an obscene attempt to push her decaying body against him, writhing at the contact. He had felt pieces of putrescent flesh peeling off in his hands like leprous growths as he fought to push her away.
Lasalle got to his feet, holding his stomach. He scurried to the kitchen and stood over the sink feeling his nausea building. He splashed his face with cold water and the feeling passed slowly. The Frenchman found that he was shaking uncontrollably so he gripped the edge of the sink in an effort to stop the quivering. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran in salty rivulets down his face.
He remembered falling asleep at the table in the sitting room. He’d been slumped across it when he’d woken. Lasalle closed his eyes, but the image of his dead wife came hurtling into his consciousness. He filled a glass with water then walked back into the sitting room, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket for the tranquilizers. He swallowed one. Two. Three. The Frenchman washed them down with the water and sat motionless at the table, his hands clenched into fists.
On the sideboard opposite, the photo of his wife smiled back at him and Lasalle, unaccountably, felt tears brimming in his eyes. He blinked and one trickled down his cheek.
‘Madelaine,’ he whispered, softly.
He closed his eyes once more, trying to remember how he had come to fall asleep so early in the evening. It was not yet 9 p.m.
It must have been after the phone call, he guessed.
The phone call.
He swallowed hard. He had spoken to Joubert. That much he did remember.
Lasalle raised both hands to his head as if he feared it might explode. He could not seem to think straight. Thoughts and images tumbled through his mind with dizzying speed.
The phone call. The nightmare. Madelaine.
He exhaled deeply, wiping more sweat from his face.
The nightmare still stood out with unwelcome clarity. That monstrous vision filled his mind again and he shook his head but, this time, there was something else. Something which he only now remembered.
As the decomposing corpse of his wife had embraced him, he had heard soft malevolent laughter and he knew what had propelled him, shrieking, from the nightmare.
The laughter had been coming from the graveside.
From Joubert.
London
The young make-up girl smiled as she applied the last few touches of foundation to the face of Mathias. She then took what looked like a small paint brush and flicked away the residue. The layer of make-up was sufficiently thick to protect his face from the bright studio lights he would soon be facing.
Mathias returned her smile, watching as she gathered her brushes, powder pots and small bottles and slipped them back into a leather bag she carried. He thanked her then got to his feet and opened the door for her. She smiled and left.
As the psychic was about to close the door again he saw a tubby man
approaching along the corridor. The man was dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt and he had a set of earphones around his neck.
‘Are you ready, Mr Mathias?’ he asked. ‘There’s two minutes before you go on.’
The psychic nodded and stepped back inside the dressing room for a moment to inspect his reflection in the large mirror, then he followed the tubby man along the corridor towards a door marked: STUDIO ONE.
As they drew closer he could hear the muted sounds of many voices coming from inside. An occasional laugh which
signalled that the audience were settling down. There was a red light above the door and a sign which read: ON AIR.
The tubby man opened the door carefully and ushered Mathias through.
The sound of the audience was very loud now but Mathias paid it little heed as he was led to a chair behind the main set.
From where he sat he could see numerous spotlights suspended over the set but, other than that, he could see only crew members dashing furtively about, obeying the orders of the floor manager whose instructions they received via their headphones. High up above the studio was the room where the director and his assistants sat, watching everything on banks of screens, relaying information to the floor.
Mathias could hear Roger Carr’s voice. He was speaking about the supernatural, dropping in the odd joke where he felt it necessary. The audience laughed happily. Mathias sipped at the glass of water on the table before him and shook his head.
The tubby man turned to him and held up one finger.
The psychic got to his feet.
Roger Carr turned towards the camera on his right hand side, noticing that a red light had just blinked into life on top of it. He smiled thinly at it, getting himself more comfortable in his leather chair.
‘My last guest tonight,’ he began. ‘Many of you may already have heard of.
Certainly in America, he’s what you might call an institution. Some might even say he should be in an institution.’
The audience laughed.
‘He’s revered by millions as a healer, an expert on the supernatural. Someone even dubbed him “The Messiah in the Tuxedo”.’
Another ripple of laughter.
‘Whether his powers are genuine or not remains to be seen but there are countless Americans who claim that he is truly a miracle worker. Perhaps after this interview, you can form your own opinions. Saviour or charlatan? Messiah or magician? Judge for yourselves.’ Carr got to his feet. ‘Please welcome Jonathan Mathias.’
There was a sustained round of applause as the American walked onto the set.
He glanced at the audience and smiled as he made his way towards Carr. The host shook hands with him and motioned for him to sit. The applause gradually died away.
‘ “The Messiah in a Tuxedo” ‘ said Carr, smiling. ‘How do you react to comments like that?’
‘I don’t take much notice of criticism,’ Mathias began. ‘I …’
Carr cut him short.
‘But surely, some of the things you claim to have done do leave you open to it?’
‘If I could finish what I was saying,’ Mathias continued, quietly. ‘Yes, I do receive criticism but mostly from people who don’t understand what I do.
Didn’t someone once say that any fool can criticise and most do.’
There was a chorus of chuckles from the audience.
‘You mentioned what you do,’ Carr continued. ‘You claim to be a faith-healer and …’
‘I’ve never claimed to be a faith-healer,’ Mathias corrected him.
‘But you do perform acts of healing? Non-medical acts.’
‘Yes.’
‘If that isn’t faith-healing then what is it?’
‘People come to me because they know I will help them. I have never claimed …’
‘You charge money for this “healing”?’ Carr said.
‘A small fee. Usually people donate money. I don’t ask for much from them.
They give because they want to. As a token of appreciation.’
Carr nodded.
‘You also appear on American television, do you not?’ he said. ‘Presumably you are well paid for that?’
‘I don’t have a pay cheque on me right now,’ Mathias said, smiling. ‘But, yes, the pay is good. As no doubt yours is, Mr Carr.’
‘You wouldn’t deny then that your basic interests are commercial.’
‘I have a talent, a gift. I use it to help others.’
‘But you wouldn’t perform for nothing?’
“Would you?’
