‘Three of the people involved in that seance have already commited murder.
What about the rest of us? How long before something happens to us?’
Blake picked up the phone.
‘I’m going to call Mathias and Jim O’Neil,’ he said. T want to know if they’re aware of what’s been happening. They could be in danger too.’
‘And so could we,’ Kelly added, cryptically.
Blake didn’t answer.
‘Grosvenor House Hotel. Can I help you?’ said a female voice.
.‘I’d like to speak to Mr Jonathan Mathias,’ said Blake. ‘He has a suite at the hotel. My name is David Blake.’
There was a moment’s silence and, from the other end of the line, Blake heard the sound of paper rustling.
Kelly kept her eyes on him as he stood waiting.
Tm afraid Mr Mathias checked out this morning,” the voice told him.
‘Damn,’ muttered the writer; then to the receptionist, ‘Have you any idea where he is? Where he went? It is important.”
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there, sir,’ she said.
Blake thanked her and pressed his fingers down on the cradle.
‘No luck?’ Kelly asked.
‘He’s probably back in the States by now,’ the writer said, reaching for a black notebook which lay close to the phone. He flipped through it, running his finger down the list of names and numbers. He found what he was looking for and tapped out the correct number, listening as the purring tones began.
‘Come on,’ he whispered, impatiently.
‘Are you calling O’Neil?’ Kelly wanted to know.
Blake nodded.
‘He’s probably on stage at the moment but perhaps if I can talk to one of his crew I can get him to ring me back.’ The purring went on. Blake jabbed the
cradle and pressed the numbers again.
Still no answer.
‘What the hell are they playing at?’ he muttered.
He flicked the cradle and tried yet again.
A minute passed and he was about to replace the receiver when he heard a familiar click from the other end.
‘Hello, is that the Odeon?’ he blurted.
The voice at the other end of the line sounded almost unsure.
‘Yes. What do you want?’
Blake detected a note of unease in the voice. Fear perhaps?
is Jim O’Neil still on stage? If …”
The man at the other end cut him short.
‘Are you from a newspaper?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Blake told him, puzzled. ‘Why?’
i thought you might have heard about the accident. No press allowed. The police won’t let any of them through.’
‘What’s happened there?’ the writer demanded. ‘I’m a friend of O’NeiFs.’
‘There was an accident, a fire. God knows how many people are dead.’ The man’s voice began to crack. ‘O’Neil killed one of his band. It happened on the stage. I …’
‘Where’s O’Neil now?’
Kelly got up and walked across to the table. Blake picked up a pencil and scribbled a note on a piece of paper. She read it as he continued speaking: O’NEIL HAS KILLED. FIRE ON STAGE. PEOPLE IN AUDIENCE KILLED.
‘Oh my God,’ murmured Kelly.
‘Where is O’Neil at the moment?’ the writer repeated.
‘The police took him away,’ the other man said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked as if he didn’t know what was going on, he …’
The phone went dead.
Blake flicked the cradle but could get no response. He gently replaced the receiver.
For long moments neither he nor Kelly spoke, the silence gathering round them like an ominous cloud.
‘Toni Landers. Gerald Braddock. Roger Carr and now O’Neil,’ Kelly said, finally. ‘Who’s going to be next?’
Her words hung, unanswered, in the air.
New York
Jonathan Mathias raised both arms above his head and stood for a moment, surveying the sea of faces before him. All ages. All nationalities. But with a single purpose.
To see him.
The hall in the Bronx was the largest that he used and as he ran an appraising eye over the throng he guessed that somewhere in the region of 2,000 people had packed into the converted warehouse. They stood in expectant silence, waiting for a sign from him.
‘Come forward,’ Mathias said, his powerful voice reverberating around the crowded meeting place.
Men working for the psychic, dressed in dark suits, cleared an aisle through the middle of the horde, allowing the procession of pain to begin. First came the wheelchairs, some
of their occupants looking expectantly towards the stage where Mathias stood.
He saw a young woman being brought forward by two men who had laid her on a stretcher. She lay motionless, sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling, her tongue lolling from one corner of her mouth.
Dozens hobbled towards the psychic on crutches, many struggling with the weight of the callipers which weighed them down. Others were supported by friends or relatives.
Mathias counted perhaps twenty or more figures moving slowly behind those on crutches. Most carried the white sticks which marked them out as blind, others were led forward by members of the crowd or by the dark- suited stewards. One
of them, a man in his forties, stumbled and had to be helped up, but he continued on his way, anxious to reach the figure whom he could not see but who he knew would help him.
As the last of the sick passed through the midst of the crowd, the gap which had opened now closed. The people drifting back to their places. From where Mathias stood, it looked like one single amoebic entity repairing a self-inflicted rent in itself. The sea of faces waited as the lights in the hall dimmed slightly, one particularly bright spotlight focusing on the psychic, framing him in a brilliant white glow.
The psychic had still not lowered his arms. He closed his eyes for a moment and stood like some finely attired scarecrow, his head slightly bowed. In the almost palpable silence, even the odd involuntary cough or whimper seemed intrusive.
Without looking up, Mathias nodded imperceptibly.
From the right of the stage, a woman put her strength into pushing a wheelchair up the ramp which had been erected to facilitate the countless invalid chairs. A steward moved forward to help her but Mathias waved him back, watching as the woman strained against the weight contained in the chair. Eventually, she made it and, after a swift pause to catch her breath, she moved towards the psychic who fixed both her and the boy in the wheelchair in his piercing gaze.
The occupant of the chair was in his early twenties, his ruddy features and lustrous black hair somehow belying the fact that his body was relatively useless. The boy had large,
alert eyes which glistened in the powerful light and he met Mathias’ stare with something akin to pleading. He still wore a metal neck-brace which was fastened to his shattered spine by a succession of pins. Paralysed from the neck down the only thing which moved were his eyes.
‘What is your name?’ Mathias asked him.
‘James Morrow,’ the youngster told him.
