Kelly ran a finger across his lips then kissed him softly.
Her gaze never left his deep blue eyes and, once more, she felt that glorious sensation of floating. As if she had no control over her own body.
Blake smiled broadly.
PART TWO
‘All human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil …’
— Robert Louis Stevenson
‘He who shall teach the child to doubt, Shall ne’er the rotting grave get out.’
— William Blake
London
The Waterloo Club, in the heart of London’s Mayfair, was a magnificent anachronism.
Founded a year after the battle of Waterloo by a group of Wellington’s infantry officers, the building was more like a museum. There was a subdued reverence about the place, much like that usually reserved for a church. It languished in cultivated peacefulness and had defied ail but the most necessary architectural changes since its construction in 1816. But, for all that, it retained an archaic splendour which was fascinating.
David Blake sipped his drink and scanned the panelled walls. The room seemed dark, despite the lamps which burned in profusion, complimented by the huge crystal chandelier which hung from the ceiling. There were a number of paintings on view including excellent copies of Denis Dighton’s ‘Sergeant Ewart capturing the Eagle of the 45th’, a picture which Blake remembered from a history book. Behind the bar was Sir William Allen’s panoramic view of Waterloo, a full fifteen feet in length. It hung in a gilt frame, as imposing a piece of art as Blake had seen. On another wall were two polished cuirasses, the breast plates still carrying musket ball holes. Above them were the brass helmets of Carabiniers, the long swords of the Scots Greys and various original muskets and pistols.
Blake was suitably impressed with the surroundings despite being somewhat perplexed as to why the BBC should have chosen such a setting for the party to welcome Jonathan Mathias to England. Other guests chatted amiably, some, like himself, gazing at the paintings and other paraphernalia. He guessed that there must be about two dozen people there, most of whom he recognized from one or other branch of the
entertainment industry.
He spotted Jim O’Neil sitting in one corner.,He was on the British leg of a European tour which had, so far, taken him and his band to ten different countries encompassing over eighty gigs. He was a tall, wiry man in his late twenties, dressed completely in black leather. The rock star was nodding intently as two young women chatted animatedly to him.
The writer was aware of other well-known faces too. He caught sight of Sir George Howe, the new head of the BBC, speaking to a group of men which included Gerald Braddock.
Braddock was the present Government’s Minister for the Arts, a plump, red-faced man whose shirt collar was much too tight for him, a condition not aided by his tie which appeared to have been fastened by a member of the thugee cult. Every time he swallowed he looked as though he was going to choke.
Next to him stood Roger Carr, host of the chat show on which Mathias was to appear.
Elsewhere, Blake spotted actors and actresses from TV, an agent or two but, as far as he could see, he was the only writer who had been invited.
He’d been a little surprised by the invitation although he had written for the BBC in the past, most notably, a six part series on the paranormal. When he learned that Mathias was to be the guest of honour he’d accepted the invitation readily.
At the moment, however, there was no sign of the American.
‘Do you get invited to many dos like this?’ Kelly asked him, looking around at the array of talent in the room.
Blake had been seeing her for just over a week now, driving back and forth to Oxford, staying at her flat most nights and returning to his home to work during the day. When he’d told her about the invitation, initially she’d been apprehensive but now, as she scanned the other guests, she did not regret her decision to accompany him.
There aren’t many dos like this,’ he told her, looking around, wondering where
Mathias had disappeared to.
The psychic arrived as if on cue, emerging from the club cloakroom like something from a Bram Stoker novel. He wore a black three-piece suit and white shirt, a black bow-tie at his throat. Cufflinks bearing large diamonds sparkled in the light like millions of insect eyes. The psychic was introduced to Sir George Howe and his group. All eyes turned towards the little tableau and the previously subdued conversation seemed to drop to a hush. It was as if a powerful magnet had been brought into the room, drawing everything to it.
‘He looks very imposing in the flesh,’ said Kelly, almost in awe. ‘I’ve only ever seen him in photographs.’
Blake didn’t answer her. His eye had been caught by more belated movement from the direction of the cloakroom as a late-comer arrived.
‘Christ,’ murmured the writer, nudging Kelly. ‘Look.’
He nodded in the appropriate direction and she managed to tear her gaze from Mathias.
The late-comer slipped into the room and over to the group surrounding the psychic. Kelly looked at him and then at Blake.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she said, in bewilderment.
Dr Stephen Vernon ran a nervous hand through his hair and sidled up beside Sir George Howe.
Blake and Kelly watched as the Institute Director was introduced. Words were exchanged but, no matter how hard she tried, Kelly could not hear what was being said. Gradually, the babble of conversation began to fill the room again.
Kelly hesitated, watching Vernon as he stood listening to the psychic.
‘Kelly,’ Blake said, forcefully, gripping her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get another drink.’
Aimost reluctantly, she followed him to the bar where Jim O’Neil now sat, perched on one of the tall stools. He was still listening to one of the girls but his interest seemed to have waned. As Blake and Kelly approached he ran an appreciative eye over Kelly whose full breasts were prominent due to the plunging neckline of her dress. A tiny gold crucifix hung invitingly between them. O’Neii smiled at her aiid Kelly returned the gesture.
‘Hello,’ said O’Neil, nodding at them both but keeping his eyes on Kelly.
The writer turned and smiled, shaking the other man’s outstretched hand.
Introductions were swiftly made. O’Neil took Kelly’s hand and kissed it delicately.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Blake.
‘Make it a pint of bitter will you,’ the singer asked. ‘I’m sick of these bleeding cocktails.’ He pushed the glass away from him.
The barman gave him a disdainful look, watching as the other man downed half of the foaming pint.
‘Christ, that’s better,’ he said.
Kelly caught the sound of a cockney accent in his voice.
‘No gig tonight?’ Blake asked.
O’Neil shook his head.
‘The rest of the band have got the night off,’ he said, scratching bristles on his chin which looked as if you could strike a match on them. ‘My manager said I ought to come here. God knows why.’ He supped some more of his pint. “I’m surprised they invited me in the first place. I mean, they never play any of my fucking records on Radio One.’ He chuckled.
Kelly pulled Blake’s arm and nodded in the direction of a nearby table. The two of them said they’d speak to O’Neil again later then left him at the bar ordering another pint.
The writer was in the process of pulling out a chair for Kelly when he saw Mathias and his little entourage approaching. The psychic smiied broadly when he saw Blake. Kelly turned and found herself looking straight at Dr Vernon.
They exchanged awkward glances then Kelly looked at Mathias who was already
shaking hands with Blake.
‘It’s good to see you again, David,’ said the American. “How’s the book coming along?’
‘I’m getting there,’ the writer said. ‘You look well, Jonathan.’
i see there are no need for introductions where you two are concerned,’ said Sir George Howe, smiling.
