Nick groaned as Pete raised a hand. “I thought I’d find you here. Has anyone told you yet that you are five kinds of shit?”
Nick handed him one of the glasses. “You can’t call me anything I haven’t called myself already,” he said dryly.
Judy whirled around. “All right, you guys. Stop being so bloody patronizing. I’m the one who said it all, I’m the one who told her, not Nick. If you’ve come here to reproach anyone, it should be me, not him.” She put her hands on her hips defiantly.
Pete gave a small grin. “Right. It was you.”
“Was Jo very upset later?” she was unable to resist asking after a moment.
“A little. Of course she was. She didn’t believe anything you said, but you chose a pretty public place to make some very provocative statements.”
“No one heard them—”
“Judy.” Pete gave her a withering look. “You were heard by virtually every person in that party, including Nigel Dempster. I’ve been on the phone to him, but unfortunately he feels it was too juicy a tidbit to miss his column. After all, he’s got a job to do, much like mine when you think about it. ‘Well-known columnist accused of being a nut case by redheaded painter at Heacham party…’ How could he resist a story like that? And he was there in person! It’ll be in Friday’s Mail.”
“Hell!” Nick hit his forehead with the flat of his hand. “They’ll crucify Jo. She’s trodden on too many toes in her time.”
“She’ll be okay,” Judy broke in. “She’s tough.”
“She’s not half as tough as she makes out,” Nick replied slowly. “Underneath she’s very vulnerable.”
Judy looked away. “And I’m not, I suppose?”
“We are not talking about you, Judy. It is not your sanity that is going to be questioned in the press.”
“She can always sue them.”
“If she sues anyone, it would be you. For defamation or slander. And it would serve you right.”
Judy blanched. Without a word she took the glass out of Nick’s hand and walked with it to the far end of the studio where she stood looking out of the window to the bare earth and washing lines of the garden below.
Pete frowned. “Just how much truth is there in any of this story?” he asked in a low voice.
“None at all. Judy misunderstood completely.” Nick compressed his lips angrily. “Squash the story if you can, Pete. It’s all rubbish anyway, but if it wasn’t”—he paused fractionally—“if it wasn’t, think how much damage it could do.”
Pete nodded. “I had a reason for asking. You are sure that hypnosis can’t hurt her in any way?”
“Of course not.” Nick gave an uncomfortable little laugh. Then he looked at him sharply. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. No reason at all…”
3
While Tim locked the car, Jo stared up at the front of the house. It was a tall, shabby building in the center of a long terrace of once-elegant Edwardian town houses.
“Jo, about last night—” Tim was pocketing his car keys.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jo hunched her shoulders. “It was a great party for some. Now please forget about it.”
“But the way Judy behaved was appalling—”
“She’s a jealous lady, Tim, fighting for a man. Women are like that. Primeval!”
“And aren’t you going to fight too?”
“For Nick? No.” She gave him a bleak smile. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go and see some regression!”
Tim glanced at her warningly. “Jo, love. Can you bear in mind that this chap is a friend of a friend? Go easy on the put-downs.”
“I’m not going to put anyone down, Tim.” She hitched her thumb through the strap of the bag on her shoulder. “I’m going strictly as an observer, I shan’t say a word. Promise.”
The front door was opened by a woman in a long Laura Ashley dress, her fair hair caught back in an untidy ponytail. She had a clipboard in her hand.
“Mr. Heacham and Miss Clifford?” she confirmed. “The others are all here. Follow me, please.”
The dark hallway was carpeted wall to wall with a thick brown carpet that muffled their footsteps as they followed her past several closed doors and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. There, in a large room, facing onto the long narrow gardens that backed the houses, they found Bill Walton and some dozen other people, already seated on a semicircle of upright chairs.
Walton held out his hand to them. “How are you? As you requested, Tim, I’ve told everyone that a lady and gentleman of the press will be here. No one objects.” He was a small, wizened man of about fifty, his sandy hair standing out in wisps around his head. Jo looked apprehensively into his prominent green eyes as she shook hands.
Somewhere outside children were playing in the evening sunlight. She could hear their excited shouting and the dull thud as a foot connected with a ball. In the room there was a muted expectant silence. She could see two girls seated side by side at the end of the row. Both now looked distinctly frightened. Next to them a man in a turtleneck sweater whispered to his companion and laughed quietly.
The room was a study—a large, comfortable, untidy room, one end of the wall lined with books, the opposite one hung with a group of Japanese prints mounted on broad strips of fawn linen. Jo took her place on one of the remaining chairs while Tim slipped unobtrusively behind her, perching on the arm of a chair by the fire. He removed the lens cap from his camera and put it quietly down on the seat beside him.
Walton moved to the windows and half drew the curtains, shutting out the soft golden glow of the evening. Then he switched on a desk lamp. He grinned at the small audience before him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, first let me welcome you all. I hope you are going to find this evening instructive and entertaining. Let me say at the outset that there is nothing whatsoever to be afraid of. No one can be hypnotized who does not wish it.” He glanced at Jo as, quietly, she slipped a notebook out of her bag. She rested it, still shut, on her knee. “My usual procedure is to make a few simple tests initially to find out how many of you are good hypnotic subjects, then from among those who seem to be suitable I shall ask for volunteers to be put into deep hypnosis and regressed if possible. I should emphasize that it does not always happen, and there have been occasions when I have found no one at all suitable among my audience.” He laughed happily. “That is why I prefer to have a dozen or so people present. It gives us a better choice.”
Jo shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair and crossed her legs. Beside her the others were all staring at him, half hypnotized already, she suspected, by the quiet smoothness of his voice.
“Now,” he continued, hitching himself up onto the desk so that he was sitting facing them, his legs swinging loosely, crossed at the ankle. “Perhaps you would all look at my finger.” He raised it slowly until it was level with his eyes. “Now, as I raise my hand you will find that your own right hand rises into the air of its own accord.”
Jo felt her fingers close convulsively around her pencil. Her hands remained firmly in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hand of the man next to her as it twitched slightly and moved, then it too fell back onto his knee. She noticed his Adam’s apple jump sharply as he swallowed. She looked back at Walton, who was watching them all with apparent lack of interest. “Fine. Now I want you all to sit back and relax against the back of your chairs. Perhaps you would fix your eyes on the light behind me here on the desk. The light is bright and hard on the eyes. Perhaps if you were to close your eyes for a few moments and rest them.” His voice had taken on a monotonous gentle tone that soothed the ears. “Fine. Now it may be that when you try to open them you will find that you can’t. Your lids are sealed. The light is too bright to look at. The darkness is preferable.” Jo could feel the nails of her hands biting into her palms. She leaned forward and stared down the line of seated people. Two were blinking at the light almost defiantly. The others all sat quietly, their eyes c
losed. Walton was smiling. Quietly he stood up and padded forward over the thick carpet. “Now I am going to touch your hands, one by one, and when I pick them up you will find that you cannot put them down.” His voice had taken on a peremptory tone of command. He approached the man next to Jo, ignoring her completely. The man’s eyes were open and he watched almost frightened as Walton caught his wrist and lifted the limp hand. He let go and to Jo’s surprise the arm stayed where it was, uncomfortably suspended in midair. Walton made no comment. He passed on to the next person in the line. Behind her Jo heard the faint click of the camera shutter.
A moment later it was all over. Gently, almost casually, Walton spoke over his shoulder as he returned to his desk. “Fine, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. You may lower your hands and open your eyes. And may I suggest that we all have some coffee at this stage while we consider what is going to happen next.”
Jo licked her lips nervously. Her mouth had gone dry as she sat watching the man next to her. His hand had returned slowly to his lap, completely naturally, without any effort of will on his part, as far as she could see. She glanced over her shoulder at Tim. He winked and gave a thumbs-up sign. Then he sank back into his chair. As if at a signal the door had opened behind them and the young woman reappeared wheeling a cart on which sat two large earthenware coffeepots. Unobtrusively she moved up the line of chairs, never speaking, not raising her eyes to meet those of anyone in the room. Jo watched her and found herself wondering suddenly whether it was to stop herself from laughing at their solemn faces.
When they had all had their coffee, Walton sat down once more. He was looking preoccupied as he stirred the cup before him on the desk. Only when the woman had left the room did he speak.
“Now, I’m glad to say that several of you tonight have demonstrated that you are susceptible to hypnosis. What I intend to do is to ask if any one of those people would like to volunteer to come and sit over here.” He indicated a deep leather armchair near the desk. “Bring your coffee with you, of course, and we’ll discuss what is going to happen.”
It was several minutes before anyone could be prevailed upon to move, but at last one stout, middle-aged woman rose to her feet. She looked flustered and clutched her cup tightly as she approached the chair and perched on the edge of it.
Walton rose from his desk. “It’s Mrs. Potter, isn’t it? Sarah Potter. Now, my dear, please make yourself comfortable.” His voice had dropped once more and Jo again found herself sitting upright, consciously resisting the beguilement of the man’s tone as she watched the woman lean back and close her eyes. Walton gently took the cup from her and without any preliminary comments began to talk her back into her childhood. After only a slight hesitancy she began to answer him, describing scenes from her early schooldays; they could all plainly hear the change in the quality of her voice as it rose and thinned girlishly. Tim stood up and, creeping forward, dropped on one knee before the woman with his camera raised. Walton ignored him. “Now, my dear, we are going back to the time before you were born. Tell me what you see.”
There was a long silence. “Back, farther back into the time you were little Sarah Fairly. Before, long before. You were on this earth before. Sarah. Tell me who you were.”
“Betsy.” The word came out slowly, puzzled, half hesitating, and Jo heard a sharp intake of breath from the people around her. She gripped the notepad on her knee and watched the woman’s face intently.
“Betsy who?” Walton did not take his eyes from her face.
“Dunno. Just Betsy…”
***
“You were lucky this evening.” Walton looked from Jo to Tim and back with a grin. “Here, let me offer you a drink.”
The others had gone, leaving Tim packing his cameras and Jo still sitting on her wooden chair, lost in thought. “Three subjects who all produced more or less convincing past lives. That’s not bad.”
Jo looked up sharply. “More or less convincing? Are you saying you don’t believe in this yourself?”
She saw Tim frown but Walton merely shrugged. He had poured three glasses of Scotch and he handed her one. “I am saying, as would any colleague, Miss Clifford, that the hypnosis is genuine. The response of the subject is genuine, in that it is not prompted by me, but where the personalities come from I have no idea. It is the people who come to these sessions who like to think they are reincarnated souls.” His eyes twinkled roguishly.
Tim set his camera case on a chair and picked up his own glass. “It really is most intriguing. That Betsy woman. A respectable middle-aged housewife of unqualified boringness and she produces all those glorious words out of the gutter! I can’t help wondering if that was merely her repressed self trying to get out.” He chortled.
Walton nodded. “I find myself wondering that frequently. But there are occasions—and these are the ones of course that you as reporters should witness—when the character comes out with stuff which they could in no way have prepared, consciously or unconsciously. I have had people speaking languages they have never learned or revealing historical detail that is unimpeachable.” He shook his head. “Very, very interesting.”
Jo had stood up at last. She went to stand by the bookcase, still frowning slightly.
Walton watched her.
“Did you know, Miss Clifford, that you are potentially a good hypnotic subject yourself?”
She swung round. “Me? Oh, no. After all, none of your tests worked on me.”
“No. Because you fought them. Did it not cross your mind that the fact that you had to resist so strenuously might mean something? I was watching you carefully and I suspect you were probably one of the most susceptible people here tonight.”
Jo stared at him. She felt suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the room. “I don’t think so. Someone tried to hypnotize me once, at the university. It didn’t work.”
She looked into her glass, suddenly silent, aware that Walton was still watching her closely.
He shook his head. “You surprise me. Perhaps the person wasn’t an experienced hypnotist. Although, of course, if you resisted as you did today, no one could—”
“Oh, but I didn’t resist them. I wanted it to happen.” She remembered suddenly the excitement and awe she had felt on her way to Professor Cohen’s rooms, the abandon with which she had thrown herself into answering all his questions before the session started, the calm relaxation as she lay back on his couch watching Sam standing in the corner fighting with his notepad while outside the snow had started to fall…
She frowned. How strange that the details of that afternoon had slipped her mind until this moment. She could picture Sam now—he had been wearing a brown turtleneck sweater under a deplorably baggy sports jacket. When they had been introduced she had liked him at once. His calm relaxed manner had counteracted Cohen’s stiff academic formality, putting her at ease. She had trusted Sam.
So why now did she have this sudden image of his tense face, his eyes wide with horror, peering at her out of the darkness, and with it the memory of pain…
She shrugged off a little shiver, sipping from her glass as she glanced back at Walton. “It was about fifteen years ago now—I’ve probably forgotten most of what happened.”
He nodded slowly without taking his eyes from her face. Then he turned away. “Well, it might be interesting to try again,” he said thoughtfully. “Would you like to?”
“No!” She answered more sharply than she intended. “At least, not yet. Perhaps when my research is a bit further advanced…” Warning bells were ringing in her mind; Sam’s face was there again before her eyes, and with it she heard Nick’s voice: “There is something you don’t know, something you don’t remember…”
Shakily she put down her glass, aware of Tim’s puzzled eyes upon her. Furiously she tried to get a grip on herself as she realized suddenly that Bill Walton was addressing her while he straightened some papers on his desk.
“And were you pleased overall with what you saw this evening, Miss Cli
fford?”
She swallowed hard. “It was fascinating. Very interesting.”
“But I suspect that you are going to debunk the reincarnation theory in your articles? My wife is a great fan of yours and she tells me your style of journalism can be quite sharp.”
Jo grimaced. “She’s right. If she told you that it’s very brave of you to be so open with me.”
“Why not? I’ve nothing to hide. As I told you, the hypnotism is real. The responses are real. I do not seek to explain them. Perhaps you will be able to do that.”
He grinned.
Jo found herself smiling back. “I doubt it,” she said as she picked up her bag, “but I daresay I’ll give it a try.”
***
“Come on, Jo. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
Tim put a double Scotch on the table in front of her and sat himself down in the chair facing her.
Jo summoned up a tired smile. “I’m exhausted, Tim, that’s all. This’ll put me right.” She picked up her glass. “Thanks for arranging everything this evening.”
“But Walton worried you, didn’t he, and not just because you thought he was a fake.”
She shook her head slowly. “He wasn’t a fake. At least, I don’t think so. A telepath perhaps—I don’t know—” She was silent for a minute. “Yes, he did worry me, Tim. The stupid thing is, I don’t know why. But it’s something deep inside me. Something I can’t put my finger on, floating at the edge of my mind. Every minute I think I’m going to remember what it is, but I can’t quite catch it.” She took a sip from her glass and grinned suddenly, her face animated. “Makes me sound pretty neurotic, doesn’t it? No, Tim, I’m okay. I think I’ve been letting Nick get to me more than I realize, with his fearsome warnings. He’s a bit paranoid about hypnosis. He told me once that he has this fear of losing consciousness—even on the edge of ordinary sleep. I think he thinks hypnosis is the same—like an anesthetic.”
“And it is true he’s been on to his brother about you?” Tim asked gently after a pause.