‘Are you all right, David?’ she asked, aware that her own heart was beating wildly.
Blake nodded.
‘And you?’ he wanted to know.
She was shaking badly and Blake put one arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to him.
Roger Carr sat where he was for a moment, looking at the others around the table, then he got to his feet and stalked across to the bar where he downed a large scotch in two huge swallows. Only then did he begin to calm down. He looked back over his shoulder at Mathias.
Not only was this man very good at what he did, the bastard was convincing too. Carr ordered another scotch.
Jonathan Mathias finally managed to quieten Toni Landers, wiping away some of her tears with his handkerchief. He helped her to her feet and led her outside into the rain soaked night. He told his chauffeur to take her home and then return.
As the psychic stood alone on the pavement watching the car disappear from view he looked down at his hands.
Both palms were red raw, as if he’d been holding something very hot. His entire body was sheathed in sweat but he felt colder than he’d ever felt in his life.
Blake hit the last full stop, pulled the paper from the typewriter and laid it on top of the pile beside him.
Without the clacking of typewriter keys, the cellar was once more silent.
The writer picked up the pages next to him and skimmed through them. Another day or so and the book would be finished, he guessed. He had submitted the bulk of it to his publisher shortly after returning from the States. Now he was nearing the end. He sat back in his chair and yawned. It was almost 8 a.m.
He’d been working for two hours. Blake always rose early, completing the greater part of his work during the morning. It was a routine which he’d followed for the last four years. Down in the cellar it was peaceful. He didn’t even hear the comings and goings of his neighbours. But, on this particular morning, his mind had been elsewhere.
As hard as he tried, he could not shake the image of Toni Landers’ dead child from his mind. In fact, the entire episode of the previous night still burned as clearly in his consciousness as if it had been branded there. He remembered the terror etched on the faces of those who had sat at the table with him, the horrified reactions of those who had looked on from the relative safety beyond the circle.
The gathering had begun to break up almost immediately after the seance. Blake himself, rather than drive back to Oxford, had persuaded Kelly to stay at his house for the night. She had readily agreed. She was upstairs dressing. He had woken her before he’d climbed out of bed, they had made love and she had decided to take a long hot bath before he drove her home.
He put the cover back on the typewriter and made his way up the stone steps from the subterranean work room, locking the door behind him as he emerged into the hall.
‘What are you hiding down there? The Crown Jewels?’
The voice startled him momentarily and he spun round to see Kelly descending the stairs.
Blake smiled and pocketed the key to the cellar.
‘Force of habit,” he said. T don’t like to be disturbed.’
They walked through into the kitchen where she put the kettle on while he jammed some bread into the toaster. Kelly spooned coffee into a couple of mugs.
‘Are you all right, Kelly?’ he asked, noticing that she looked pale.
She nodded.
‘I’m a little tired, I didn’t sleep too well last night,’ she told him.
‘That’s understandable.’
‘Understandable, but not forgivable.’
He looked puzzled.
‘David, I’m a psychic investigator. My reactions to the paranormal, anything out of the ordinary, should be … well, scientific. But what J saw last, night at that seance terrified me. I couldn’t even think straight.’
if it’s any consolation,’ he said. T don’t think you were the only one.’ He caught the toast as it popped up.
Kelly watched him as he buttered it, finally handing her a slice.
‘I’d still like to know how Vernon managed to get an invitation,* she said.
‘He’s a friend of Sir George Howe, the old boy told us that.’
Kelly nodded slowly.
T still don’t trust him,’ she said.
Blake leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
The kettle began to boil.
It was 2.15 when Blake parked the XJS back in his driveway. The journey back from Oxford had taken longer than he’d expected due to a traffic hold up on the way back into the town. Now he clambered out of the Jag and headed for his front door, waving a greeting to one of his neighbours as she passed by with her two children.
Blake walked in and discovered that the postman had been during his absence. There was a slim envelope which bore a familiar type-face.
He tore it open and unfolded the letter, heading towards the sitting room as he did so. The writer perched on the edge of a chair and read aloud.
‘Dear David, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting but I have only recently managed to read the manuscript of “From Within “. I’m even sorrier to tell you that I do not tee! thai it matches the quality of your earlier work, which was based on solid facts and research. This latest effort seems comprised mostly of speculation and theorising, particularly on the subject of Astral travel and mind control. I realize that these subjects are open to question but the book does not convince me as to the validity of your statements. So how can we expect the public to believe it?
Despite the fact that you are well established and a proven top-seller, I feel that I cannot, as yet offer you a contract based on the manuscript in its present state.’
Blake got to his feet, still glaring angrily at the letter.
It was signed with the sweeping hand of Phillip Campbell, his publisher.
‘I cannot offer you a contract …’ Blake muttered, angrily. He crossed to the phone and picked up the receiver, punching buttons irritably.
‘Good morning …’
He gave the receptionist no time to complete the formalities.
‘Phillip Campbell, please,’ he said, impatiently.
There was a click at the other line then another woman’s voice.
‘Phillip Campbell’s office, good afternoon.’
is Phillip there?’
‘Yes, who’s calling?’
‘David Blake.’
Another click. A hiss of static.
‘Good afternoon, David.’
He recognized Campbell’s Glaswegian accent immediately ‘ “I cannot offer you a contract”, that’s what’s on my mind,’ Blake snapped.
‘What the hell is going on, Phil? What’s wrong with the bloody book?’
i thought I told you that in the letter,’ the Scot said.
‘ “Speculation and theorising” is that it?’
‘Look, Dave, don’t start getting uptight about it. If you can’t stand a bit of criticism from a friend then maybe you’re in the wrong game. What I wrote was meant to help.’
‘You haven’t seen the completed manuscript yet,’ Blake reminded him.
‘Fair enough. Maybe I’ll change my mind once I have but, like I said, you need more concrete facts in it.
