Kelly shot a wary glance at the Frenchman.
‘Why?’ she demanded, i can handle the work alone. I’ve been doing it since John Fraser … left,’ she emphasised the last word with contempt.
‘Joubert is more experienced than you are. I’m sure you appreciate that,’
Vernon said, in fact, I felt it only fair to put him in charge of the project.’
‘I’ve been involved with the work from the beginning. Why should Joubert be given seniority?’
i explained that. He’s more experienced.’
‘Then you don’t leave me much choice, Dr Vernon. If you put Joubert over me, I’ll resign.’
Vernon studied Kelly’s determined features for a moment.
‘Very well,’ he said, flatly. ‘You may leave.’
Kelly tried to disguise her surprise but couldn’t manage it.
if that’s the way you feel, then I won’t try to stop you,’ Vernon continued, unwrapping a fresh menthol sweet. He popped it into his mouth.
She got to her feet and, without speaking, picked up her leather attache case and fumbled for the notes on the desk.
‘Leave the notes,’ said Vernon, forcefully.
She dropped them back on to the desk.
‘I’m sorry you couldrft have accepted this situation,’ Vernon told her. ‘But, as you know, the work of the Institute
comes first.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ she said, acidly, i hope you find what you’re looking for.’ She glanced at Joubert. ‘Both of you.’
Kelly felt like slamming the door behind her as she left but she resisted the temptation. As she made her way up the corridor towards the entrance hall she felt the anger seething within her.
She stalked out into the bright sunshine but paused for a moment, narrowing her eyes against the blazing onslaught. She found that the palms of her hands were sweating, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She marched across to her waiting car and slid behind the wheel, sitting there in the cloying heat,
not allowing herself to calm down. She thumped the steering wheel in frustration, looking to one side, towards the Institute.
How could Vernon let her walk out just like that? She inhaled and held the breath for a moment.
And Joubert.
The arrogant bastard. She wondered if his research was the only reason for being in England.
The reality of the situation suddenly seemed to hit her like a steam train and she felt tears welling in her eyes.
Tears of sadness for Lasalle.
Tears of frustration for herself. Of anger.
Her body shook as she felt the hot, salty droplets cascading down her cheeks and she reached for a tissue, hurriedly wiping them away.
She wondered if Joubert and Vernon were watching her.
The seed of doubt inside her mind had grown steadily over the past few weeks until now, it had become a spreading bloom of unquenchable conviction.
There was, she was sure, a conspiracy taking place between the Frenchman and the Institute Director. Nothing would dissuade her from that conclusion now.
First John Fraser, then Michel Lasalle. Both had been involved with the projects on Astral projection and both were now dead.
Coincidence?
She thought about what had happened over the past couple of days as she started the engine and drove off.
The seance.
Toni Landers. Roger Can. Gerald Braddock. She glanced over her shoulder at the gaunt edifice of the Institute. Even in the warm sunshine it looked peculiarly menacing.
She rang Blake as soon as she got in. She told him what had happened that morning. He listened patiently, speaking softly to her every now and then, calming her down. She felt like crying once more, such was her feeling of helplessness and rage.
He asked her if she was OK to drive and, puzzled, she said that she was.
‘Will you come and stay with me?’ he wanted to know.
Kelly smiled.
You mean move in?’
‘Stay as long as you like. Until this is sorted out or, you never know, you might even decide that you can put up with me for a few more weeks.’
There was a long silence between them finally broken by Blake.
‘Best food in town,’ he said, chuckling.-
Til start packing,’ she told him.
They said their goodbyes and Kelly replaced the receiver, suddenly anxious to be with him. She hurried through into the bedroom, hauled her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and began rummaging through her drawers for the items she would need.
She felt a slight chill but disregarded it and continued packing.
London
The crushed lager can landed with a scarcely audible thud on the stage in front of the drum riser. A roadie, clad in jeans and a white sweatshirt, scuttled to pick up the debris and remove it. On the far side of the stage two of his companions were dragging one of the huge Marshall amps into position alongside three others of the same size. Each was the height of a man.
Jim O’Neil picked up another can of drink and downed half in one huge swallow.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wandered back and forth behind the curtain. From the other side he could hear the sound of almost 2,000 voices muttering, chatting expectantly. Whistles punctuated the gathering sea of sound.
He guessed that the theatre was full to capacity and the crowd were growing restless as the minutes ticked away until the curtain rose. The place smeiled of sweat and leather.
O’Neil himself looked like something from a gladiatorial arena clad as he was
in a pair of knee boots, leather trousers and a waist-coat decorated with hundreds of studs. On both arms he wore leather wrist-bands which covered his muscular forearms, the nickel-plated points glinting in the half- light.
There was a burst of sound from his left and he turned to see his lead guitarist, Kevin Taylor, adjusting his amps.
A loud cheer from the other side of the curtain greeted this involuntary action and when the drummer thundered out a brief roll there was even more frenzied shouting from the waiting crowd.
O’Neil wandered over towards Kevin Taylor and tapped the guitarist on the shoulder. He turned and smiled at the singer. At twenty-four, Taylor was almost five years younger than O’Neil but his long hair and craggy face gave him the appearance of a man much older. He wore a white tee-shirt and striped trousers.
‘Go easy on the solos tonight,’ O’Neil said to him, taking another swig from his can of lager. ‘There are four of us in the band you know.’
i don’t know what you mean,” said the guitarist, a slight Irish lilt to his accent. ‘At the last gig you nearly wore your fucking fingers out
you played so many solos.’
‘The audience seems to enjoy it,’ Taylor protested.
‘I don’t give a fuck about the audience. I’m telling you, don’t overdo it and keep it simple. Nothing fresh. Right?’
“You’re the boss.’
‘Yeah,’ O’Neil grunted. *I am.’ He finished the lager, crushed the can in one powerful hand and dropped it at
