(1988) Possession

  Peter James was educated at Charterhouse and then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a film-maker (his projects included the award-winning Dead of the Night), before returning to England. His previous novels have been translated into twenty-two languages. Prophecy has been made into a highly acclaimed television film, starring Nigel Havers and Sophie Ward. Host has been made into a television film under the title Virtual Obsession, starring Peter Gallagher and Mimi Rogers, directed by Mick Garris, and Alchemist has been made into a four-hour television mini-series, starring Grant Shaw, Ruth Gemmell and Edward Hardwicke. All his novels reflect his deep interest in medicine, science, technology and the paranormal. Peter James lives in Sussex.

  POSSESSION

  by

  Peter James

  Copyright � 1988 Peter James

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fabian lay cocooned in the rich warm softness of the bedding, and stared out through the open curtains. Shafts of red speared the dawn sky, pink, bloody.

  He rolled over and studied the sleeping girl beside him. Then he slipped out of bed and walked naked through the tangle of clothes on the floor to the window. He stared out at the morning mist, and at the thick coils of smoke from the last of the winter prunings in the vineyards. Like the aftermath of a battle, he thought, and shuddered suddenly, his thin sinewy body covered in goose-pimples.

  The air was good, filled with dew and the strange animal smells of the girl that were all over him; he scratched himself, then stared once more out of the window, uneasily.

  'Fabian?' There was a gentle rap on the door, followed by a clumsy thump.

  'Two minutes.' He felt the strain on his throat as he tried to shout and whisper at the same time. The girl stirred slightly, rustling like a leaf in a breeze, and was silent again.

  He pulled on his jeans, collarless shirt and pullover, stuffed the rest of his clothes into his bag, and sloshed some cold water on his face. He dried it off, took half a step towards the girl, then stopped, picked up his bag and went out of the room, closing the heavy door silently behind him.

  Otto, Charles and Henry were already outside, waiting. Otto, tall, with his hooked nose that overhung his mouth, his black hair raked sharply back from his pockmarked face, his herringbone coat hanging from his gangly frame, looked like a huge bird of prey. Charles stood beside him, rubbing his hands, bleary eyed, with his usual baffled expression, as if the morning had crept up and caught him unawares.

  'God, I feel bozoed,' he said, yawning. Henry leaned against the car, hands sunk deep in his coat pockets, his eyes closed.

  'I'm sorry, I overslept,' said Fabian, unlocking the rear hatch of the Volkswagen and pulling out the scraper. 'Any chance of a coffee before we go?' said Charles. 'Let's get some en route,' said Fabian, dragging the rubber scraper through the heavy dew on the windows. It was still almost dark out here. He stared at the black, threatening silhouettes of the tall pines, and at the cold grey walls of the chateau. He glanced up at the windows, and tried to spot the one with the open curtains; he thought he saw a face there and looked away. 'I'll drive the first leg.'

  Charles and Henry squeezed through into the rear seat, and Otto sank down in the passenger seat. Fabian switched on the ignition. The engine turned over noisily, clattering, popping, caught for an instance, then died.

  'Ace,' said Charles. 'Going to be an absolutely ace morning.'

  'Yurr, really nice,' said Henry in his slow, deep voice. He closed his eyes again. 'Wake me up in Calais.'

  'I would prefer to be heading south rather than north,' said Otto, toying with his seat-belt. 'Bloody thing; I can never remember how this goes.'

  The engine clattered, then fired again, rasping furiously. 'Sorry that we're dragging you away, Fabian,' said Charles.

  Fabian shrugged, leaned forward and switched on the lights.

  'Is she a good screw?' said Otto.

  Fabian smiled, and said nothing. He never discussed women.

  The girl stood by the window, a flat, drained expression on her face as she watched the red Golf drive off into the mist. She touched her left arm gently; it hurt like hell. She walked over and sat in front of the dressing table and stared in the mirror. She flinched, then stared again closely at the purple bruises on her breasts, at the gouge down her left cheek, at the swelling around her right eye, and at her puffy lip, cracked and stained with dried blood. She stared for a long time, straight into her own eyes, unable to avert her gaze, then gently lowered her fingers between her legs and winced in pain at the touch. 'Salaud,' she said.

  'What ferry do you think we'll make?' said Charles.

  'If the road's this empty, we should be at Calais around four.'

  'You're a jammy bastard, Fabian, aren't you.'

  'Jammy?'

  'Yes, jammy.'

  DIJON ... MACON ... LYONS ... PARIS ... The jumble of autoroute signs flashed past as Fabian accelerated hard around the flyover, feeling the tyres bite into the tarmac, the tightness of the steering wheel, the crisp roar of the warmed-up engine, the pure thrill of an open, empty road. As the curve straightened out on to the autoroute approach, he flattened the accelerator and the Volkswagen leapt forwards. Sometimes it seemed to him the car would take off, be free of the road and fly, fly straight up into the stars. He watched the curve of the rev counter needle, flicked up through the gears each time the needle touched the red sector, until he was in fifth, staring at the speedometer, his foot still hard on the floor. One hundred and twenty-five. One hundred and thirty.

  'What are your plans this term?' said Fabian, above the roar of the engine and the wind.

  Otto and Charles looked at each other, not sure to whom the remark was addressed. Otto pushed in the lighter and shook a crumpled Marlboro out of a dented pack.

  'I don't make plans,' said Otto. 'I never make plans.'

  'How are your parents?' said Charles.

  'Mine?' said Fabian.

  'Yes.'

  'O.K.' He hesitated, uncomfortably. 'Still apart. How's your mother?' He raised his arm and wound the roof back, letting in a blast of fridge-cold air and a roar which drowned Charles's reply. He stared at the sun to the right, a low red ball rising above the hills of Burgundy, the sun that would warm the grapes that would be made into wines, great whites, great reds, blood red. In twenty years' time he might open a bottle of Clos de Vougeot and lean over to someone and say, 'I saw the sun that went into that bottle; I was there.'

  The sense of doom enveloped him again; the ball of sun seemed too close, suddenly. He wanted to open his window and push it further away. A shaft of light played for an instant down the dashboard, ran down it, vibrant, lively, like fresh blood, he thought.

  'I'm going to try and play cricket this term,' said Charles. �Cricket,' said Otto, staring at him oddly. 'Cambridge might be my last chance to play.' 'Did you say cricket?' shouted Fabian. 'Yes,' Charles shouted back.

  Fabian saw a cluster of red lights in the distance; there was still not enough daylight to make things out clearly. Several vehicles, bunched together: an amber indicator flashed; something was moving out into the middle lane. He pulled the Golf over into the fast lane, eased his foot slightly on the accelerator, and flashed his lights. 'I didn't know you played.'

  'I was in the First Eleven at Winchester.' 'First Eleven Wankers,' grinned Fabian, turning round for an instant. 'What?' 'Wankers!' 'Fabian!'

  Fabian heard Otto's voice, strange, garbled, cut short, and sensed him flinch, tighten up. He stared back at the road.

  There were headlights coming straight at them. Big, blinding lights, towering above them, coining the wrong way in the fast lane.

  'Lorry!' he shouted. 'Christ!'

  His foot dived for the brake pedal, but he kne
w there was no point, knew he was too late. Through the glare of the yellow lights he saw the last two digits of the registration plate: 75. Paris, he thought to himself.

  Then suddenly he was above the Golf, looking down: through the open roof he could see Otto, Charles and Henry, jerking around like puppets. He watched, fascinated, everything in slow motion now, as the Golf began to crumple against the front of the lorry, then he realized it wasn't a lorry at all, but another car, a Citroen, one of the large old models, upright, high off the ground.

  First the nose buckled, then the roof twisted, then the windscreen seemed to turn to feathers, hundreds of thousands of feathers all floating around; things were flying through the air now, shapes, large and small. The rear doors of the Citroen opened, one inwards, one outwards, and the Citroen seemed to turn sideways. The back seat was filled with parcels which began to rise up, slowly, and break open as they hit the roof; little men, white, brown, black, all furry, with their arms opened, gyrated through the air together in a strange ritualized dance. Teddy bears, he realized, as they fell and bounced, then fell.

  There was a smell of petrol; a tremendous powerful smell. Everything was obscured for a moment in a shimmer, as though a layer of frosted glass had been slipped beneath him, then there was a strange dull boom, like a tyre bursting, followed by an intense searing heat. The bears burnt first, then the paint on the cars started to blister.

  Fabian began to vibrate in the heat, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to move, but could not; all around was shimmering now, and it moved in closer, tighter. 'No,' he said, suddenly. 'No!' He looked wildly around, struggled again. 'Carrie!' he shouted. 'Carrie!'

  Then, suddenly, he was free of the heat, racing again down the autoroute. The light was brilliant white � the sun must have come up fast, he thought � as he gripped the wheel, felt the cat accelerating. There was no need to change gear, it was accelerating by itself, free of the road now, gliding just above the surface. The road markings had gone, the road signs, everything. He was flying now, he could fly to the stars! He pulled the wheel back, but the car would not climb, and instead flew on silently through the light, towards a vanishing point in the white mist of the horizon. He passed a wrecked car smouldering by the side of the road, then a coach on its side, a lorry, its cab torn in half, two cars interlocked like fighting beetles, rusted, abandoned, another car, burning figures dimly visible through the flames, the light ahead getting more brilliant each second. He looked around. Otto's seat was empty. 'Where's Otto?' 'Must have fallen out,' said Charles. 'He's just lit a cigarette. Where's the cigarette?' 'Probably taken it with him.'

  Charles's voice sounded strange, a long way off. Fabian looked over his shoulder. He thought Charles and Henry were there, but was not sure. 'Did we hit that car, Charles?' 'I don't know. I think so.'

  The brilliant light was hurting his eyes. Fabian leaned forward and fumbled for his sunglasses. Ahead he saw shadows in the white mist, shapes moving. 'Peage,' he said. 'I need some money.'

  'No,' said Charles. 'No, I don't think we need any money.'

  Fabian felt the car lifting up, then drop away from him, found himself suspended in the white light; it was warm, and he sank back in it, and saw figures coming towards him. Then he remembered again, and began to shake. 'Carrie!' He tried to shout at the figures, but nothing came out. 'Carrie! You must let me. You must!'

  The figures were standing around him now, smiling, kind, pleased to see him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alex watched the waiter pour an inch of Chambertin into her husband's glass, retreat and stand stiffly beside him. David held the glass up to the dim light, swirled it around in his hand, hurtling the wine around the wall of the glass, and then examined the tears of glycerol after the wine had dropped down. He sniffed deeply, frowned, drained the glass into his mouth, sluiced it noisily around, then began to chew it as if it were a tough piece of steak. Don't send it back, please God don't send it back, she said to herself; I can't bear it when you send it back.

  To her relief he gave a single nod to the waiter and the ordeal was over.

  'Chambertin '71,' said David, proudly, as if he had made it himself.

  'Ah,' she said, trying to look enthusiastic, trying to pretend for his sake that she really could appreciate a good burgundy, that she could tell a burgundy from a claret, which she never could and doubted she ever would. 'Thank you, that's a treat.'

  'You sound very formal tonight,' he said. 'It's like taking a maiden aunt out to tea.'

  'I'm sorry, I'll try and be less formal.' She stared at his hands which had become so coarse, his stubby fingers red, almost raw, with the black grime under the nails, and at the battered tweed suit and the frayed woollen shirt; was it part of his new image, or did he genuinely not care any more? She stared at his face, tanned, relaxed, even turned a little leathery from the outdoor life, his hair ragged, almost bushy now, like the thick tangle of his beard. He raised his glass and pointed it at her.

  'Cheers.'

  She raised hers and the glasses clinked.

  'Know why people touch glasses?' he said.

  'No.'

  'You can see wine, smell it, touch it, taste it. But you can't hear it! So we touch glasses; it completes the five senses.'

  'Ever the advertising man. It's still in your blood.' She smiled, and pulled out a cigarette. 'What about telepathy? Can you communicate with wine?'

  'I communicate with it all the time. I even talk to my vines.'

  'Do they talk back?'

  'They're not great conversationalists. I thought you'd given up smoking.'

  'I have.'

  'That's what London does for you. Eats you up; screws you up. You do things you've given up, and you don't do the things you've promised yourself.'

  'I do.'

  He nodded, with a reluctant grin. 'Yes. Perhaps you do.'

  Alex smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  'You're looking very pretty.'

  She blushed. She had never been very good at taking compliments. 'Thank you,' she said, stiffly.

  'There you go. The maiden aunt again.'

  'What do you want me to say?'

  He shrugged and sniffed his wine. 'Have you heard from Fabian?'

  'Not for a few days. He'll be back tomorrow evening.'

  'When does he go back to Cambridge?'

  'At the weekend.' Alex saw her husband's face drop. 'What's the matter?'

  'I was hoping he might come down this weekend. We're doing some planting.'

  Alex brushed some long strands of blonde hair off her face. David noticed the petulance in the motion. Fabian was a touchy subject. 'You know, darling,' he said, 'it's silly, this separation - surely we could ...?'

  He felt the wall, even before she replied.

  Alex fumbled with her cigarette, rolled it around, then tapped it several times in the ashtray.

  'I've been thinking a lot about things, David.' The cigarette fell on to the pink tablecloth and she picked it up again, quickly, and rubbed the mark on the cloth with her finger. 'I want a divorce.'

  David swirled the wine in his glass, carelessly this time, so that some spilled over and ran down his hand. 'Do you have somebody?'

  'No.'

  She swept away a few more hairs, too quickly, he thought, trying to read the truth in the blush of her face and the blue eyes that were staring down at the tablecloth. God, she looked lovely. The confidence of her success and the toughness that had come with it had changed her, but nicely; changed her into a fine midway stage between prettiness and handsomeness.

  'Would it bother you if I stayed up here tonight?'

  She shook her head. 'No, David, I don't want you to stay up here.'

  'It is my house.'

  'Our house.'

  He drank some wine, then sniffed it again, testily, disappointed. 'I'll go down to Sussex.'

  He dropped her off in the King's Road, at the top of the cul-de-sac. 'I'll call you,' he said.

  She nodded, and bit her lip,
fighting back the sadness. �That would be nice.'

  She slammed the door of the grimy Land Rover and turned away, hurrying down the terrace, past the smart doors of the Regency town-houses, squeezing her eyes against the rain and her tears. She threw her coat on to the stand, then walked into the drawing room and paced around, restlessly. She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty. She felt too churned up to sleep.

  She opened the door under the stairs, and walked down the steep narrow staircase into the basement, through the light trap and into the familiar smells of developer and fixer of her darkroom. She closed the door behind her with a click that sounded like a pistol shot. She felt acutely aware, suddenly, of the silence in the room and wondered, for a moment, was noise carried in light? Did you cut out noise when you cut out light? She listened to her own sounds, her breathing, the rustle of her blouse, and for an instant she felt like an intruder in her own room.

  She snapped on the light-box, unpegged a roll of negatives from the drying line and laid it on the box. She looked closely at one of the frames; a fat black tubular object with two heads stared back.

  Alex cut the roll into four strips, and laid them in the contact printer. She switched on the red safety light, took a sheet of bromide paper out of the box and fed it into the printer. 'One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three.' She counted to fifteen, then snapped the light off and dropped the sheet into the shallow plastic developer tray. She up-ended the tray and rocked it sharply, sending the sheet down to the far end with a loud clack.

  She watched the image on one frame, white on white, then a smudge of silvery grey appeared. Next came the perforated holes, then the outlines of the two ovals, one lower than the other. What was it? Something long, suspended between the ovals began to take shape, and then she realized. 'Bastard!' she said, grinning. Some of the hairs began to appear, then the phallus itself, fat, limp, the skin at the head saggy, the small slit in the front, like an ugly grinning reptile. What did it belong to, she wondered. An elephant? It wasn't human. Couldn't have been.

  She shook her head, smiling, pulled the sheet out of the developer and dropped it into the fixing bath. She rocked the bath gently for a few seconds, then looked at her watch and waited another forty seconds. She pulled the sheet out and dropped it in the wash, checking her watch again. She tidied up, then looked at her watch again, impatiently. When the five minutes were up, she lifted the sheet out and pegged it on the drying line. Thirty-six phalluses stared at her, all the same, taken each time from a slightly different angle.