘I’m sick of these bleeding cocktails.’ He pushed the glass away from him.

The barman gave him a disdainful look, watching as the other man downed half of the foaming pint.

‘Christ, that’s better,’ he said.

Kelly caught the sound of a cockney accent in his voice.

‘No gig tonight?’ Blake asked.

O’Neil shook his head.

‘The rest of the band have got the night off,’ he said, scratching bristles on his chin which looked as if you could strike a match on them. ‘My manager said I ought to come here. God knows why.’ He supped some more of his pint. “I’m surprised they invited me in the first place. I mean, they never play any of my fucking records on Radio One.’ He chuckled.

Kelly pulled Blake’s arm and nodded in the direction of a nearby table. The two of them said they’d speak to O’Neil again later then left him at the bar ordering another pint.

The writer was in the process of pulling out a chair for Kelly when he saw Mathias and his little entourage approaching. The psychic smiied broadly when he saw Blake. Kelly turned and found herself looking straight at Dr Vernon.

They exchanged awkward glances then Kelly looked at Mathias who was already

shaking hands with Blake.

‘It’s good to see you again, David,’ said the American. “How’s the book coming along?’

‘I’m getting there,’ the writer said. ‘You look well, Jonathan.’

i see there are no need for introductions where you two are concerned,’ said Sir George Howe, smiling.

‘We’re not exactly strangers,’ Mathias told him. Then he looked at Kelly. ‘But I don’t know you. And I feel that I should.”

The psychic smiled and Kelly saw a glint in his eye.

She introduced herself then stepped back, one eye on Vernon, as Sir George completed the introductions.

Blake shook hands with Gerald Braddock, wincing slightly as he felt the pudgy clamminess of the politician’s hand.

Then came Vernon.

‘This is Dr Stephen Vernon, an old friend of mine, he …’

‘We’ve met,’ Blake told Sir George. ‘How are you, Dr Vernon?’

‘I’m very well,’ said the older man. He looked at Kelly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, Kelly.’

She didn’t answer.

‘Well, it seems as if everyone knows everyone else,’ said Sir George, aware of the iciness in the air. His stilted laugh died away rapidly.

‘How long are you here for, Jonathan?’ Blake asked the psychic.

‘Three or four days. Long enough to do the show with Mr Carr, and a couple of newspaper interviews, radio pieces. You know the kind of thing,’ Mathias told him.

‘I saw in the paper that you were coming to England,’ Blake said. ‘When are you doing the TV show?’

it’s being broadcast the day after tomorrow,’ Roger Carr said, stepping forward. ‘You should watch it, Mr Blake, I mean you deal in the same kind of tricks don’t you? Only you write about them instead.’ The interviewer smiled.

Blake returned the smile.

‘You know, Mr Carr, there’s something I’ve never been able to figure out about you,’ the writer said. ‘You’re either stupid, in which case I’m sorry for you, or you’re pig-ignorant. But I haven’t been able to figure out which it is yet.’

Carr shot him an angry glance and opened his mouth to speak but, before he could, all eyes turned in the direction of the cloakroom.

There was an unholy din coming from there, a cacophony of shouts through which the high-pitched voice of a woman could be heard.

Seconds later, a figure dressed in a grey coat, spattered with rain, burst into the peaceful confines of the Waterloo Club. Her hair was wind-blown, her make-up streaked by the

rain. She stood panting in the doorway, her eyes fixed on Mathias.

‘My God,’ muttered Sir George. Then, to a green-coated doorman who had tried to stop the woman entering:

‘Could you please eject this lady.’

‘No,’ Mathias said, raising a hand. ‘Leave her.’

‘David, who is she?’ asked Kelly, noticing the look of recognition on Blake’s face as he gazed at the woman.

Toni Landers,’ he said. ‘She’s an actress.’ But the woman whom he had met in New York had been a radiant, sensuous creature. The woman who now stood in the doorway was pale and unkempt, her features haggard. She looked as though she’d aged ten years.

‘Do you know this woman?’ asked Sir George, looking first at Toni, then at Mathias who had not taken his eyes from her.

“Yes, I know her,’ the psychic said.

‘Could someone explain what the hell is going on?’ Sir George demanded.

‘Jonathan, I have to speak to you,’ Toni said, her voice cracking. She leant against the bar for support.

Jim O’Neil was on his feet, ready to intervene. Toni looked ready to keel

over. She sat down on a bar stool, her gaze still on the psychic.

‘How did you find me?’ he asked, moving towards her.

i knew you were coming to England. I’ve been waiting for you. I found out which hotel you were staying in. They told me where you’d be tonight,’ she admitted.

‘She’s bloody mad,’ snapped Roger Carr, dismissively. ‘Get her out of here.’

‘Shut up,’ Mathias rasped. ‘Leave her.’

The doorman took a step away from Toni.

is this one of your theatrical tricks, Mathias?’ Carr demanded.

Blake turned on him.

‘Just for once, keep your bloody mouth shut,’ he snapped. He motioned to the barman. ‘Give her a brandy.’

The man hesitated, looking at Sir George.

‘Come on, man, for Christ’s sake,’ Blake insisted.

‘Give her the fucking drink. You heard him,’ snarled Jim O’Neil, watching as the barman poured a large measure and

handed it to Toni. She downed most of it, coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way to her stomach.

Toni, what do you want?’ Mathias asked her, quietly.

“I need your help, Jonathan,’ she told him, tears glistening in her eyes.

‘You’re the only one who can help me now.’

‘Why didn’t you come to me before? What were you afraid of?’

She swallowed what was left in the glass.

‘That you’d turn me away.’

He shook his head.

‘Jonathan, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Rick. Every time I see a child I think about him.’ The tears were coursing down her cheeks now. ‘Please help me.’ Her self-control finally dissolved in a paroxysm of sobs.

Mathias supported her and she clung to him’, her body trembling violently.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

‘Reach him,’ she said, flatly. ‘Now.’

Mathias didn’t speak.

‘Please, do I have to beg you?’ Some of the despair in her voice had turned to anger. ‘Contact my son.’

‘This is a London club, not a fairground tent,’ protested Sir George Ward as the massive oak table was dragged into the centre of the room by Blake, O’Neil and a third man.

‘What I intend to do is no fairground trick,’ Mathias told him, watching as a number of chairs were placed around the table.

The other guests looked on in stunned, anticipatory silence, Kelly amongst them. Every so often she cast a glance in Dr Vernon’s direction, noticing that he was smiling thinly as he observed the proceedings.

Gerald Braddock plucked at the folds of fat beneath his jaw and shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

Toni Landers sat at the bar, the glass of brandy cradled in her shaking hand.

‘What are you trying to prove by doing this, Mathias?’ Roger Carr wanted to know.

‘I don’t have to prove anything, Mr Carr,’ the psychic said, turning away from him. He held out a hand for Toni Landers to join him. She downed what was left in her glass and wandered across the room. ‘Sit there,’ the psychic told her, motioning to the chair on his right.

Blake watched with interest, aware that Kelly was gripping his arm tightly. He took her hand and held it, reassuringly.

‘I cannot do this alone,’ Mathias said, addressing the other guests. ‘I must ask for the help of some of you. Not for my own sake but for this lady.’ He motioned towards Toni. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing can hurt you.’

Jim O’Neil was the first to step forward.

‘What the hell,’ he said, sitting beside Toni then turning in his seat to look at the others.

Roger Carr joined him, sitting on the other side of the table.

Blake looked at Kelly and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They both stepped forward, the writer seating himself directly opposite where Mathias would be.

‘Thank you, David,’ said the psychic.

As if prompted by Kelly’s action, Dr Vernon pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment then looked at Blake who had his eyes closed slightly.

“Sir George”?’ Mathias said, looking at the head of the BBC.

‘No, I want no part of this,’ said the bald man, defiantly.

Gerald Braddock, who had been rubbing his hands together nervously finally moved towards the table.

‘What are you doing, Gerald?’ Sir George asked him.

it can’t do any harm,’ Braddock said, wiping his palms on his trousers. He looked at the others seated around the table and swallowed hard.

No one else in the room moved. Mathias walked to his seat between Toni Landers and Roger Carr. Opposite him was Blake. To his right, Kelly. At the writer’s left hand sat Braddock then O’Neil.

‘Could we have the lights turned off please?’ Mathias asked. ‘All but the one over the table.’

Sir George surveyed the group seated before him for a moment then with a sigh he nodded to the club’s doorman who flicked off the lights one by one until the table was illuminated by a solitary lamp. Shadows were thick all around it, the other guests swallowed up by them.

‘Could you all place your hands, palms down, on the table,’ Mathias asked. ‘So that your fingertips are touching the hands of the person on either side of you.’

‘I thought we were supposed to hold hands,’ muttered Carr, sarcastically.

‘Just do as I ask, please,’ Mathias said.

Kelly looked up. In the half light, the psychic’s face looked milk-white, his eyes standing out in stark contrast. She felt a strange tingle flow through her, a feeling not unlike a small electric shock. She glanced at Blake, who was looking at the psychic, then at Vernon, who had his head lowered.

‘Empty your minds,’ said Mathias. ‘Think of nothing. Hear nothing but my voice. Be aware of nothing but the touch of the people beside you.’ His voice had fallen to a low whisper.

The room was silent, only the low, guttural breathing of the psychic audible in the stillness.

Kelly shivered involuntarily and turned her head slightly looking at the others seated with her. All of them had their heads bowed as if in prayer. She too dropped her gaze, noticing as she did that Blake’s fingers were shaking slightly. But then so were her own. Indeed, everyone around the table seemed to be undergoing minute, reflexive muscular contractions which jerked their bodies almost imperceptibly every few seconds.

Mathias grunted something inaudible then coughed. His eyes closed and his head began to tilt backward. His chest was heaving as if he were finding it difficult to breathe.

‘Don’t break the circle,’ he muttered, throatily. ‘Don’t … break …’

He clenched his teeth together, as if in pain and a long, wheezing sound escaped him. It was as if someone had punctured a set of bellows. His body began to shake more violently, perspiration beading on his forehead, glistening in

the dull light. His eyes suddenly shot open, bulging wide in ihe sockets, his head still tilted backward.

He groaned again, more loudly this time.

The light above the table flickered, went out then glowed with unnatural brilliance once more.

“The child,’ croaked Mathias. ‘The … child …’

His groans became shouts.

Kelly tried to raise her head but it was as if there was a heavy weight secured to her chin. Only by monumental effort did she manage to raise it an

inch or so.

Somewhere behind her one of the swords fell from the wall with a loud clatter but none of those seated at the table could move to find the source of the noise. They were all held as if by some invisible hand, aware only of the increasing warmth in the room. A warmth which seemed to be radiating from the very centre of the table itself.

“The child,’ Mathias gasped once more.

This time Kelly recoiled as a vile stench assaulted her nostrils. A sickly sweet odour which reminded her of bad meat. She coughed, her stomach churning.

The feeling of heat was growing stronger until it seemed that the table must be ablaze. But, at last, she found that she could raise her head.

If she had been able to. she would have screamed.

Toni Landers beat her to it.

Standing in the centre of the table was the image of her son.

His clothes, what remained of them, were blackened and scorched, hanging in places like burned tassles. Beneath trfc fabric his skin was red raw. mottled green in places. The left arm had been completely stripped of flesh and what musculature remained was wasted and scorched. Bone shone with dazzling whiteness through the charred mess. The chest and lower body was a mass of suppurating sores which were weeping sticky clear pus like so many diseased eyes. But it was the head and neck which bore the most horrific injury. The boy’s head was twisted at an impossible angle, a portion of spinal column visible through the pulped mess at the base of the skull. The head itself seemed to have been cracked open like an egg shell and a lump of jellied brain matter bulged obscenely from one of the rents. The bottom lip had been torn off, taking most of the [eft cheek with it, to expose ligaments and tendons which still twitched spasmodically. Blood had soaked the boy’s upper body, its coppery odour mingling with the overpowering slink of burned skin and hair.

Toni Landers tried to raise her hands to shield her eyes from this abomination which had once been her son but it was as if someone had nailed her fingers to the table. She could only sit helplessly and watch as the apparition turned full circle in the middle of the table, meeting the horrified gaze of all those present before bringing its milky orbs to bear on her. One of the eyes had been punctured by a piece of broken skull and it nestled uselessly in the bloodied socket like a burst balloon.

The apparition took a step towards her.

It was smiling.

Kelly looked across at Mathias and saw that there was perspiration pouring down his face as he gazed at the sight before him. She then turned slightly and looked at Blake. He was not looking at the child but at the psychic, the writer’s own body trembling convulsively.

The figure of the boy moved closer to Toni Landers, one charred hand rising before it as it reached the edge of the table.

Finally, by a monumental effort of will, Toni managed to lift her hands from the table.

As she covered her face she let out a scream which threatened to shake the building.

‘Look,’ urged Jim O’Neil.

Like the image on a TV set, the apparition of Rick Landers began to fade. Not slowly but with almost breathtaking suddenness until the table was empty once more. Above them, the light dimmed again.

‘My God,’ burbled Gerald Braddock. ‘What was that?”

Even if anyone heard him, no one seemed capable of furnishing him with an answer.

Sir George Howe strode to the pane! of switches behind the bar and snapped on the lights himself.

Mathias sat unmoved at the table, his eyes locked with those of Blake. The writer was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run up a flight of long steps.

The two men regarded one

another a moment longer then Mathias turned to Toni Landers who was sobbing uncontrollably beside him.

‘Fuck me,’ was all Jim O’Neil could say. His voice a low whisper.

Dr Vernon stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking at the spot on the table top where the apparition had first materialized. It still shone as if newly polished. He inhaled. There was no smell of burned flesh any longer, no cloying odour of blood. Only the acrid smell of perspiration.

Beside him, Kelly touched Blake’s hand, seeing that the writer looked a little pale.

‘Are you all right, David?’ she asked, aware that her own heart was beating wildly.

Blake nodded.

‘And you?’ he wanted to know.

She was shaking badly and Blake put one arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to him.

Roger Carr sat where he was for a moment, looking at the others around the table, then he got to his feet and stalked across to the bar where he downed a large scotch in two huge swallows. Only then did he begin to calm down. He looked back over his shoulder at Mathias.

Not only was this man very good at what he did, the bastard was convincing too. Carr ordered another scotch.

Jonathan Mathias finally managed to quieten Toni Landers, wiping away some of her tears with his handkerchief. He helped her to her feet and led her outside into the rain soaked night. He told his chauffeur to take her home and then return.

As the psychic stood alone on the pavement watching the car disappear from view he looked down at his hands.

Both palms were red raw, as if he’d been holding something very hot. His entire body was sheathed in sweat but he felt colder than he’d ever felt in his life.

Blake hit the last full stop, pulled the paper from the typewriter and laid it on top of the pile beside him.

Without the clacking of typewriter keys, the cellar was once more silent.

The writer picked up the pages next to him and skimmed through them. Another day or so and the book would be finished, he guessed. He had submitted the bulk of it to his publisher shortly after returning from the States. Now he was nearing the end. He sat back in his chair and yawned. It was almost 8 a.m.

He’d been working for two hours. Blake always rose early, completing the greater part of his work during the morning. It was a routine which he’d followed for the last four years. Down in the cellar it was peaceful. He didn’t even hear the comings and goings of his neighbours. But, on this particular morning, his mind had been elsewhere.

As hard as he tried, he could not shake the image of Toni Landers’ dead child from his mind. In fact, the entire episode of the previous night still burned as clearly in his consciousness as if it had been branded there. He remembered the terror etched on the faces of those who had sat at the table with him, the horrified reactions of those who had looked on from the relative safety beyond the circle.

The gathering had begun to break up almost immediately after the seance. Blake himself, rather than drive back to Oxford, had persuaded Kelly to stay at his house for the night. She had readily agreed. She was upstairs dressing. He had woken her before he’d climbed out of bed, they had made love and she had decided to take a long hot bath before he drove her home.

He put the cover back on the typewriter and made his way up the stone steps from the subterranean work room, locking the door behind him as he emerged into the hall.

‘What are you hiding down there? The Crown Jewels?’

The voice startled him momentarily and he spun round to see Kelly descending the stairs.

Blake smiled and pocketed the key to the cellar.

‘Force of habit,” he said. T don’t like to be disturbed.’

They walked through into the kitchen where she put the kettle on while he jammed some bread into the toaster. Kelly spooned coffee into a couple of mugs.

‘Are you all right, Kelly?’ he asked, noticing that she looked pale.

She nodded.

‘I’m a little tired, I didn’t sleep too well last night,’ she told him.

‘That’s understandable.’

‘Understandable, but not forgivable.’

He looked puzzled.

‘David, I’m a psychic investigator. My reactions to the paranormal, anything out of the ordinary, should be … well, scientific. But what J saw last, night at that seance terrified me. I couldn’t even think straight.’

if it’s any consolation,’ he said. T don’t think you were the only one.’ He caught the toast as it popped up.

Kelly watched him as he buttered it, finally handing her a slice.

‘I’d still like to know how Vernon managed to get an invitation,* she said.

‘He’s a friend of Sir George Howe, the old boy told us that.’

Kelly nodded slowly.

T still don’t trust him,’ she said.

Blake leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.

‘I don’t trust anyone.’

The kettle began to boil.

It was 2.15 when Blake parked the XJS back in his driveway. The journey back from Oxford had taken longer than he’d expected due to a traffic hold up on the way back into the town. Now he clambered out of the Jag and headed for his front door, waving a greeting to one of his neighbours as she passed by with her two children.

Blake walked in and discovered that the postman had been during his absence. There was a slim envelope which bore a familiar type-face.

He tore it open and unfolded the letter, heading towards the sitting room as he did so. The writer perched on the edge of a chair and read aloud.

‘Dear David, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting but I have only recently managed to read the manuscript of “From Within “. I’m even sorrier to tell you that I do not tee! thai it matches the quality of your earlier work, which was based on solid facts and research. This latest effort seems comprised mostly of speculation and theorising, particularly on the subject of Astral travel and mind control. I realize that these subjects are open to question but the book does not convince me as to the validity of your statements. So how can we expect the public to believe it?

Despite the fact that you are well established and a proven top-seller, I feel that I cannot, as yet offer you a contract based on the manuscript in its present state.’

Blake got to his feet, still glaring angrily at the letter.

It was signed with the sweeping hand of Phillip Campbell, his publisher.

‘I cannot offer you a contract …’ Blake muttered, angrily. He crossed to the phone and picked up the receiver, punching buttons irritably.

‘Good morning …’

He gave the receptionist no time to complete the formalities.

‘Phillip Campbell, please,’ he said, impatiently.

There was a click at the other line then another woman’s voice.

‘Phillip Campbell’s office, good afternoon.’

is Phillip there?’

‘Yes, who’s calling?’

‘David Blake.’

Another click. A hiss of static.

‘Good afternoon, David.’

He recognized Campbell’s Glaswegian accent immediately ‘ “I cannot offer you a contract”, that’s what’s on my mind,’ Blake snapped.

‘What the hell is going on, Phil? What’s wrong with the bloody book?’

i thought I told you that in the letter,’ the Scot said.

‘ “Speculation and theorising” is that it?’

‘Look, Dave, don’t start getting uptight about it. If you can’t stand a bit of criticism from a friend then maybe you’re in the wrong game. What I wrote was meant to help.’

‘You haven’t seen the completed manuscript yet,’ Blake reminded him.

‘Fair enough. Maybe I’ll change my mind once I have but, like I said, you need more concrete facts in it. Especially this business about someone being able to control another person’s Astral Body. You’re going to have trouble making the readers believe that.’

‘Phil, I’m telling you, I know it can be done,’ said Blake.

‘Facts, Dave,’ the publisher reminded him. ‘Once I’ve seen the finished manuscript then maybe we can sort something out.’

There was a moment’s pause then the Scot continued.

‘David, I want this book in print as much as you do. We both stand to make a lot of money out of it but, in its present form, we’ll be laughed out of court if we publish. You realize that.’

Blake sighed.

‘Facts,’ he said. ‘All right, Phil, I’ll get back to you.’ He hung up. The writer stood there for a moment then he balled up the letter and threw it into a nearby waste-basket.

He headed back towards the cellar.

‘Hello, Phil. I’d like a word if you can spare me the time.’ ‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’

Oxford

The book fell from his hand and hit the bedroom carpet with a thud.

Dr Stephen Vernon sat up, disturbed from his light sleep. He yawned, retrieved the book and placed it on his bedside table. Then he reached across and flicked off the light. The hands of his watch glowed dully, showing him that it was almost 1.05 a.m. He pulled the sheet up to his neck and closed his eyes but the sleep which had come to him earlier now seemed to desert him. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then the other side but the more he moved the more he seemed to shed any desire to sleep.

He sat up again, reaching for the book.

He read three or four pages without remembering a single word and, with a sigh, replaced the thick tome. He decided that his best strategy was to get out of bed. He’d make himself a hot drink, that usually did the trick. Vernon clambered out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. He left the bedside lamp burning and padded across the landing.

He was at the top of the stairs when he heard the faint knocking.

Almost instinctively he turned and looked at the door of the locked room but it took him but an instant to realize that the sound had originated downstairs.

He hesitated.

The knocking came again.

Vernon swallowed hard and moved cautiously down the first three or four steps.

Outside, in the darkness, he heard the sound of movement, the crunching of grave! beneath heavy feet.

Vernon peered over the bannister, down into the pit of blackness which was his hallway. The light switch was at the

bottom, beside the large window which looked out onto the gravel drive and the front garden.

He glanced down, his heart quickening slightly.

He had neglected to draw the curtain across that window.

The movement seemed to have stopped so Vernon scuttled down the stairs, gripping the bannister with one hand in case he overbalanced in the gloom.

He was level with the window when he saw a dark shape three or four feet from the glass.

It moved rapidly back into the gloom and seemed to disappear.

Vernon felt himself perspiring as he reached the light switch, not sure

whether to turn it on or not. If he did then he would be visible to anyone outside. His hand hovered over the switch but, eventually, he decided against it and moved cautiously into the sitting room, ears ever alert for the slightest sound.

From the brass bucket beside the fireplace he retrieved a poker then he turned and walked back into the hall, pausing at the front door, listening.

There was more movement outside.

Footsteps.

Should he call the police, he wondered? If it was burglars then there might be more than one of them. What if they should attack him?

What if he called the police but they didn’t arrive in time?

What if…

The sound was right outside the front door now.

Vernon, with excruciating care, slipped the bolt then the chain and fastened his hand around the door handle, raising the poker high above his head in readiness to strike. His heart was thudding madly against his ribs, his mouth as dry as parchment.

He pulled open the door.

Nothing.

Only the wind greeted him, a cool breeze which made him shiver. He exhaled almost gratefully and lowered the poker, squinting into the blackness in search of that elusive shape.

He saw nothing.

Vernon waited a moment longer then turned.

He almost screamed as the hand gripped his shoulder.

It appeared as if from nowhere and the older man tried to raise the poker once more but his co-ordination seemed to have deserted him. It fell from his grasp with a dull clang.

He turned to see the figure standing before him.

‘You?’ he gasped, one hand clutched to his chest. ‘What do you think you’re doing creeping about in the dark? I could have hit you with this.” He retrieved the poker. ‘I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’

Alain Joubert walked past Vernon into the house.

London

Toni Landers held the small bottle before her and read the label.

Mogadon.

She unscrewed the cap of the bottle and upended it, coaxing the contents into one hand. There were twelve of the white tablets, all that remained since she had begun taking them soon after Rick’s death.

Rick.

The thought of his name brought a tear to her eye and she sat down on the side of the bath, still clutching the tablets, remembering the monstrous image which had appeared before her the night before, called by Mathias. That abomination, that disfigured, mutilated monstrosity had been her son.

She opened her hand and looked at the tablets again.

Would twelve be enough?

She had contemplated suicide only once since he’d been killed but, after what had happened the previous night, the prospect of ending her own life now seemed positively inviting. She wiped a tear from her eye and spread the tablets out on the ledge beside the sink.

It was after three in the morning but the house was not silent.

Across the landing she could hear the muted, muffled sounds of cautious lovemaking. An occasional stifled moan of pleasure, a whispered word. It only served to remind her of her own loneliness.

She had been staying with friends ever since Rick’s death but she realized that she must go back to the States eventually. Back to her own home. The home she had shared with Rick.

She looked at the sleeping tablets once more and realized that there was no way she could return. Toni picked one up and held it between her fingers for a moment. It wouldn’t be difficult. She’d take the tablets then wander back to

bed and fall asleep. It was that simple. All she had to do was take the first tablet. Then the second. Then …

She filled a beaker with water and got to her feet.

As she did so, she realized that the sounds of lovemaking had stopped. The house was silent again.

Toni heard footsteps, soft and light crossing the landing. She scooped up the Mogadon and pushed them back into the bottle, slipping it into the pocket of her housecoat. But, the footsteps receded momentarily and she guessed that whoever it was had gone into the nursery.

The baby was asleep in there, in the room close to her own.

The baby.

She felt tears welling up once more and, this time, they spilled down her cheeks. Her body was racked by a series of uncontrollable sobs which, no matter how hard she tried, she could not disguise. A second later there was a light tap on the bathroom door.

‘Toni,’ the voice asked. ‘Are you all right?’

She choked back her sobs with a monumental effort and wiped her face with a flannel.

‘Toni.’ The voice was low but more insistent.

She crossed to the door and slid.back the bolt, opening it slightly.

Vicki Barnes stood before her, her long, thick blonde hair uncombed, her eyes puffy from tiredness.

Even models could look ordinary at three in the morning.

‘I was just checking on the baby,’ Vicki whispered. ‘I heard you crying.’

Toni shook her head.

‘I’m OK now,’ she lied, sniffing.

‘Come on,’ Vicki urged, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make us both a cup of coffee. I can’t sleep either.’

i know,’ Toni said, managing a slight smile. ‘I heard you.’

Vicki raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘Paul says I should wear a gag when we have guests.’

The two women made their way across the landing, past the baby’s room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Once there Vicki filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. In the cold white light of the fluorescents she could see how pale Toni looked, how dark her eyes were, the whites streaked with veins.

Vicki was two years younger than her friend. They’d met back in the mid-seventies when Vicki had been on a modelling assignment in New York. The bond between them had grown steadily since then and Toni had been Matron of Honour when Vicki had married a record producer three years earlier. The actress was also Godmother to their child, Dean, now almost fourteen months old.

‘Vicki, do you ever think about dying?’ asked Toni, staring straight ahead.

The model looked shocked.

‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘Why do you ask?’

i never used to, not until …” The sentence trailed off as she bowed her head. Vicki got up and stood beside her friend, snaking an arm around her shoulder.

‘Don’t talk about it,’ she said.

Toni reached for a tissue in her housecoat pocket and, as she did, the bottle of Mogadon fell to the floor. Vicki spotted it first and picked it up.

She understood immediately.

is this your answer, Toni?’ she asked quietly, replacing the bottle on the table in front of the actress.

‘I’m not sure I want to go on without Rick,’ said the American, her voice cracking. She clenched her fists. ‘He was all I had. He meant everything to me. Vicki, if you’d seen that … thing the other night.’

‘You mean at the seance?’

Toni nodded.

‘He was there,’ she paused for a moment, trying to compose herself, i know it was Rick. He looked the way he did when I had to identify him, just after it

happened. After the accident. That was my son,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks.

‘No one’s saying you haven’t got a right to feel the way you do. But this isn’t the answer.’ Vicki held up the bottle of tablets. ‘And before you beat me to it, I know it’s easy for me to say.’

Toni didn’t speak.

‘Please Toni, for Rick’s sake, think about it.’

The American nodded.

‘I’m frightened, Vicki,’ she admitted. ‘When I get back to the States, I don’t know how I’m going to be able to go inside that house again. There are too many memories there.’

‘You’ll do it. If I have to come with you, you’ll do it.’

Toni smiled thinly. The other girl got to her feet and kissed her gently on the cheek. They held each other for long moments.

‘Thank you,’ Toni whispered.

i wish there was more I could do,’ Vicki said. She stepped back. ‘Do you want to go back to bed now? If not I’ll sit up with you.’

‘You go, I’ll be OK,’ Toni assured her.

‘And these?’ Vicki held up the bottle of tablets.

‘Take them with you.’

The model slipped them into her hand and made for the kitchen door.

‘See you in the morning, Toni.’

The actress heard footfalls on the stairs as her friend made her way up the steps. For what seemed like an eternity, Toni sat in silence, sipping at her coffee then, finally, she got to her feet, rinsed the cup and wandered out of the kitchen, flicking the light off behind her.

As she reached the landing she trod more softly, not wanting to disturb her hosts. The house was silent. The only thing which she heard was her own low breathing.

Toni paused outside the nursery, looking at the door as if she expected to see through it. She reached for the handle, hesitated a second then turned it. She stepped inside and

closed it gently behind her.

The cot stood in the far corner of the room. On a table close to her was a small lamp which bathed the room in a warm golden glow. The walls were painted light blue, the lower half decorated with a kind of mural showing teddy bears riding bikes, flying aircraft and climbing trees. It had, she guessed, been painted by Vicki’s husband.

A profusion of soft toys littered the floor near to the cot. A huge stuffed penguin in particular fixed her in the unblinking stare of its glass eyes and she saw her own distorted reflection in them as she approached the cot.

The child was awake but made no sound, he merely lay on his back gazing wonderingly up at her with eyes as big as saucers.

Toni smiled down at him, chuckling softly as he returned the gesture. She took one tiny hand in hers and shook it gently, feeling the little fingers clutching at her.

The baby gurgled happily and Toni reached down and ran her fingertips over the smooth skin of his chubby face, stroking the gossamer strands of his hair before moving her fingers to his mouth. She traced the outline of his lips with her nail, smiling at the little boy as he flailed playfully at the probing digit. His mouth opened wider and he gurgled.

Suddenly, with a combination of lightning speed and demonic force, Toni rammed two fingers into the child’s mouth, pressing down hard as her nails raked the back of its throat.

The baby squirmed and tried to scream but the sound was lost, gurgling away into a liquid croak as blood began to fill the soft cavity.

With her free hand she clutched the child’s head, holding it steady as she forced another finger into its mouth, hooking them inside its throat until it gagged on its own blood and the intruding fingers.

As Toni pushed a fourth finger into the blood-filled orifice, the soft skin at

each side of the baby’s mouth began to rip. Toni was pressing down so hard it seemed that she would push the child through the bottom of the cot.

Blood splashed her hand and flooded on to the sheet, staining it crimson and still she exerted yet more pressure, grunting loudly at the effort. The baby had long since ceased

to move.

Toni lifted it from its cot, her fingers covered in blood, some of which ran up her arm to stain her housecoat. She held the child before her, gazing into its sightless eyes.

She was still holding the child when the door of the nursery was thrown open.

Toni turned slowly to face Vicki Barnes and her husband, both of whom stood transfixed by the sight before them.

Toni heard screams echoing in her ears but couid not seem to comprehend that they were coming from Vicki who had dropped to her knees and was staring at the monstrous scene before her.

Then, as if someone had pulled a veil from her mind she was able to see herself just what she’d done. She held the bloodied bundle at arm’s length, her expression a mixture of horror and bewilderment.

The next screams she heard were her own.

Oxford

The dining room table must have been fully eight feet long, perhaps half that in width and yet every single carefully polished inch of the surface seemed to be covered with pieces of paper. Some were still in the files they had originated in, others were scattered about like the pieces of some huge, unsolvable puzzle.

And to Dr Stephen Vernon, that was exactly what all these notes were. A puzzle. Yet somehow it had to be solved.

He looked across the table at Joubert who was making notes, scribbling down words and phrases, sifting through the mud in an effort to find those elusive nuggets of information. Since his arrival at Vernon’s house the previous night, he had clone little else. Now, as the clock ticked around to 6 p.m., he dropped his pen and sat back in the chair.

“There’s something missing,’ said the Frenchman, surveying the piles of paper, the typewritten sheets, the crammed notepads, the EEG read-outs.

‘But I thought you brought all your findings,’ Vernon said.

‘Lasalle must have some of the research material with him,’ Joubert said, irritably.

‘Then all of this is useless?’ Vernon suggested.

‘No, it isn’t useless but there are other factors too,’ the Frenchman said, getting to his feet and crossing to the phone.

Vernon watched him as he dialled, sucking enthusiastically on his cough sweet, enjoying the smell of menthol which filled the air around him.

Joubert drummed agitatedly on the sideboard as he waited for the receiver to be picked up. Eventually it was and Vernon listened as the investigator rattled out some questions in French. In the middle of it all he caught the name Lasalle. Joubert muttered something and pressed the cradle down, dialling again. He waited for an answer.

‘Lasalle,’ he said, quickly, as the receiver was picked up. ‘This is Joubert.’

‘Alain, where are you? Why weren’t you at the Centre, I …’

‘Listen to me, Lasalle,’ he interrupted. ‘Our notes on Astral projection, I need them. Do you have any?’

‘That’s what I wanted to tell you,’ Lasalle said. ‘All the files have gone from the Centre. Everything relating to that one project.’

‘I know, I have them,’ Joubert told him. ‘But there are some missing.’

‘You took them from the Centre?’ he asked. ‘But why?’

Joubert finally lost his temper.

‘For God’s sake. How many times do I have to say it? Shut up and listen to me,’ he barked. ‘Do you have any of the notes relating to that project?’

‘Yes I have.’

i’m going to give you an address, I want you to send everything you have to me. No matter how unimportant it may seem, I want the files. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, vaguely. His voice was almost subservient.

Joubert gave him the address of Vernon’s house, his irritation growing when he was forced to repeat it.

‘Why are you in England?” Lasalle wanted to know.

‘Send me those notes,’ his companion snapped.

‘Alain, you are needed here,’ Lasalle said, weakly. ‘There are newspaper and television people at the Centre every day. I can’t cope with their questions.

They want to know so much. I cannot work mid answer them. I need help … I feel overpowered … trapped. Alain, please.’

‘This fiasco is of your own making, Lasalle,’ Joubert hissed. ‘If you hadn’t written that damned article none of this would be happening.’

i need help here …”

‘And I need those notes,” he rasped and slammed down the phone. He stood motionless for a moment, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily. Vernon watched him in silence.

‘He has what I need. I should have been more thorough,’ the Frenchman said. He went on to tell Vernon what Lasalle has said about the press. As he did so, his face grew darker and finally, he slammed his fist down on the table top.

‘/ should be the one being interviewed not him,’ he snarled.

‘Is the recognition that important to you?’ Vernon asked.

Joubert sucked in a weary breath and nodded.

‘Eight years ago I was working for the Metapsychic Centre investigating a series of hauntings in a hotel in the Hauts-de-Seine area of Paris.’ He reached for a cigarette and lit it, drawing the smoke into his lungs. ‘I was working with another man, named Moreau.” The Frenchman frowned, his eyes narrowing. ‘We had been al the hotel for over two months, making recordings, taking statements from the people who stayed there. It seemed as if there was an entity of some kind present in the building. Eventually we managed to get a clear recording of its movements. The next night we even photographed it. A true haunting. As you know, most of those reported are either imagined or psychologically rooted but not this one. We had visual evidence.’

‘What happened?’ Vernon asked.

Joubert stubbed out what was left of his cigarette in the saucer and sat back in his chair.

‘Moreau took the photographs and the tape recordings to the Director of the Metapsychic Centre. He claimed that he

had discovered the entity. Despite my protestations, he was credited with it.

Now he’s one of the Directors of the Parapsychology Laboratory in Milan. One of the most respected men in his field in Italy. After that happened, I swore that I would never share any such finding with anyone. What I worked on, what I discovered would be mine. No one else’s. But look what has happened. The single most important breakthrough in the study of the paranormal for twenty years and Lasalle is being credited with it. When this is over, who will remember Alain Joubert?” He glared at Vernon. ‘No one. Well, this time it will be different. I had kept things quiet until the time was right to reveal the discoveries. The only reason I agreed to help you was because I knew that you offered no threat, you wanted the secret for your own reasons. You would not take away the recognition which was rightfully mine.’ His tone turned reflective, i underestimated Lasalle.’

‘I don’t see that there’s much you can do,’ Vernon said. ‘If the press have the story then …” He shrugged, allowing the sentence to trail off. ‘What can you do?’

Joubert did not answer, he merely gazed past Vernon to the overcast sky outside.

Clouds were gathering.

Paris

He awoke screaming.

Lasalle sat up, as if trying to shake the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. He gulped in huge lungfuls of air, one hand pressed to his chest as his heart thudded madly against his ribs.

He had seen her once more.

His wife.

His Madelaine.

Or what had once been her.

He had been bending over the grave laying fresh flowers on it when a hand had erupted from the earth and gripped his wrist, pulling him down as she hauled herself free of the dirt. She had sought his lips with hers, only hers were little more than liquescent pustules. She had embraced him with those rotting arms, pulling him close in an obscene attempt to push her decaying body against him, writhing at the contact. He had felt pieces of putrescent flesh peeling off in his hands like leprous growths as he fought to push her away.

Lasalle got to his feet, holding his stomach. He scurried to the kitchen and stood over the sink feeling his nausea building. He splashed his face with cold water and the feeling passed slowly. The Frenchman found that he was shaking uncontrollably so he gripped the edge of the sink in an effort to stop the quivering. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran in salty rivulets down his face.

He remembered falling asleep at the table in the sitting room. He’d been slumped across it when he’d woken. Lasalle closed his eyes, but the image of his dead wife came hurtling into his consciousness. He filled a glass with water then walked back into the sitting room, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket for the tranquilizers. He swallowed one. Two. Three. The Frenchman washed them down with the water and sat motionless at the table, his hands clenched into fists.

On the sideboard opposite, the photo of his wife smiled back at him and Lasalle, unaccountably, felt tears brimming in his eyes. He blinked and one trickled down his cheek.

‘Madelaine,’ he whispered, softly.

He closed his eyes once more, trying to remember how he had come to fall asleep so early in the evening. It was not yet 9 p.m.

It must have been after the phone call, he guessed.

The phone call.

He swallowed hard. He had spoken to Joubert. That much he did remember.

Lasalle raised both hands to his head as if he feared it might explode. He could not seem to think straight. Thoughts and images tumbled through his mind with dizzying speed.

The phone call. The nightmare. Madelaine.

He exhaled deeply, wiping more sweat from his face.

The nightmare still stood out with unwelcome clarity. That monstrous vision filled his mind again and he shook his head but, this time, there was something else. Something which he only now remembered.

As the decomposing corpse of his wife had embraced him, he had heard soft malevolent laughter and he knew what had propelled him, shrieking, from the nightmare.

The laughter had been coming from the graveside.

From Joubert.

London

The young make-up girl smiled as she applied the last few touches of foundation to the face of Mathias. She then took what looked like a small paint brush and flicked away the residue. The layer of make-up was sufficiently thick to protect his face from the bright studio lights he would soon be facing.

Mathias returned her smile, watching as she gathered her brushes, powder pots and small bottles and slipped them back into a leather bag she carried. He thanked her then got to his feet and opened the door for her. She smiled and left.

As the psychic was about to close the door again he saw a tubby man

approaching along the corridor. The man was dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt and he had a set of earphones around his neck.

‘Are you ready, Mr Mathias?’ he asked. ‘There’s two minutes before you go on.’

The psychic nodded and stepped back inside the dressing room for a moment to inspect his reflection in the large mirror, then he followed the tubby man along the corridor towards a door marked: STUDIO ONE.

As they drew closer he could hear the muted sounds of many voices coming from inside. An occasional laugh which

signalled that the audience were settling down. There was a red light above the door and a sign which read: ON AIR.

The tubby man opened the door carefully and ushered Mathias through.

The sound of the audience was very loud now but Mathias paid it little heed as he was led to a chair behind the main set.

From where he sat he could see numerous spotlights suspended over the set but, other than that, he could see only crew members dashing furtively about, obeying the orders of the floor manager whose instructions they received via their headphones. High up above the studio was the room where the director and his assistants sat, watching everything on banks of screens, relaying information to the floor.

Mathias could hear Roger Carr’s voice. He was speaking about the supernatural, dropping in the odd joke where he felt it necessary. The audience laughed happily. Mathias sipped at the glass of water on the table before him and shook his head.

The tubby man turned to him and held up one finger.

The psychic got to his feet.

Roger Carr turned towards the camera on his right hand side, noticing that a red light had just blinked into life on top of it. He smiled thinly at it, getting himself more comfortable in his leather chair.

‘My last guest tonight,’ he began. ‘Many of you may already have heard of.

Certainly in America, he’s what you might call an institution. Some might even say he should be in an institution.’

The audience laughed.

‘He’s revered by millions as a healer, an expert on the supernatural. Someone even dubbed him “The Messiah in the Tuxedo”.’

Another ripple of laughter.

‘Whether his powers are genuine or not remains to be seen but there are countless Americans who claim that he is truly a miracle worker. Perhaps after this interview, you can form your own opinions. Saviour or charlatan? Messiah or magician? Judge for yourselves.’ Carr got to his feet. ‘Please welcome Jonathan Mathias.’

There was a sustained round of applause as the American walked onto the set.

He glanced at the audience and smiled as he made his way towards Carr. The host shook hands with him and motioned for him to sit. The applause gradually died away.

‘ “The Messiah in a Tuxedo” ‘ said Carr, smiling. ‘How do you react to comments like that?’

‘I don’t take much notice of criticism,’ Mathias began. ‘I …’

Carr cut him short.

‘But surely, some of the things you claim to have done do leave you open to it?’

‘If I could finish what I was saying,’ Mathias continued, quietly. ‘Yes, I do receive criticism but mostly from people who don’t understand what I do.

Didn’t someone once say that any fool can criticise and most do.’

There was a chorus of chuckles from the audience.

‘You mentioned what you do,’ Carr continued. ‘You claim to be a faith-healer and …’

‘I’ve never claimed to be a faith-healer,’ Mathias corrected him.

‘But you do perform acts of healing? Non-medical acts.’

‘Yes.’

‘If that isn’t faith-healing then what is it?’

‘People come to me because they know I will help them. I have never claimed …’

‘You charge money for this “healing”?’ Carr said.

‘A small fee. Usually people donate money. I don’t ask for much from them.

They give because they want to. As a token of appreciation.’

Carr nodded.

‘You also appear on American television, do you not?’ he said. ‘Presumably you are well paid for that?’

‘I don’t have a pay cheque on me right now,’ Mathias said, smiling. ‘But, yes, the pay is good. As no doubt yours is, Mr Carr.’

‘You wouldn’t deny then that your basic interests are commercial.’

‘I have a talent, a gift. I use it to help others.’

‘But you wouldn’t perform for nothing?’

“Would you?’

There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.

‘No,’ Carr told him. i wouldn’t. But then I don’t exploit the fears and gullibility of sick people.’

i wasn’t aware that / did, Mr Carr.’

The interviewer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, angry that Mathias was taking his verbal assault so calmly.

‘Then what do you class yourself as?’ he asked. ‘Surely not an ordinary psychic? The fact that you’re a multi-millionaire seems to lift you out of the category of ordinary.’

‘My powers are greater than an ordinary psychic …’

Carr interrupted.

‘Can you give me an example of your power?’ he said. ‘Read my mind.’ He smiled.

‘Would it be worth it?’ Mathias japed.

The audience joined him in his amusement. Carr did not appreciate the joke.

The veins at his temple throbbed angrily.

‘If we wheel in a couple of cripples could you make them walk?’ the interviewer hissed.

‘I don’t perform to order, Mr Carr,’ the psychic told him.

‘Only if the price is right, yes?’

The floor manager looked anxiously at the two men, as if expecting them to leap at one another. Mathias remained calm.

‘How would you answer the charge of charlatan?’ Carr said.

‘It’s for each individual to decide whether or not they believe in my powers,’

the American said. ‘You may believe as you wish.’

The two men regarded one another for long seconds, the interviewer seeking some flicker of emotion in the piercing blue eyes of his guest. Haw saw none.

Not even anger. Carr eventually turned away and looked directly into the camera.

‘Well, as you have heard, Mr Mathias invites us to make up our own minds as to his …powers. Although, having seen and heard his answers tonight I, for one, will draw just one conclusion. And I think you know what that is. Goodnight.’

As the studio lights dimmed, Carr got to his feet and glared down at Mathias.

‘Clever bastard aren’t you?’ he snarled. ‘Trying to make me look like a prick in front of millions of viewers.’

‘I don’t think you needed my help on that score,’ Mathias said. ‘You were the one looking for the fight, not me.’

‘Well, you can take your fucking powers and shove them up your arse,’ he snapped.

As he stormed off the set, the floor manager shouted something about the director wanting to see him.

‘Fuck him,’ Carr retorted and disappeared through the exit door.

Mathias was getting to his feet when the floor manager approached him.

‘The director told me to apologise to you for Mr Carr’s remarks during the interview,’ said the man.

Mathias smiled.

‘No harm done,’ he said.

The floor manager nodded and walked away. Only then did the psychic’s smile fade.

The bedroom window was open and the cool breeze caused the curtains to billow gently.

Roger Carr lay naked on his back, arms folded behind his head. He was gazing up at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on a fly which was crawling across the emulsioned surface. It eventually made its exit through the open window and Carr was left gazing at nothing but white paint. He lay there for a moment longer then rolled on to his side and reached for the bottle of beer which was propped on the bedside table. He tipped it up, discovering to his annoyance that it was empty. Carr tossed it away and it landed with a thud on the carpet, close to a pair of discarded knickers. The owner of the garment was out of the room at present. Carr thought about shouting to her to fetch him another bottle of beer. Instead he rolled over once more and returned to gazing at the ceiling.

With his hands behind his head, the ticking of his watch sounded thunderous in the silence. The hands had crawled round to 12.18 a.m.

He wondered what Mathias was doing.

Bastard.

Flash Yank bastard.

Carr had been surprised by the American’s composure during the interview earlier in the evening. Most people usually crumbled beneath such a concerted verbal onslaught, but Mathias had managed to remain calm throughout.

Fucking bastard.

Carr realized that the psychic had bettered him during the argument. It could scarcely be called a discussion after all. In front of millions of viewers and the studio audience, Carr had met his match and that hurt him deeply. The image of Mathias flashed into his mind and he sat up, his breath coming in short, angry grunts. He swung himself off the bed and walked across to the window where he inhaled the cool night air and looked out into the darkness.

The street was quiet, but for the barking of a dog. The house was less than five minutes drive from the BBC and Carr had chosen it for its peaceful surroundings. He didn’t like noise, he didn’t like interference. He was a solitary person once he left the studio. He liked to pick and choose whose company he kept, therefore few people ever got close to him. Or wanted to for that matter.

Since his wife had walked out on him over three years earlier, Carr had become even more embittered and antagonistic in his dealings with others. At the time she had tried to force him into a reconciliation but Carr was not a man to be forced into anything. He’d even packed one suitcase for her before hurling her car keys at her and showing her the door. She had told him she would give him another chance if he could try to change his ways. Four affairs in as many years had been too much for her.

Carr hadn’t wanted another chance.

He smiled as he remembered that night she left but the smile faded as he found himself thinking again about Mathias.

Once offended, Carr would stop at nothing to make things even. He bore grudges almost gleefully.

‘Yank bastard,’ he said, aloud.

‘First sign of madness.’

The voice startled him, he hadn’t heard her footfalls on the stairs. Carr spun round to see Suzanne Peters perched on the edge of the bed with a glass of milk in her hand.

‘What did you say?’ he asked, irritably.

‘I said it’s the first sign of madness,’ she told him. ‘Talking to yourself.’

Carr didn’t answer her, he merely turned around and walked back to the bed, flopping on it lazily.

Suzanne muttered something to him as she almost spilt her milk. She placed it on the table beside the bed and stretched out beside him pushing her naked

body against his, allowing her ample breasts to press into his side while her left hand snaked across his chest.

At twenty-two, Suzanne was almost half his age. She worked as a receptionist at Broadcasting House and had done for the past ten months. During that time, she and Roger Carr had become lovers although it was a term Carr disliked because, to him, it implied that there was some emotion involved in the relationship. In his eyes that was certainly not the case.

She nuzzled his chest, kissing it as she allowed her hand to reach lower towards his penis. She took his organ between her fingers and began to rub gently. He stiffened slightly but then she felt his own hand close around her tiny wrist, pulling her away from him. Suzanne sat up, sweeping her thick blonde hair back and looking at her companion with bewilderment.

‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’ she wanted to know.

Carr didn’t even look at her.

‘I’ve got something on my mind,” he said.

‘That’s obvious. Is it anything / can help with?’

Carr eyed her almost contemptuously.

‘You, help me? Give it a rest.’

He returned to staring at the ceiling.

‘I only asked,’ she said, lying down beside him once more. She ran one finger through the thick hair on his chest, curling it into spirals.

‘That bastard Mathias made me look like an idiot,’ Carr said, angrily. ‘He’s a bloody con-man.’ The interviewer’s voice took on a reflective tone. ‘I’ll have him for what

happened tonight. One way or another I’ll fix that shitbag.’

Once more Suzanne allowed her hand to reach lower towards his groin. She enveloped his penis in her smooth grip and, this time she felt him respond. He stiffened in her hand and she kissed his chest, nipping the flesh of his stomach as she moved down onto his growing erection. Suzanne flicked at the bulbous head with her tongue, watching as a drop of clear liquid oozed from it. Her lips closed around his throbbing shaft and she felt him thrusting his hips upwards trying to force himself further into the velvet warmth of her mouth. Her hand continued to move expertly on his root and she sensed an even greater swelling as his penis grew to full stiffness.

Carr gripped her by the back of the neck and pulled her off, dragging her across him, kissing her hard. His hands found her breasts and she almost cried out as he kneaded the soft mounds with furious vigour, but the discomfort was tempered by an overriding pleasure and her nipples grew into hard buds as he rubbed them with his thumbs.

She felt his knee rise to push against her pubic mound as he rolled her over first onto her back and then her stomach. She felt him grip her hips and she arched her back to allow him easier access. He thrust into her violently, a deep angry grunt accompanying his almost frenzied penetration of her. Suzanne gasped, both at the pleasure and the power of his movements. She knelt, feeling his heavy testicles against her buttocks as he moved inside her.

Suzanne ground herself back to meet his every thrust and, as they formed a rhythm, she felt her own excitement growing.

Carr gripped her hips, clinging onto her soft flesh so hard that he left red welts where his fingers had been. He pulled her onto his throbbing shaft, grunting more loudly now.

She could not suppress a whimper of pain as he grabbed a large hunk of her hair and pulled, tugging her head back with a force which threatened to snap her neck. He held her like that, still spearing her unmercifully, only now her pleasure had given way to pain. Carr made a guttural sound, deep in his throat and pulled harder on her long hair. Some of it came away in his hand.

‘No,’ she managed to squeal, breathlessly.

He ignored her complaint, his own climax now drawing closer. The speed of his thrusts increased.

She could no longer bear his weight so she lowered herself until she was lying face down on the bed, her legs still splayed wide as Carr drove into her

relentlessly.

Suzanne felt a sudden, unaccountable flicker of fear as he fastened first one, then two hands around her throat.

He began to squeeze.

She let out a wheezing gasp and tried to claw at his hands to release the increasing pressure but the more she tugged at those twin vices, the harder he pressed. She felt his nails digging into her flesh as he crushed her windpipe and, all the time, he continued his violent movements which threatened to split her in two.

White light danced before her eyes and she flailed helplessly behind her, trying to scratch Carr. Anything to relieve the unbearable pressure on her throat. It’felt as if her head were going to explode.

Roger Carr grinned crookedly, his face a mask of rage and triumph as he held her beneath him.

Suzanne felt herself growing weaker. It seemed only a matter of moments now before she blacked out.

With one last vigorous thrust he felt the pleasure build to a peak then, gasping loudly, he pumped his fluid into her. Carr shuddered as the sensations gradually subsided. He withdrew from her and lay on one side.

He wondered why she wasn’t moving.

Suzanne coughed, horrified to see spots of blood mingling with the sputum which stained the pillow. Still lying on her stomach she raised one quivering hand to her throat and tentatively felt the deep indentations there. She felt Carr’s hands on her shoulders, turning her over and, despite her pain she found the strength to push him away. He looked down at her ravaged neck and raised both hands to his head. In the semi-darkness his eyes looked sunken, only the whites standing out with any clarity.

She coughed again and tried to sit up, her head spinning. Carr reached out to touch the welts on her flesh, his gaze straying to those on her hips too. She slapped his hand away and staggered to her feet.

‘You stay away from me,’ she croaked, pointing at him with a shaking finger, i mean it.’

Carr got to his feet and moved towards her.

‘Suzanne, I …’

‘Get away you …” She coughed and more blood-flecked spittle dribbled over her lips. ‘You’re mad. You could have killed me.’

He hesitated, listening as she crossed the landing to the bathroom.

Carr sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, head bowed. He was drenched in perspiration but he felt almost unbearably cold. He found his dressing gown and pulled it on. His fingers, he noticed, had some blood on them so he hurriedly wiped it off with the corner of a sheet. His initial bewilderment by now had turned to fear. Carr rubbed his face with both hands, aware that his chest was heaving from the effort of trying to slow his rapid breathing. He looked at his hands as if they were not his own, as if they had been guided by a will other than his.

Suzanne returned from the bathroom and gathered up her clothes.

‘Look, I don’t know what to say …’ he began.

She interrupted.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she told him.

‘I don’t know what came over me, I …’

‘Just leave me alone,’ she demanded, picking up the last of her clothes. He watched as she hurried from the room, listening as she made her way down to the ground floor.

Carr shuddered once more as a chill ran through him.

He found her pulling on her jeans, tears trickling down her cheeks to smudge her make-up.

‘Suzanne,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Honest to God, I don’t know what happened.’

‘I do,’ she snapped, fastening the button at the waist. ‘You tried to kill me.’

i didn’t know what I was doing.’

She pointed to the angry red marks on her neck.

‘How am I supposed to explain these away?’ Suzanne asked.

She pulled on her coat and turned towards the door which led through to the kitchen. ‘I’ll go out the back way, I don’t even want anyone to know I’ve been with you.’

He followed her, slapping on the light.

‘Stay away from me, Roger,’ she said, a note of concern in her voice. ‘I mean it.’

‘You have to believe me,’ he said, i didn’t know what I was doing.’ Again he felt that cold chill sweeping through him.

He caught her by the arm, spinning her round.

‘Let go,’ she shrieked and struck out at him, raking his cheek with her nails, drawing blood.

Carr’s nostrils flared and his face darkened. With a roar he hurled Suzanne across the kitchen.

She slammed into the cooker and lay motionless for a moment but, as she saw Carr advancing on her, she managed to claw her way upright. He overturned the table in his haste to reach her.

Suzanne made a lunge for the door but Carr grabbed her by the collar. The material of her blouse ripped, the buttons flying off. Her large breasts were exposed but she cared little for that. Her only thought was to get out of the house.