‘I have insurance for this,’ he said good-naturedly, avoiding eye contact and staring instead at the bridge of her nose. ‘OK, I’m going to count to ten and you’re going to go into a deep sleep; when I want you to come out I’ll count to ten a second time and tell you to wake up – OK?’
‘Yah, OK.’ She gave a bored shrug.
He deepened his voice and allowed himself to become aware of the blur of her eyes, a brilliant emerald, so lurid he wondered if she was wearing tinted contact lenses. ‘One,’ he said and moved his head a few inches closer, without glancing away. ‘Two.’ He inched closer again. ‘Three … four … five … six.’ A couple of inches gained each time. Her blinking slowed right down and her eyes began to close. ‘Seven … eight … nine … ten.’
He waited a beat. ‘OK, Corinthia, you are now asleep, deep asleep, deep deep asleep. Do you feel awake or asleep?’
Her eyes were shut tight. Her voice sounded like a tape being played at the wrong speed. ‘Sh’I’m shleep.’
Conor glanced briefly around the table; all eyes were watching. ‘You sure you’re not just pretending, Corinthia? You’re really asleep?’
‘Realshleep.’
‘You want me to test whether you’re telling the truth or not? You did tell me you were impossible to hypnotize, so how do I know you’re not just lying to me now?’
‘Realshleep,’ she mumbled again.
‘OK.’ Conor took out a cigarette and handed it to the girl on his left. ‘Could you light this for me – just so everyone here knows it’s really alight and not some trick.’
The girl put it into her mouth, ducked forward towards a candle and lit the cigarette from the flame. She inhaled, coughed and handed the cigarette back to Conor.
Conor glanced around his audience, then took his subject’s left arm in his own left hand. ‘OK, Corinthia, you have a beautiful arm. Do you have any scars on it?’
‘S … no.’
‘You sure about that? No cigarette burns or anything like that?’
‘No scars.’
Conor held the arm out and rotated it, like a conjurer showing an empty box, so that everyone could see it. Then slowly and theatrically, he brought the lighted tip of the cigarette up to her skin.
There was a crinkling sound, then a crackle like greaseproof paper as the flame pressed into the skin. Someone gasped. Someone else said: ‘Jesus!’
Conor pressed harder, rotating the cigarette until it was completely extinguished, then solemnly handed it back to the girl who had lit it. ‘Could you check that it’s out – I don’t want to start a fire or anything.’
He heard an uncertain titter of laughter from two places away. Then he lowered his subject’s arm on to the table. ‘Right, Corinthia, I’m going to bring you back now. I’m going to count to ten and you’ll open your eyes and be awake. Here we go. One … two … three …’
On the count of ten, she opened her eyes and blinked with a confused expression, first at Conor, then around the table.
‘Welcome back,’ he said.
She frowned at him, darting short, suspicious glances, saying nothing.
‘Did you feel anything?’ Conor asked. ‘On your left arm?’
‘Yah – think someone was tickling me with a feather brush or something.’
‘Have a look – do you see any kind of mark there?’
She glanced at where he indicated with his finger, and rubbed a fleck of ash off, looking puzzled. ‘Mark? Can’t see anything.’ She held her arm up under the candlelight.
Conor reached over and picked up the crumpled cigarette. ‘You didn’t feel that being stubbed out on your arm?’
‘Come on! You didn’t!’
‘Christ, Conor!’ Charley Rowley said. ‘How the hell did you do it?’
Conor smiled and said nothing.
‘It just felt like a tickle,’ Corinthia said, her voice subdued suddenly. ‘Just a tickle.’
‘It’s a trick,’ the art dealer said. ‘Bloody clever, had us all fooled.’
‘It’s not a trick, Julian,’ a girl said. ‘I saw it. He actually stubbed it out on her skin.’
‘I still don’t believe I was hypnotized,’ Corinthia said, recovering her poise. ‘It’s obvious you have some trick cigarette you switch with the real one.’
Conor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s what you’re comfortable believing, right?’
‘It’s not a question of comfort. It’s the truth. There’s no way you could influence my body just by looking at me and speaking to me. I don’t believe it.’
Conor was silent for a moment, glancing around the table. Then he turned to the young woman and said, quietly: ‘There’s a glass of red wine in front of you, right?’
She looked fleetingly at the cut-glass goblet, then back to Conor. ‘Yes.’
Conor focused on the bridge of her nose once more. ‘I want you to watch that glass very very carefully, don’t take your eyes off it, not for one second, just keep on staring at it.’ As he spoke his voice became deeper and slower. ‘Keep staring at it, Corinthia, and as you stare you can feel the power growing inside you, spreading through your body, you can feel energy radiating out from deep in your stomach, travelling through your veins, building in your muscles. It’s making you feel strong, so strong. You love that glass, don’t you, Corinthia?’
She nodded and said, in a slurred voice: ‘Sh’yesh.’
‘You love that glass very much. It is one of the most beautiful glasses you have ever seen in your life. You covet it, don’t you? You would like to have glasses like that on your table at home. The truth is, Corinthia, that you are a little envious of Charley for having these glasses, aren’t you?’
‘A liddle.’
‘Only a little? I have a feeling you might be very jealous indeed. I think you might have a burning hatred for Charley for having these glasses. But there’s something you can do about that, isn’t there? And you know exactly what it is. Concentrate on the glass. Concentrate all the energy that’s inside your body, feel it building up. Centre on the glass. Hate the glass, Corinthia! Hate it more than you’ve ever hated anything in your life. Are you hating it now?’
‘Yes, yes, hating.’ There was an almost messianic fervour in her voice.
‘Hate it more! Now more still. Centre every inch of hatred in your entire body on that glass. Hate it with all your body, with all your heart.’
Corinthia’s face was turning red; her whole body was shaking.
‘Now release that energy!’
There was a sharp report; the glass shattered in front of his eyes, the bowl fragmenting outwards like a tiny bomb. Shards of glass tinkled as they struck pieces of crockery, silverware, cutlery. A pool of red wine began seeping into the linen tablecloth around the base of the stem, which was the only part of the glass still intact.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Conor caught his host’s eyes; Rowley was looking aghast.
‘My God!’ Rowley’s girlfriend said, and began to sprinkle salt on to the wine stain.
Corinthia stared silently at the table, her face ashen, as if she had seen a ghost.
‘P-pour some white wine on to it – stops it staining,’ a woman said.
‘Sorry about the glass, Charley,’ Conor said. ‘I’ll pay you for it.’
Rowley shook his head. ‘Wasn’t you that broke it.’ He relit his cigar with a shaking hand. ‘Shit! That’s creepy.’
‘Got any other tricks?’ the girl on his right asked.
‘Bit of alchemy or something, Conor?’ Rowley said, trying with a nervous smile to make light of it. ‘Turn a few base metals into gold for an encore? Or mix some magic potion to cure all diseases?’
Conor winked at him. ‘That’s the day job,’ he said.
19
Barnet, North London. 1946
‘Do you want a cage?’
Daniel Judd shook his head.
The shopkeeper in his brown overalls eyed the small, neatly dressed boy with a library book tucked in t
he crook of his arm dispassionately. ‘You need to keep ’em in cages. They gnaw.’
Daniel Judd shook his head again. ‘I just need a box to get it home,’ he said in a shy voice that was barely more than a whisper.
‘You got a cage at home?’
The boy blushed and nodded.
The shopkeeper shrugged, delved beneath his counter and placed a small shoebox on the top. He rummaged around again, produced a skewer, and proceeded to punch half a dozen holes in the lid of the box. He eyed the boy again. ‘You want a box of food for it?’
The boy nodded, and glanced nervously at the door, frightened his mother might happen to walk past. He slid his hand into his pocket, pulled out the ten shilling note he had been given by an aunt for his twelfth birthday a few days before, and pushed it towards the man.
The till rang and the shopkeeper grudgingly handed him nine shillings and one penny change, then pushed the box towards him. ‘Mind to give it plenty of water.’
Daniel opened the door of the shop, heard the sharp ping of the bell and peered at the busy street in both directions before venturing out. There was another ping as the door closed behind him. A bus went past, then a black Hillman and a grocery boy on a bicycle. He tucked the box under his mackintosh and, half walking half running, hurried home, ducking his head for protection against the heavy late August drizzle as well as to reduce the chances of being spotted.
He went under the railway arch, past a bomb site with one facade of a terraced house still partially standing, and into the tree-lined suburban street. A semi-detached pebble dash. He saw a neighbour, Mrs Cornish, a friend of his mother’s, coming out of her gate, and crossed the road to avoid her. A van hooted at him as he ran across its path.
A boy from a few houses up, Jimmy Dyers, was careering unsteadily down the pavement on a scooter and stopped when he reached Danny.
‘Want to come and play this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘Can’t, I’m busy.’
‘What you got?’
‘Nothing,’ Daniel said, his face reddening.
‘What’s in the box?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Can I see?’
Daniel pushed it further under his coat.
‘That a book?’
‘I have to get home – my mum’s waiting.’
‘Can you play tomorrow?’
‘I’ll see. If I’m allowed.’
‘You’re scared of your mum, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are so!’
‘I’m not.’
‘Everyone says you are. My dad says your parents are crazy.’
Daniel hurried on and turned left into an identical street. He could see his house, six along on the right, and stopped behind an elm. He removed his mackintosh and carefully bundled the shoebox and book tightly inside it, then walked on with the package wedged underarm, trying to appear nonchalant.
The rain came down harder as he crossed the road, and he glanced at the bay windows, trying to detect any sign of movement behind the net curtains. He knew that when he left home his mother often watched him from the upstairs front window, checking to see if he committed any sins in the street.
As he approached the low wall that enclosed the rosebed, he first satisfied himself that the coast was clear, then leaned over the wall and pushed the box and the book out of sight at the base of a sprawling Old English rose. Wet petals brushed his face and a thorn pricked his hand; he smelled the heavily perfumed scent fleetingly, then stood up and carried on, with his coat over his arm, unlatching the gate, walking up the driveway, and around to the side door.
He opened it and went into the kitchen. His mother was standing in there pouring cake mix into a row of baking trays, her weekly duty for the church coffee morning; a mournful violin concerto played on the wireless. She looked up at him sharply. ‘Why aren’t you wearing your coat?’
‘I was wearing it.’
She reached out a hand and touched his shirt. Then without warning, she slapped him hard on the face. ‘Liar! God sees your lies, Daniel, God hears every one. Understand?’
He nodded sullenly.
‘You’re soaking, you stupid boy! Go and change at once.’
He watched her resume her work of carefully filling each of the indents in the tray and scooping off the drips. Five more trays, he counted. There was time if he was quick.
He closed the kitchen door, ran across the hall, opened the front door as silently as he could, then sprinted over to the rosebed, picked up the box and book, wrapping his coat around them, dashed back to the house and slipped inside. He eyed the kitchen door fearfully; but it stayed closed.
He raced up to his bedroom, pushed the box under his bed, then sat down for a moment and breathed out. When he opened the door again and peered out there was no sign of his mother; he could hear the wireless still playing. He returned to lean under the bed and slid the box out, prising up one end of the lid and peering in. ‘Hello, little fellow,’ he said. ‘Expect you’d like a drink? Won’t be a sec.’ He gingerly pushed his finger forward, mindful of having been bitten by a rabbit before, stroked the top of its head, then closed the lid and tiptoed through to the bathroom.
He looked around for a receptacle. There was the white Bakelite tooth mug with the family’s three toothbrushes sticking out. Too risky if his mother came in. Then he saw the sponge by the bathtub. Perfect! He held it for a few seconds under the cold tap, then hurried back into his bedroom.
Squeezing some water on to his palm, he held it out and after a few moments, the baby rabbit licked greedily. ‘You’re really thirsty, aren’t you?’ he whispered, thinking hard. There was a bottle of ink in his desk drawer. He unscrewed the cap, squeezed the sponge into it, then put the ink cap in the box with the rabbit, and added a generous portion of food. Stroking the creature’s back, he whispered, ‘See you later, chappie,’ closed the lid and pushed everything back under the bed.
He turned to the book and found the pages he had marked with a tiny dog-ear. He read avidly for some minutes, memorizing the instructions, before pushing it under the bed too. Then he tiptoed into his parents’ bedroom, listening for sounds from downstairs, and made his way across to his mother’s dressing table.
One of the drawers was full of stockings. Shaking with nerves he pulled a single stocking out and crammed it into the pocket of his shorts; next, he cast his eye at the silver photograph frame on top of the dressing table. There were half a dozen black and white pictures of her, each stacked behind the other; he removed one from the very back, slipped it inside his shirt, and tiptoed back to his room.
He added the two new items to those already under the bed, changed out of his wet clothes and went down for his tea with a broad grin on his face.
He was ready. Now he just had to wait for the right day, according to the instructions. And he had to hope they didn’t strap his hands; they had not done so for some weeks now. His only real concern was his purchase from the pet shop – if it started scratching or making any other sounds he was in trouble. Killing it would be the easiest solution, but that would defeat the purpose in having a living creature. It had to be alive; it said so very clearly in the book. And he intended to obey the book to the letter.
Some pages had words he didn’t understand, but he reckoned he had grasped enough. Somewhere in the book it said that the most important thing was to believe it would work. If you believed it would happen then you could make it happen. And Daniel did believe.
20
Berkshire, England. Sunday 6 November, 1994
Rabbits scattered in the headlights as Monty gently navigated her MG through the potholes of the cart track. She was tired from a long drive in heavy traffic, and looking forward to being home again after spending a fractious and exhausting weekend in Bath with old schoolfriend Polly Maguire, husband Richard, and their three appallingly spoilt and obnoxious children.
It was the same every time she visited them; a perfect tonic fo
r any pangs she might feel about not having a family of her own. The radio announced the seven o’clock news. She thought of Polly who would be struggling for a good hour or so yet to get the last of the children to bed, and for a long while after that to get them all asleep. By contrast Monty savoured the prospect of her own tranquil evening ahead, curling up in front of a log fire with the Sunday papers and the television.
Foxholes Cottage was remote, isolated half a mile off a quiet country road, and four miles from the nearest village. Her closest neighbours were the farmer and his wife who lived a mile further down the track, their house out of sight in a dip beyond a row of pylons.
Apart from farm vehicles and the occasional lost rambler, no one ever passed by. She felt secure here, it was her refuge. Only twenty minutes from their old lab on the university campus, it had been perfectly situated. Now, having to commute to London most days, it was less convenient. She had tried using the train, but the journey time was no quicker and it was considerably more expensive than driving. Although she was earning over twice what she had been drawing previously with her father, she was not overpaid and still needed to budget.
She passed the large barn on her right, then saw the silhouette of her cottage ahead, in complete darkness. For a moment she was concerned, because she could clearly remember having left lights on in several rooms. Then she smiled; Alice, her cleaning lady who came three mornings a week, had been going to pop in today to feed the cats – as she always did – in Monty’s absence. Alice was a resourceful woman who journeyed out here by bus and foot, but she could never get it into her head that leaving lights on was anything other than a waste of money.
The exterior of the cottage was in a poor state of repair. The white picket fence urgently needed painting, and some of the clapboard cladding was lifting away from the upper storey, not helped by the tangle of ivy, honeysuckle and clematis which had suckered on to every plank and brick.
Monty had originally been attracted more by the tranquillity and the fine sweeping views than by the actual building itself, which was unexceptional looking – half-timbered, traditional and functional rather than picture-postcard pretty. It had been built in the 1880s to house a farm manager, and was grander than a traditional artisan cottage, with three bedrooms and good-sized reception rooms, as well as boasting a study.