grief, his impotent anger, and his undusted possessions. The bell rang again, more persistently this time. Cursing, he went to the door and pulled it open. Michael was standing there.
‘John,’ he said, ‘I came as soon as I could.’
‘Mickey, what are you doing here?’ He ushered his brother into the flat.
‘Somebody phoned me. She told me all about it. Terrible news, John. Just terrible.’ He placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. Rebus, tingling, realised how long it had been since he had felt the touch of a human being, a sympathetic, brotherly touch. ‘I was confronted by two gorillas outside. They seem to have you under close watch here.’
‘Procedure,’ said Rebus.
Procedure maybe, but Michael knew how guilty he must have looked when they had pounced on him. He had wondered at the phone-call, wondered about the possibility of a trap. So he had listened to the local radio news. There had been an abduction, a killing. It was true. So he had driven over, into this lion’s den, knowing that he should stay well away from his brother, knowing that they would kill him if they found out, and wondering whether the abduction could have anything to do with his own situation. Was this a warning to both brothers? He could not say. But when those two gorillas had approached him in the shadows of the tenement stairs, he had thought the game all over. Firstly, they had been gangsters, out to get him. Then, they had been police officers, about to arrest him. But no, they were ‘procedure’.
‘You say it was a woman who called you? Did you catch her name? No, never mind, I know who it was anyway.’
They sat in the living-room. Michael, removing his sheepskin jacket, brought a bottle of whisky out of one of the pockets.
‘Would this help?’ he said.
‘It won’t do any harm.’
Rebus went to fetch glasses from the kitchen, while Michael inspected the living-room.
‘This is a nice place,’ he called.
‘Well, it’s a bit big for my needs,’ said Rebus. A choking sound came from the kitchen. Michael walked through to discover his big brother leaning into the sink, weeping grimly but quietly.
‘John,’ said Michael, hugging Rebus, ‘it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.’ He felt guilt well up inside him.
Rebus was fumbling for a handkerchief and, having found it, gave his nose a good blow and wiped his eyes.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ he sniffed, trying out a smile, ‘you’re a heathen.’
They drank half of the whisky, sitting back in their chairs, silently contemplating the shadowy ceiling above. Rebus’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his eye-lashes stung. He sniffed occasionally, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. To Michael, it was like being boys again, but with the roles reversed for a moment. Not that they had been that close, but sentiment would always win over reality. Certainly he remembered John fighting one or two of his playground battles for him. Guilt welled up again. He shivered slightly. He had to get out of this game, but perhaps already he was in too deep, and if he had brought John unknowingly into the game too … That did not bear thinking about. He had to see the Man, had to explain things to him. But how? He had no telephone number or address. It was always the Man who called him, never the other way round. It was farcical now that he thought about it. Like a nightmare.
‘Did you enjoy the show the other night?’
Rebus forced himself to think back to it, to the perfumed and lonely woman, to his fingers around her throat, the scene which had signalled the beginning of his end.
‘Yes, it was interesting.’ He had fallen asleep had he not? Never mind.
Silence again, the broken sounds of traffic outside, a few shouts from distant drunks.
‘They say it’s someone with a grudge against me,’ he said finally.
‘Oh? And is it?’
‘I don’t know. It looks like it.’
‘But surely you would
Rebus shook his head.
‘That’s the trouble, Mickey. I can’t remember.’
Michael sat up in his chair.
‘You can’t remember what exactly?’
‘Something. I don’t know. Just something. If I knew what, I
‘Something from your past?’ Michael was keening now. Perhaps this had nothing at all to do with himself. Perhaps it was all to do with something else, someone else. He grew hopeful.
‘From the past, yes. But I can’t remember.’ Rebus rubbed his forehead as though it were a crystal ball. Michael was fumbling in his pocket.
‘I can help you to remember, John.’
‘How?’
‘Like this.’ Michael was holding, between thumb and forefinger, a silver coin. ‘You remember what I told you, John. I take my patients back into past lives every day. It should be easy enough to take you back into your real past.’
It was John Rebus’s turn to sit up. He shook away the whisky fumes.
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘What do I do?’ But inside part of him was saying:
He wanted to know.
Michael came over to his chair.
‘Lie back in the chair. Get comfortable. Don’t touch any more of that whisky. But remember, not everyone is susceptible to hypnotism. Don’t force yourself. Don’t try too hard. If it’s going to come, it’ll come whether you will it or not. Just relax, John, relax.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Ignore it,’ said Rebus, but Michael had already left the room. There were voices in the hall, and when Michael reappeared he was followed into the room by Gill.
‘The telephone caller, it seems,’ said Michael.
‘How are you, John?’ Her face was angled into a portrait of concern.
‘Fine, Gill. Listen, this is my brother Michael. The hypnotist. He’s going to put me under — that’s what you called it, wasn’t it, Mickey? — to remove whatever block there might be in my memory. Maybe you should be ready to take some notes or something.’
Gill looked from one brother to the other, feeling a little out of things. An interesting pair of brothers. That’s what Jim Stevens had said. She had been working for sixteen hours, and now this. But she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Can a girl get a drink first?’
It was John Rebus’s turn to smile. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘There’s whisky or whisky and water or water. Come on, Mickey. Let’s get on with this. Sammy’s out there somewhere. There might still be time.’
Michael spread his legs a little, leaning down over Rebus. He seemed to be about to consume his brother, his eyes close to Rebus’s eyes, his mouth working in a mirror-image. That’s what it looked like to Gill, pouring whisky into a tumbler. Michael held up the coin, trying to find the angle of the room’s single low-wattage bulb. Finally, the glint was reflected in John’s retina, the pupils expanding and contracting. Michael felt sure that his brother would be amenable. He certainly hoped so.
‘Listen carefully, John. Listen to my voice. Watch the coin, John. Watch it shine and spin. See it spinning. Can you see it spinning, John? Now relax, just listen to me. And watch the spin, watch it glow.’
For a moment it seemed that Rebus would not go under. Perhaps it was the familial tie that was making him immune to the voice, to its suggestive power. But then Michael saw the eyes change a little, imperceptibly to the uninitiated. But he was initiated. His father had taught him well. His brother was in the limbo world now, caught in the coin’s light, transported to wherever Michael wanted him to go. Under his power. As ever, Michael felt a little
