The Institute of Psychical Study was a Victorian building set in six acres of its own grounds. The weather- beaten walls were the colour of dried blood, crumbling in places. The entire structure, covered by a clinging network of ivy, looked as though it would collapse but for the tangled tendrils which snaked over it like so much flexible scaffolding. Repair work had been done to the west wing of the building, the renovated brickwork and the large plate glass windows looking strangely innocuous set against the latticed panes which dotted the remainder of the structure. The building was being dragged, albeit reluctantly, into the twentieth century. Telephone wires ran from the pole on the roof, suspended above what had once been belching chimney stacks but were now sealed holes. The gravel driveway snaked away through the grounds until it joined the main road which led into Oxford itself. Cedars and poplars lined the drive like sentinels.
However, if the outside of the building belonged to a more sedate age then the interior was modern, almost futuristic.
The old rooms had, over the years, been converted into fully equipped offices and laboratories, the latter providing every means possible for Kelly and her companions to pursue their very specialized work.
Since its inception in 1861, the Institute had devoted itself to the investigation and recording of all manner of psychic phenomena ranging from hauntings to telekinesis. Within the vast library beneath the building was housed the accumulated knowledge of over a century.
But, during that time, progress had intervened and investigators now used word processors in place of quill pens and electronic surveillance equipment instead of eye-witness accounts and hear-say.
Kelly had plenty of eye-witness information about Maurice Grant including the file which she now slid from the drawer and glanced at.
It held an EEG read-out, one of the many taken from Grant while he slept. She studied it and shook her head. The puzzle was there before her.
The reading comprised five lines, four of which were flat, each representing an area of the brain.
It was the fifth line which interested her.
The tracer had drawn huge, irregular strokes across the read-out, indicating an incredible amount of activity in one particular part of the brain.
Kelly was convinced that it was the portion which controlled the dream response.
And yet she knew that there should have been movement shown on all the lines.
But for that one area of activity, the reading may as well have been taken from a corpse.
The office door opened.
‘Excuse me barging in, Kelly,’ the familiar voice apologised. The man smiled curtly, almost as an afterthought. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’
Dr Stephen Vernon smiled again^ a twitchy, perfunctory smile which never touched his eyes. He was what people euphemistically call portly. In other
words he was fat. The buttons of his grey suit strained against his belly as if threatening to fly off at any moment. He kept his jacket fastened but, like his trousers, it was immaculately pressed. His trousers bore creases sharp enough to cut your hand on, even if the legs of the garment were two inches too short. For a man of fifty-five, Vernon had thick, almost lustrous hair which glistened beneath the fluorescent lights. His moustache, by comparison, resembled the type sprayed on advertising posters by paint-happy kids. He had narrow,
hawkish features and eyes the colour of slate nestled between his puffy eyelids. Grey suit. Grey hair. Grey eyes. Vernon resembled an overcast day.
But, there was a darting energy in those eyes and in that overweight frame.
Vernon was as thirsty for knowledge now as he had been when he’d first joined the Institute nearly twenty- five years ago. He’d spent the last twelve years as its President. He was respected by all his investigators, both for his knowledge and also for his dedication. He would sit, most nights, in his office on the second floor, reading reports. Staying there until the small hours sometimes, when he would wander the empty corridors and deserted labs, enjoying the silence. He felt secure within the confines of the Institute walls.
He lived eight or nine miles away but it was almost with reluctance that he returned home at the end of the day.
Home.
Could he still call it a home when he was afraid to return there?
As Kelly passed him she caught the familiar smell which seemed to follow Vernon everywhere. It surrounded him like an invisible cloud. The scent of menthol. He was forever sucking cough sweets although Kelly had never known him to have so much as a cold. He carried a packet in his breast pocket as if it were a pen. As she sat down he popped another one into his mouth.
‘Have you made any progress with this fellow Grant?’ Vernon asked her.
Kelfy told him about the tape recordings, the recurring nightmares.
‘Yes, yes, I know about those,’ he said, tersely. ‘I heard something about an EEC
Kelly’s green eyes met his slate grey ones and they held each other’s stare for a moment.
‘May I see it?’ he asked.
Kelly handed the read-out to Vernon who shifted the menthol sweet to the other side of his mouth and ran an expert eye Over the series of lines.
‘His brain was stimulated?’ Vernon asked.
‘Yes,’ Kelly told him. ‘We’re still using amphetamines.’
Vernon nodded slowly. As a qualified doctor he realized that the read-out should show much more activity. He was
one of four physicians at the Institute. At least one had to be present to administer the drugs to subjects and to check that there were no adverse effects on them.
‘Then why is only one area of the brain affected?’ he mused aloud.
‘It certainly looks as if it’s the area which controls unconscious thought,’
said Kelly. ‘The reading taken when Grant was awake showed only minimal movement in that region.’ She pointed to the jagged line.
The older man sucked hard on his sweet then folded the read-out and laid it on her desk.
‘Run another EEG while he’s awake,’ Vernon instructed. ‘Then another while he’s asleep — but not a drug induced sleep. I want to see the normal readings.’
Kelly nodded.
Vernon crossed to the window and peered out at the rapidly falling rain.
‘This is very important to me, Kelly,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He reminded her of a headmaster about to admonish an unruly pupil.
‘The reading from the EEG would certainly seem to indicate that the subconscious mind is capable of functioning independently,’ he said. ‘We have to find a way to unlock that hidden area.’
She detected a note of something akin to desperation in his voice. It seemed only a matter of time before they discovered what they sought but time was one thing Vernon didn’t seem to have. Not a day passed without him visiting Kelly in the lab or her office, and it had been that way ever since the research began. There was an urgency about his interest which eclipsed his usual involvement. He was becoming obsessive. And Kelly couldn’t help but wonder why.
She studied his broad back as he stood by the window, his fingers knotted together like fleshy hemp.
‘I’ll see about running the EEG now,’ she said.
Vernon turned, nodded and swept towards the door.
Til be in my office,’ he told her. ‘Let me know as soon as you have the results.’
She smelt the menthol as he passed her, closing the door behind him. Kelly heard his footsteps echo away down the corridor.
She slipped the file back into its drawer, then she herself left the room, walking briskly towards the stairs which would take her down to the laboratories.
Stephen Vernon slumped into the leather chair behind his oak desk and closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. In the outer office he could hear the clacking of his secretary’s typewriter. An accompaniment to the tattoo which the rain was beating on his window.
