“Does that mean you have to stop?”
“I was considering it, so I phoned around a few research institutes where I know people personally. To see what they knew about multi-level hypnosis. I tried four different places. Three said it was theoretically possible but had never been done. Or they had never heard of it being done. The other one had not only heard about it but had a case of two-level hypnosis right now. I asked them to read me some typical extracts from their notes. And what they read me was straight out of a nightmare. I’ll be having nightmares myself before long. The patient was going on about a Captain Ames but this time it was not in Germany but Dublin.”
“What was the chap’s name? Had he been in the army?”
“It wasn’t a chap, my friend. It was a woman. Thirty-one years old and runs a theatrical agency. Used to be in showbiz herself. You’ve probably heard of her. Debbie Shaw.”
“Wasn’t she a dancer or something? Exotic dancer, whatever that is.”
“She was originally a stripper. Then she was an entertainer. A singer. Was in a touring company that went to the States and various places, putting on shows for American troops.”
“Why is she in hospital?”
“From what I can gather she’s got a post-hypnotic leak that’s giving her nightmares.”
“Explain to me again what a post-hypnotic leak is.”
“How much do you know about hypnosis?”
Boyd shrugged. “Virtually nothing.”
“Well, most people can be hypnotized quite easily. It’s often referred to as being asleep but the subject is never asleep. They can hear the hypnotist and, of course, they can respond. When somebody is under hypnosis they no longer initiate activity. They do what they are told to do. They accept uncritically what they are told. They stroke cats that aren’t there. They can be easily regressed into their childhood. And they can be made to forget what has happened under hypnosis including the fact that they were hypnotized. This is called post-hypnotic amnesia.
“It’s possible to make a special feature of ensuring that the subject doesn’t remember either the hypnosis or what happened under hypnosis. That’s called a post-hypnotic block. Under certain conditions a second or two of hypnotic experience can seep through. That’s what we call leaking.”
Boyd nodded. “And what causes the leaking?”
“Nobody has established that. There’s some indication that severe stress or certain types of illness can cause a leak but it’s not been scientifically established as yet.”
“What actually happens when they leak?”
Ansell frowned and paused. “It’s hard to explain. It’s a bit like the clutch on a car slipping. That’s not a bad analogy. Take a man who drives to work every day. Along the same route, day after day. One day he’ll look around and he won’t see where he is. Suddenly he doesn’t recognize what he sees. It’s all grown so familiar that it doesn’t register any more. He’s looked at it every day but he hasn’t seen it. Suddenly he sees it and doesn’t recognize it. When a hypnotic experience leaks it’s a bit like that. For a second or so you’re in the wrong place doing something you know you’ve never done. Then it goes and you’re back to normal.” Ansell smiled. “That’s about the best I can do. I’ve never experienced it.”
“Is it dangerous, or harmful?”
“It depends on what you experience. If it was reasonably normal, then it’s maybe disturbing. No more than that. But if the hypnotic experience was horrific then you can have real problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I don’t know enough to say, but I should imagine that disorientation could develop, a kind of schizophrenia. And depending on the character of the person concerned, you could end up with violent aggression or a complete retreat from reality. Hiding away from a reality that has become frightening.”
“Not good.”
“You’re right, my friend. Not good.”
Randall got off the bus in Victoria Street and put up his umbrella. It was only a short walk to the big glass building but it was one of those drenching summer cloudbursts that could soak you in seconds.
He walked through the entrance and was immediately stopped by a policeman.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I want to speak to a Special Branch officer.”
“Just take a seat, sir. I’ll see what we can do.”
Randall was shown to a seat beside a well-grown monstera deliciosa and he sat there waiting as the police constable phoned from a sound-proofed plastic hood. And the small video camera in the shadows of the foyer ceiling recorded him on tape.
It was fifteen minutes before a uniformed policewoman escorted him to one of the lifts and up to the fifth floor. There was no name, just a number, on the office door that she opened for him.
The youngish man at the small teak desk stood up. “Good morning. Would you take a seat?”
There was only one seat by the desk and when Randall had sat down the young man said, “My name’s Cavendish. I understand you wanted to see a Special Branch officer.”
“Are you Special Branch?”
“Yes. Can I have your name first.”
The SB man noted down the routine details and then closed his notebook.
“What is it you wanted?”
“I wanted to report something odd that’s happened.”
The SB officer sighed inwardly and wondered whether it would be UFOs or the Bermuda Triangle.
“Please go ahead, Mr. Randall.”
Steve Randall went through the whole story of Debbie and the previous night’s telephone call.
“Can you remember the telephone number, Mr. Randall?”
“Yes. It was Washington 547–9077.”
“D’you know if Miss Shaw has ever been in the USA?”
“Yes, she was a singer and entertainer over there.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t exactly know. I would guess she came back about eighteen months
