There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.
‘No,’ Carr told him. i wouldn’t. But then I don’t exploit the fears and gullibility of sick people.’
i wasn’t aware that / did, Mr Carr.’
The interviewer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, angry that Mathias was taking his verbal assault so calmly.
‘Then what do you class yourself as?’ he asked. ‘Surely not an ordinary psychic? The fact that you’re a multi-millionaire seems to lift you out of the category of ordinary.’
‘My powers are greater than an ordinary psychic …’
Carr interrupted.
‘Can you give me an example of your power?’ he said. ‘Read my mind.’ He smiled.
‘Would it be worth it?’ Mathias japed.
The audience joined him in his amusement. Carr did not appreciate the joke.
The veins at his temple throbbed angrily.
‘If we wheel in a couple of cripples could you make them walk?’ the interviewer hissed.
‘I don’t perform to order, Mr Carr,’ the psychic told him.
‘Only if the price is right, yes?’
The floor manager looked anxiously at the two men, as if expecting them to leap at one another. Mathias remained calm.
‘How would you answer the charge of charlatan?’ Carr said.
‘It’s for each individual to decide whether or not they believe in my powers,’
the American said. ‘You may believe as you wish.’
The two men regarded one another for long seconds, the interviewer seeking some flicker of emotion in the piercing blue eyes of his guest. Haw saw none.
Not even anger. Carr eventually turned away and looked directly into the camera.
‘Well, as you have heard, Mr Mathias invites us to make up our own minds as to his …powers. Although, having seen and heard his answers tonight I, for one, will draw just one conclusion. And I think you know what that is. Goodnight.’
As the studio lights dimmed, Carr got to his feet and glared down at Mathias.
‘Clever bastard aren’t you?’ he snarled. ‘Trying to make me look like a prick in front of millions of viewers.’
‘I don’t think you needed my help on that score,’ Mathias said. ‘You were the one looking for the fight, not me.’
‘Well, you can take your fucking powers and shove them up your arse,’ he snapped.
As he stormed off the set, the floor manager shouted something about the director wanting to see him.
‘Fuck him,’ Carr retorted and disappeared through the exit door.
Mathias was getting to his feet when the floor manager approached him.
‘The director told me to apologise to you for Mr Carr’s remarks during the interview,’ said the man.
Mathias smiled.
‘No harm done,’ he said.
The floor manager nodded and walked away. Only then did the psychic’s smile fade.
The bedroom window was open and the cool breeze caused the curtains to billow gently.
Roger Carr lay naked on his back, arms folded behind his head. He was gazing up at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on a fly which was crawling across the emulsioned surface. It eventually made its exit through the open window and Carr was left gazing at nothing but white paint. He lay there for a moment longer then rolled on to his side and reached for the bottle of beer which was propped on the bedside table. He tipped it up, discovering to his annoyance that it was empty. Carr tossed it away and it landed with a thud on the carpet, close to a pair of discarded knickers. The owner of the garment was out of the room at present. Carr thought about shouting to her to fetch him another bottle of beer. Instead he rolled over once more and returned to gazing at the ceiling.
With his hands behind his head, the ticking of his watch sounded thunderous in the silence. The hands had crawled round to 12.18 a.m.
He wondered what Mathias was doing.
Bastard.
Flash Yank bastard.
Carr had been surprised by the American’s composure during the interview earlier in the evening. Most people usually crumbled beneath such a concerted verbal onslaught, but Mathias had managed to remain calm throughout.
Fucking bastard.
Carr realized that the psychic had bettered him during the argument. It could scarcely be called a discussion after all. In front of millions of viewers and the studio audience, Carr had met his match and that hurt him deeply. The image of Mathias flashed into his mind and he sat up, his breath coming in short, angry grunts. He swung himself off the bed and walked across to the window where he inhaled the cool night air and looked out into the darkness.
The street was quiet, but for the barking of a dog. The house was less than five minutes drive from the BBC and Carr had chosen it for its peaceful surroundings. He didn’t like noise, he didn’t like interference. He was a solitary person once he left the studio. He liked to pick and choose whose company he kept, therefore few people ever got close to him. Or wanted to for that matter.
Since his wife had walked out on him over three years earlier, Carr had become even more embittered and antagonistic in his dealings with others. At the time she had tried to force him into a reconciliation but Carr was not a man to be forced into anything. He’d even packed one suitcase for her before hurling her car keys at her and showing her the door. She had told him she would give him another chance if he could try to change his ways. Four affairs in as many years had been too much for her.
Carr hadn’t wanted another chance.
He smiled as he remembered that night she left but the smile faded as he found himself thinking again about Mathias.
Once offended, Carr would stop at nothing to make things even. He bore grudges almost gleefully.
‘Yank bastard,’ he said, aloud.
‘First sign of madness.’
The voice startled him, he hadn’t heard her footfalls on the stairs. Carr spun round to see Suzanne Peters perched on the edge of the bed with a glass of milk in her hand.
‘What did you say?’ he asked, irritably.
‘I said it’s the first sign of madness,’ she told him. ‘Talking to yourself.’
Carr didn’t answer her, he merely turned around and walked back to the bed, flopping on it lazily.
Suzanne muttered something to him as she almost spilt her milk. She placed it on the table beside the bed and stretched out beside him pushing her naked
body against his, allowing her ample breasts to press into his side while her left hand snaked across his chest.
At twenty-two, Suzanne was almost half his age. She worked as a receptionist at Broadcasting House and had done for the past ten months. During that time, she and Roger Carr had become lovers although it was a term Carr disliked because, to him, it implied that there was some emotion involved in the relationship. In his eyes that was certainly not the case.
She nuzzled his chest, kissing it as she allowed her hand to reach lower towards his penis. She took his organ between her fingers and began to rub gently. He stiffened slightly but then she felt his own hand close around her tiny wrist, pulling her away from him. Suzanne sat up, sweeping her thick blonde hair back and looking at her companion with bewilderment.
‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’ she wanted to know.
Carr didn’t even look at her.
‘I’ve got something on my mind,” he said.
‘That’s obvious. Is it anything / can help with?’
