Possession Page 5

  Julie tapped the keyboard, and a moment later the words STANLEY HILL appeared.

  ‘Submitted a manuscript to us in 1982, called Star-Gazer to the Stars.’

  ‘A modest title,’ said Alex. ‘Why did we reject it?’

  Julie leaned closer to the screen. ‘Not enough meat.’

  ‘There are dozens of other agents – why did he send us his next one?’

  ‘You must have written him a very nice letter.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Alex.

  ‘Do you want me to read this one?’

  ‘No, send it straight back; tell him we’re not interested in this sort of stuff.’

  ‘It sells well,’ said Julie. ‘Look at Doris Stokes.’

  ‘I don’t care if it sells a million; I don’t want to handle it.’

  She watched Julie take the manuscript and walk out of the room, then stared again at the screen. She switched it off. Help Me Mother. The words went round in her mind. She switched on the machine again and the words stared back at her, calmly, unflickering:

  HELP ME MOTHER.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘You look very preoccupied.’

  Alex waved away the smoke with her hand. ‘You keep disappearing.’

  Philip Main pushed the Capstan cigarette through the hairs of his walrus moustache, emitted a long slow grunt which had a rasp to it like a moped racing down a distant lane, and released another explosion of smoke. ‘In the cosmic sense?’

  ‘No,’ Alex smiled. ‘In the physical sense.’

  ‘Hrrr,’ he said, thoughtfully.

  She waved her hand again. ‘The smoke, you’re getting worse.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said in his soft low voice, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. ‘A chap’s few pleasures; still, this is only a transient inconvenience, for a few more thousand years, five, six maybe at the most – an insignificant time.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Before we have evolved enough to stay on our own all of the time; no need to meet; all communication will be by telepathy and unexposed film; the thrill of exposure, that will replace all of today’s social contact – the pleasures and –’ he held up his cigarette ‘– and the inconveniences.’

  She stared, smiling, at his elongated frame, shoulders hunched in his battered tweed jacket and up at his gaunt fiery face, with the moustache that hung down like a statement. In his forties, he still looked more like an overgrown student revolutionary than a scientist with three respected, if controversial, books to his name. ‘How’s the book coming?’

  He lowered his head and stared at her as if she was a goldfish in a bowl. ‘Proof; there is proof.’ He raised his wine glass, drank and lowered it again, leaving his moustache looking like a damp rug.

  ‘What proof?’

  ‘You’ll see. You’ll be stunned, girl, stunned.’ His face changed as he spoke, becoming animated.

  ‘Good,’ she said, feeling rather lost.

  ‘Irrefutable proof that Darwin was right.’

  ‘You’ve been able to recreate the origins of the universe in a repeatable laboratory experiment?’

  ‘There’s a little bit of fine tuning, but yes, good Lord yes, I’ve seen it done. D N A, girl, out of two bits of dust.’

  ‘And where did the dust come from?’

  ‘Thin air, girl’ he said, triumphantly. ‘Thin air!’

  A waiter presented her Dover sole for inspection and then began to fillet it.

  The tone of Main’s voice suddenly became gentle. ‘Has your husband been around the past couple of weeks?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She felt herself blushing, saw the almost imperceptible motion of the waiter’s head as he tuned his ears in.

  ‘Has he been of help?’

  ‘Yes, he’s been a brick.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  She blushed again and looked at the waiter, who was having problems with the sole.

  ‘Does he still want you back?’

  ‘I, er –’ she said, and faltered. She looked at her watch and pressed the date button. 5.4 it read. She stared at it, puzzled. May 4th? ‘What’s the date today? It’s April still, isn’t it?’

  She stared at her watch again, confused.

  ‘Alex? Alex?’ She heard the words echoing around her head, tried to work out where they were coming from; she saw the face across the table, his mouth opening, closing. ‘Alex? Are you all right?’

  The face went out of focus then came back in again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘You’ve gone very white.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked down at her watch again and frowned. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Twenty to two.’

  Her watch was correct. ‘Was there a thunderstorm last night?’ she said.

  Main frowned, then eyed the sole that was placed in front of him suspiciously. ‘Was this in a fight?’ he said to the waiter, his voice suddenly stern and loud.

  ‘A fight, sir?’

  ‘Looks like it’s been in a massacre.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The waiter hesitated, then retreated.

  ‘Thunderstorm?’

  ‘Or an electrical storm?’

  ‘There may have been; it was very humid last night.’

  Alex felt liberated suddenly. ‘And could that affect electrics – clocks, things like that?’

  He frowned. ‘Possibly. Can cause interruptions in the power supply.’

  She was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘Could it affect solar powered things too?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Possibly. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  He looked down and glared at the fish malevolently, then drank some more wine and dabbed his moustache with his napkin.

  ‘What’s your opinion of mediums, Philip?’

  ‘Mediums?’

  ‘A friend of mine said I ought to go and see one.’

  He spooned carrots out of a partitioned dish of vegetables and looked uncomfortable. ‘Have some carrots,’ he said. ‘They do them well here.’

  She took the bowl. ‘You haven’t answered.’

  ‘There are some people who find mediums helpful.’

  ‘Who? People who can’t accept that someone’s dead?’

  He shrugged. ‘Are you a Christian?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Therefore you believe in eternal life.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I believe in any longer.’

  ‘Excellent piece of evolution, the Dover sole.’ He speared a bit with his fork and lifted it. ‘Used to swim upright.’ He put his fork down and held up his hand, vertically. ‘Didn’t start swimming flat until they moved to the bottom of the sea – realized they would be less visible.’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘They had a – problem with their eyes. One either side of their head. Fine upright, but swimming flat, one eye always looking at the sea bed, one up at the sky; one day, pop, both eyes appeared on top.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with mediums?’

  ‘Can’t you see? Evolution is about making nature work. We can prove God did not make man. But what about the other way round?’

  ‘That’s an old argument.’

  ‘No, it’s new; brand new.’

  ‘That man may have invented God?’

  He speared his fish and held it up in front of his mouth, examining it carefully. ‘No, girl, not invented. Made! Made! If the whole animal world has evolved from two specks of dust and a bolt of electricity, why not a spiritual world too?’

  ‘You’re bonkers.’

  ‘I’m smarter than this fish.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because otherwise it would be eating me.’

  She grinned. ‘At least you’re cheering me up.’

  ‘Yes, well, we all need a bit of cheering up from time to time.’

  She ate a mouthful of fish. ‘It’s good, even if it does look like something that survived Glencoe.’

  He
put his knife and fork down, and blushed slightly. ‘I – er – I was wondering – would you let me buy you dinner one evening? You know–not just yet awhile–but perhaps in a bit?’

  She shook her head. ‘I like my relationships with my clients to be strictly professional.’

  He dabbed his moustache with his napkin and spoke at the same time, so that his words were muffled. ‘We – er – could have a strictly professional dinner.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t, Philip. I’m not in any state to start trying to cope with a relationship.’

  ‘I’m just offering the hand of friendship; nothing more.’

  ‘O.K., thanks, I understand. Let’s just keep it a lunch-time friendship.’

  ‘Are you free for lunch tomorrow?’

  She laughed. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday’s a good day for lunch.’

  ‘I’m going to Cambridge tomorrow – I have to sort out Fabian’s things.’

  ‘Maybe next week?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Lunch with Philip Main had lifted her, and she was feeling considerably cheered when she got home. She thought again of the three words on the screen. The strain, she thought. It must be.

  The house was quiet, peaceful, and smelt strongly of polish. It was growing dark. The clocks had gone forward. Summer Time had started, but it didn’t feel much like summer.

  She stood in the hall and felt suddenly in a vacuum. The last ten days had passed in a haze and now there was a return to normality that seemed flattening. She wished she had taken up Philip’s offer of dinner, or her husband’s. She did not want to be alone this evening, to dwell on her thoughts. She looked up the television programmes in the Standard, but there was nothing she fancied. She dropped the paper on to a sofa and went down the narrow staircase into her darkroom.

  Photography; there was something intensely personal about photography, and it was instant, told the story without having to wade through the manuscript. Perhaps Philip was right. But there was so much to learn about it. She’d missed the last classes; time, there was never enough time. When David had built her the darkroom she had loved locking herself away down here; she had felt peaceful and safe with the silence and the strange smells of the chemicals. But tonight she felt uncomfortable here; the silence was oppressive.

  Philip Main’s disgusting contact sheet was still on the drying rack. She unpegged it, hoping Mimsa hadn’t noticed it, and was about to tear it up when something caught her eye, a mark, very small, on one of the frames. She picked up her magnifying glass, switched on the light box, and looked at the print.

  Fabian’s face stared back, clearly, from the bottom right-hand corner. And then she noticed it was on every frame, in the same position.

  She dropped the magnifying glass; it hit the white perspex of the light box, cracking it badly, and she stood, shuddering, her skin prickling.

  Fabian’s face had appeared on the print since she had developed it.

  The walls seemed to be closing in. She spun around; the door had moved, she was certain. She grabbed the handle, pulled it open. There was nothing there. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Hallo?’ She stared through the door, but everything was quiet.

  There was a shrill rasping which seemed to shake the whole foundations of the house. She let out a small yelp of fear and clutched the door frame, fearful. The rasping ended in a series of metallic pings. Doorbell! She felt the relief surge through her. Don’t go away, oh please, don’t go away! She ran out of the room and up the stairs, desperate to catch whoever it was before they went away, desperate for some company, some human contact, any.

  She opened the door and stood, gasping for breath, as she stared at a young man with an earnest, scrubbed face and short curly hair. He was wearing a shabby grey suit, too old for him, probably a cast-off from someone, she thought, and a polo neck sweater. She looked down at his shoes, scuffed, shapeless black shoes that badly needed a polish. Perhaps they were cast-offs too?

  He spoke slowly in a gentle voice, carefully articulated. ‘Mrs Hightower?’

  Alex nodded. He had a familiar look about him, like an old newspaper she had already read. He didn’t look like a salesman, and she wondered for a moment if he was another medium sent by Sandy; she did not mind, at this moment anyone was welcome.

  ‘I’m John Allsop, the curate – I cover your area – er – the vicar told me of your bereavement, so I thought I would pop in and introduce myself – if it’s convenient.’ His right eye twitched sharply, twice.

  ‘Please – yes, of course.’ She closed the door behind him. ‘I’m afraid we didn’t use the vicar for the funeral service – it was done by an old schoolfriend of my husband’s – John Lambourne – he’s down near Hastings. I hope the vicar didn’t feel his nose put out?’

  ‘No, not at all; this is quite usual.’

  They went into the drawing room. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been a little remiss about church.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he said kindly. ‘But you’d be very welcome if you’d like to come and worship at any of our churches.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And how are you coping? You look as if you are still in a great deal of shock.’

  ‘You don’t expect to go to the funeral of your child,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No; to have a child taken is a terrible thing. Do you have any other – er – children?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘That makes it even worse, if that is possible.’ He twitched again. ‘I suffered a bereavement myself recently – my wife. I found it very helpful to look at photographs.’

  She stared at him wide-eyed, and thought of the face staring out from the photographs of the genitals. How? How? How had it got there? Was it some kind of macabre joke? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He smiled sadly and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Was it –?’ she fumbled for words.

  ‘Cancer,’ he said.

  Alex nodded, unsure what to say. ‘Terrible.’ Fabian’s face stared at her again. ‘Terrible.’ She stood up abruptly, then wondered why she was standing up. ‘I’ll – er – can I get you some coffee?’

  ‘Oh, no, really, thank you.’

  ‘Do you like coffee, or would you prefer tea – or whisky or something?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  But she was already on her way to the kitchen, desperate for a moment on her own to pull herself together. She made the coffee, opened a pack of chocolate digestives and was about to take them back out, when she noticed a business card on the kitchen table. ‘Iris Tremayne’ it read, with an address in Earls Court. She dropped it in the bin, then pulled it out and put it on the dresser. She picked up the tray and went back into the drawing room. ‘Please help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She was conscious of him looking at her oddly; how bad do I look, she wondered. How shocked?

  ‘Yes,’ he twitched again. ‘Photographs; bringing back the memories. It can be very therapeutic. The pain does go, in time, believe me.’ He smiled and bit into a biscuit nervously, as if worried it might bite him back.

  She saw him staring at the bowl of wilting red roses.

  ‘Fabian gave them to me for my birthday – he always gave me red roses; he loved them.’

  ‘Do you – er – garden?’

  ‘I’m hopeless, I’m afraid. My husband’s the gardener.’

  ‘Ah. You’re separated, I understand?’

  ‘Yes. My husband used to be in advertising – but wine was always his big love; he decided to jack it all in and start a vineyard. Unfortunately, country life did not agree with me.’

  ‘Very difficult, the country; sometimes it can be too peaceful.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a literary agent, I believe.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m writing a book myself. Just a little one.’

  Alex felt a sense of disappointment; was this the reason why he
had come round? ‘Do you have a publisher?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a long way from finishing it – I don’t know that it would be good enough.’

  ‘If you’d like me to look at it …’

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. Perhaps, if I finish it, thank you.’

  ‘Have some more coffee.’

  ‘I’ll have another biscuit if I may.’ He leaned forward and took one from the plate. ‘You might find it comforting, you know, to talk to some of your son’s friends. We often know so little about those that are close to us when they are alive, and yet we can learn nice things after they have departed; it can be of great comfort.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s good advice. But he was a bit of a loner really. He had only two close friends that I knew, and one of them was killed in the accident.’

  He shook his head. ‘Some things are very difficult to understand, Mrs Hightower.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you look as if you are the sort who can cope.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘I can cope.’ She smiled. ‘Somehow.’

  He smiled back and stirred his coffee.

  ‘Do you have any –’ she paused, and blushed ‘– any views on spiritualism?’

  She saw the frown come across his face, like a cloud.

  ‘I would not advise that, Mrs Hightower, I would not advise that at all. Have you –?’ He hesitated.

  ‘No, absolutely not. But people have been suggesting it to me.’

  ‘I have only come across misery caused by that, never any good.’ He looked uncomfortable, suddenly, as if he wanted to go.

  ‘I don’t believe in it at all.’

  ‘Very sensible. If any friend suggests it to you, they are not truly a friend. Prayer, love, happy memories and time will heal; nothing can be gained by trying to summon up the departed, nothing but disappointment and –’ he hesitated.

  ‘And?’ she said.

  ‘There are many evil forces, Mrs Hightower. There is much evil in the world; those that dabble in the occult expose both themselves and others to it.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m not about to start dabbling.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Would you like to say a prayer together?’