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
