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
