‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I heard an explosion.’
Silence greeted her enquiry.
‘I asked you what happened,’ Kelly said, wondering why her companion was silent. She looked up.
Had she been able to, Kelly would probably have screamed. As it was, she felt as if someone had fastened a cord around her throat and was slowly twisting it, tighter and tighter, preventing her from making any sound. She shook her
head slowly from side to side.
Standing before her was David Blake.
For long seconds, Kelly could not speak. Her eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she gazed at Blake.
Or was it Blake? Was she too losing her grip on sanity?
He reached forward and touched her hand and she felt a shiver run through her.
It seemed to penetrate her soul.
‘How?’ was all she could gasp, her voice a horrified whisper. ‘I saw you die.’
She screwed up her eyes until they hurt then looked again.
Blake remained opposite her.
‘Tell me how,’ she hissed.
‘The power of the Shadow,’ he told her, quietly. ‘It enabled my Astral body to live on after death. Only total destruction of my physical form can cause my Astral body to disappear.’
She ran both hands through her hair.
‘How will it end?’ she asked him.
Blake didn’t answer.
‘Did you use hypnosis?’ she said.
‘A form of hypnosis, but the word is inadequate.’
‘Stop it now, please,’ she begged. ‘Let it end.’
‘It’s only just beginning,’ he whispered.
Kelly finally did manage a scream, a long wild ululation of despair. Tears were squeezed from her eyes as she closed the lids tightly. She slumped forward on the table, sobbing.
‘Make it stop,’ she whimpered. ‘Please, make it stop.’
She raised her head.
Blake was gone. She was alone once more.
The door to the room was flung open and Barton dashed in.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, seeing how distraught she looked. ‘We heard you scream.’
Kelly could not answer him. Tears dripped from her face and stained the statement sheet below. She saw Barton motion to someone behind him and, a second later, Joubert entered the room.
‘They told me what happened,’ said the Frenchman, watching as she wiped the tears from her face. She looked at Barton.
‘Where was Blake’s body taken after he was shot?’ she asked.
Barton looked bewildered.
‘Great Portland Street Hospital,’ he said. ‘What the hell does that matter?’
‘It has to be destroyed,’ Kelly told him. ‘Burned. Dismembered. Anything. But please, Inspector, you must destroy Blake’s body.’
‘You are off your head,’ the policeman said.
She turned to Joubert.
‘Blake was here. In this room. Not two minutes ago,’ she babbled. ‘He’s found a way for his Astral body to survive beyond death. These atrocities will continue unless the physical form can be destroyed.’
‘Hold up,’ Barton interrupted. ‘Are you trying to say that Blake isn’t dead, because if he’s not, who’s the geezer laid out at Great Portland Street …’
‘/ understand what she means, Inspector,’ Joubert interrupted.
‘Well I fucking well don’t,’ snapped the policeman. ‘Now one of you had better start making some sense, and fast, because I’m not known for my patience.’
‘Just destroy the body,’ Kelly said, imploringly.
‘Forget it,’ said Barton. ‘Who the hell do you think I am? The body’s at the hospital and it stays there until it’s buried.’
He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Kelly and Joubert looked at each other and, if defeat had a physical face, then it was mirrored in their expressions.
The light flickered once then died.
‘Sod it,’ muttered Bill Howard getting to his feet. He put down his copy of Weekend and fumbled his way across to the cupboard set in the far wall. He banged his shin on one of the slabs and cursed again, rubbing the injured
area.
There was some light flooding into the basement area but it was largely dissipated by the thick glass and wire mesh which covered the ground level window, the only window in the morgue of Great Portland Street Hospital.
Bill had worked there for the past thirty-eight years, ever since he’d been de-mobbed. He’d tried a spell as ward orderly but his real niche had been down below in the morgue. He felt curiously secure within its antiseptic confines.
He knew it was a place where he. would not be disturbed by the day-to-day running of the hospital. As long as he did his job then things went along fine. Clean up the stiffs, make sure they were ready for the post-mortems which were carried out in the room next door. Not once, in all his years at the hospital, had the task bothered him. Hardly surprisingly really, he reasoned, after having spent six years in the army medical corps treating all manner of wounds, gangrene, dysentery and other illnesses from Dunkirk to Burma. He’d seen sights which made his present job positively tame.
His wife had died three years earlier after a long battle with cancer but now Bill lived quite happily with his dog in a nice little flat not far from the hospital. Another half an hour and he’d be able to go home.
Bill found his way to the cupboard and opened it, peering through the gloom in search of the strip-light he required. In the dark confines of the morgue he had but one companion.
Bill had been informed that the body would be removed the following day by the police. It had been brought in at
about 8.30 that evening, the man had been shot, so Bill had been told. He’d waited until the police and hospital officials had left then he’d lifted the plastic sheet which covered the body and glanced at it. They had left it clothed and the name tag pinned to the lapel of the man’s bloodied jacket read ‘David Blake’.
Now Bill took the light tube from its cardboard casing and went in search of a chair to stand on.
As he passed the body he shuddered involuntarily. The morgue was usually cold but tonight it seemed positively wintry. Bill saw his breath form gossamer clouds in the air as he exhaled. He wouldn’t be sorry to get home in the warm.
He would not have to return until nine the following morning.
Bill clambered up onto the chair and removed the old light and slotted in the replacement.
He heard a faint rustling sound.
Bill froze, trying to detect where the noise was coming from. He realized that it was coming from the direction of his desk. He paused a moment, ears alert.
Silence.
He stepped down off the chair.
The rustling came again.
Bill hurried across to the light switch, his hand poised over it but, as he was about to press it, he saw what was making the noise. A slight breeze coming from the half open door was turning the pages of his magazine. He smiled.
Getting jumpy in your old age, he told himself.
Bill almost gasped aloud as he felt a particularly numbing sensation on the back of his neck. It felt as if
