Peter James was educated at Charterhouse and then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screen writer and film producer (his projects included the award-winning Dead of Night) before returning to England. His previous novels, including the number-one bestseller Possession, have been translated into twenty-eight languages. All his novels reflect his deep interest in medicine, science and the paranormal. He has recently produced several films including the BAFTA-nominated The Merchant of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes, and The Bridge of San Luis Rey, starring Robert De Niro, Kathy Bates and Harvey Keitel. He also co-created the hit Channel 4 series Bedsitcom, which was nominated for a Rose d’Or. His first crime novel, Dead Simple, won the German Krimi-Blitz 2005 prize for crime fiction, the French 2006 Prix Polar International, and the French 2007 Prix Coeur Noir. His second, Looking Good Dead, was shortlisted for the 2007 British Galaxy Book Awards Crime Thriller of the Year and the French 2007 Prix SNCF Du Polar. He is currently adapting Dead Simple and Looking Good Dead for television. Peter James lives near Brighton, in Sussex, and Notting Hill, London. Visit his website at www.peterjames.com.
Praise for Peter James
‘Peter James has found his own literary niche, somewhere between Stephen King and Michael Crichton’ Mail on Sunday
‘Gripping … plotting is ingenious … in its evocation of how a glossy cocoon of worldly success can be unravelled by one bad decision it reminds me of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities’
The Times
‘Probably James’s finest novel to date. I have not read a work so focused and intense in its depiction of the classic Orwellian nightmare’
Shivers
‘A thought-provoking menacer that’s completely technological and genuinely frightening about the power of future communications’
Time Out
‘James has been compared with Stephen King, but in many ways he’s better’
Daily Express
‘An awesome talent … one of the few writers working in the genre today whose work is always a pleasure to read and a disappointment to finish’
Starburst
‘A well-paced thriller that delivers maximum emotional torture’
Chicago Tribune
‘This compulsive story is a tale of the search for immortality … I cannot remember when I last read a novel I enjoyed so much’
Sunday Telegraph
By Peter James
Dead Letter Drop
Atom Bomb Angel
Billionaire
Possession
Dreamer
Sweet Heart
Twilight
Prophecy
Alchemist
Host
The Truth
Denial
Faith
Dead Simple
Looking Good Dead
Not Dead Enough
CHILDREN’S NOVEL
Getting Wired!
POSSESSION
Peter James
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by Victor Gollancz
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books
Copyright © Peter James/Really Scary Books Ltd 1988
The moral right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781409133032
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
www.orionbooks.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Praise for Peter James
Also by Peter James
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A very special thank you is owed to my Agent, Jon Thurley, whose faith, encouragement and advice has been a constant source of strength. And to Joanna Goldsworthy and the team at Victor Gollancz for immensely constructive input, and for having the belief and the courage to take the ball. …
A mention is long overdue to David Summerscale, who taught me English at Charterhouse, who, probably unknowingly, gave me the confidence to start writing.
Many people have helped me with my research, both directly and indirectly, and it is to them that much of the authenticity of this book is due. The list is long, and so many have given much more than I ever asked for: especially Canon Dominic Walker, O.G.S.; the Reverend David Gutsell; the Reverend Jim Mynors; the staff of the College of Psychic Studies; the Reverend Gerald Shaw, Hospital Chaplain, Broadmoor; Dr Duncan Stewart; Tim Parker of St Cuthmans Wines; Peter Hall of Breaky Bottom; Renée-Jean Wilkin; Peter Lee; Jim Sitford; my secretary, Peggy Fletcher; and my wife Georgina who gave me tireless patience and encouragement.
To Georgina
‘For life is but a dream, whose shapes return, some frequently some seldom, some by night and some by day’
James Thomson
CHAPTER ONE
Fabian lay cocooned in the rich warm softness of the bedding, and stared out through the open curtains. Shafts of red speared the dawn sky, pink, bloody.
He rolled over and studied the sleeping girl beside him. Then he slipped out of bed and walked naked through the tangle of clothes on the floor to the window. He stared out at the morning mist, and at the thick coils of smoke from the last of the winter prunings in the vineyards. Like the aftermath of a battle, he thought, and shuddered suddenly, his thin sinewy body covered in goose-pimples.
The air was good, filled with dew and the strange animal smells of the girl that were all over him; he scratched himself, then stared once more out of the window, uneasily.
‘Fabian?’ There was a gentle rap on the door, followed by a clumsy thump.
‘Two minutes.’ He felt the strain on his throat as he tried to shout and whisper at the same time. The girl stirred slightly, rustling like a leaf in a breeze, and was silent again.
He pulled on his jeans, collarless shirt and p
ullover, stuffed the rest of his clothes into his bag, and sloshed some cold water on his face. He dried it off, took half a step towards the girl, then stopped, picked up his bag and went out of the room, closing the heavy door silently behind him.
Otto, Charles and Henry were already outside, waiting. Otto, tall, with his hooked nose that overhung his mouth, his black hair raked sharply back from his pockmarked face, his herringbone coat hanging from his gangly frame, looked like a huge bird of prey. Charles stood beside him, rubbing his hands, bleary eyed, with his usual baffled expression, as if the morning had crept up and caught him unawares. ‘God, I feel bozoed,’ he said, yawning. Henry leaned against the car, hands sunk deep in his coat pockets, his eyes closed.
‘I’m sorry, I overslept,’ said Fabian, unlocking the rear hatch of the Volkswagen and pulling out the scraper.
‘Any chance of a coffee before we go?’ said Charles.
‘Let’s get some en route,’ said Fabian, dragging the rubber scraper through the heavy dew on the windows. It was still almost dark out here. He stared at the black, threatening silhouettes of the tall pines, and at the cold grey walls of the château. He glanced up at the windows, and tried to spot the one with the open curtains; he thought he saw a face there and looked away. ‘I’ll drive the first leg.’
Charles and Henry squeezed through into the rear seat, and Otto sank down in the passenger seat. Fabian switched on the ignition. The engine turned over noisily, clattering, popping, caught for an instance, then died.
‘Ace,’ said Charles. ‘Going to be an absolutely ace morning.’
‘Yurr, really nice,’ said Henry in his slow, deep voice. He closed his eyes again. ‘Wake me up in Calais.’
‘I would prefer to be heading south rather than north,’ said Otto, toying with his seat-belt. ‘Bloody thing; I can never remember how this goes.’
The engine clattered, then fired again, rasping furiously.
‘Sorry that we’re dragging you away, Fabian,’ said Charles.
Fabian shrugged, leaned forward and switched on the lights.
‘Is she a good screw?’ said Otto.
Fabian smiled, and said nothing. He never discussed women.
The girl stood by the window, a flat, drained expression on her face as she watched the red Golf drive off into the mist. She touched her left arm gently; it hurt like hell. She walked over and sat in front of the dressing table and stared in the mirror. She flinched, then stared again closely at the purple bruises on her breasts, at the gouge down her left cheek, at the swelling around her right eye, and at her puffy lip, cracked and stained with dried blood. She stared for a long time, straight into her own eyes, unable to avert her gaze, then gently lowered her fingers between her legs and winced in pain at the touch. ‘Salaud,’ she said.
‘What ferry do you think we’ll make?’ said Charles.
‘If the road’s this empty, we should be at Calais around four.’
‘You’re a jammy bastard, Fabian, aren’t you.’
‘Jammy?’
‘Yes, jammy.’
DIJON … MACON … LYONS … PARIS … The jumble of autoroute signs flashed past as Fabian accelerated hard around the flyover, feeling the tyres bite into the tarmac, the tightness of the steering wheel, the crisp roar of the warmed-up engine, the pure thrill of an open, empty road. As the curve straightened out on to the autoroute approach, he flattened the accelerator and the Volkswagen leapt forwards. Sometimes it seemed to him the car would take off, be free of the road and fly, fly straight up into the stars. He watched the curve of the rev counter needle, flicked up through the gears each time the needle touched the red sector, until he was in fifth, staring at the speedometer, his foot still hard on the floor. One hundred and twenty-five. One hundred and thirty.
‘What are your plans this term?’ said Fabian, above the roar of the engine and the wind.
Otto and Charles looked at each other, not sure to whom the remark was addressed. Otto pushed in the lighter and shook a crumpled Marlboro out of a dented pack.
‘I don’t make plans,’ said Otto. ‘I never make plans.’
‘How are your parents?’ said Charles.
‘Mine?’ said Fabian.
‘Yes.’
‘O.K.’ He hesitated, uncomfortably. ‘Still apart. How’s your mother?’ He raised his arm and wound the roof back, letting in a blast of fridge-cold air and a roar which drowned Charles’s reply. He stared at the sun to the right, a low red ball rising above the hills of Burgundy, the sun that would warm the grapes that would be made into wines, great whites, great reds, blood red. In twenty years’ time he might open a bottle of Clos de Vougeot and lean over to someone and say, ‘I saw the sun that went into that bottle; I was there.’
The sense of doom enveloped him again; the ball of sun seemed too close, suddenly. He wanted to open his window and push it further away. A shaft of light played for an instant down the dashboard, ran down it, vibrant, lively, like fresh blood, he thought.
‘I’m going to try and play cricket this term,’ said Charles.
‘Cricket,’ said Otto, staring at him oddly.
‘Cambridge might be my last chance to play.’
‘Did you say cricket?’ shouted Fabian.
‘Yes,’ Charles shouted back.
Fabian saw a cluster of red lights in the distance; there was still not enough daylight to make things out clearly. Several vehicles, bunched together: an amber indicator flashed; something was moving out into the middle lane. He pulled the Golf over into the fast lane, eased his foot slightly on the accelerator, and flashed his lights. ‘I didn’t know yon played.’
‘I was in the First Eleven at Winchester.’
‘First Eleven Wankers,’ grinned Fabian, turning round for an instant.
‘What?’
‘Wankers!’
‘Fabian!’
Fabian heard Otto’s voice, strange, garbled, cut short, and sensed him flinch, tighten up. He stared back at the road.
There were headlights coming straight at them. Big, blinding lights, towering above them, coming the wrong way in the fast lane.
‘Lorry!’ he shouted. ‘Christ!’
His foot dived for the brake pedal, but he knew there was no point, knew he was too late. Through the glare of the yellow lights he saw the last two digits of the registration plate: 75. Paris, he thought to himself.
Then suddenly he was above the Golf, looking down: through the open roof he could see Otto, Charles and Henry, jerking around like puppets. He watched, fascinated, everything in slow motion now, as the Golf began to crumple against the front of the lorry, then he realized it wasn’t a lorry at all, but another car, a Citroën, one of the large old models, upright, high off the ground.
First the nose buckled, then the roof twisted, then the windscreen seemed to turn to feathers, hundreds of thousands of feathers all floating around; things were flying through the air now, shapes, large and small. The rear doors of the Citroën opened, one inwards, one outwards, and the Citroën seemed to turn sideways. The back seat was filled with parcels which began to rise up, slowly, and break open as they hit the roof; little men, white, brown, black, all furry, with their arms opened, gyrated through the air together in a strange ritualized dance. Teddy bears, he realized, as they fell and bounced, then fell.
There was a smell of petrol; a tremendous powerful smell. Everything was obscured for a moment in a shimmer, as though a layer of frosted glass had been slipped beneath him, then there was a strange dull boom, like a tyre bursting, followed by an intense searing heat. The bears burnt first, then the paint on the cars started to blister.
Fabian began to vibrate in the heat, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to move, but could not; all around was shimmering now, and it moved in closer, tighter. ‘No,’ he said, suddenly. ‘No!’ He looked wildly around, struggled again. ‘Carrie!’ he shouted. ‘Carrie!’
Then, suddenly, he was free of the heat, racing again down the autoroute. The light was brilliant w
hite – the sun must have come up fast, he thought – as he gripped the wheel, felt the car accelerating. There was no need to change gear, it was accelerating by itself, free of the road now, gliding just above the surface. The road markings had gone, the road signs, everything. He was flying now, he could fly to the stars! He pulled the wheel back, but the car would not climb, and instead flew on silently through the light, towards a vanishing point in the white mist of the horizon. He passed a wrecked car smouldering by the side of the road, then a coach on its side, a lorry, its cab torn in half, two cars interlocked like fighting beetles, rusted, abandoned, another car, burning figures dimly visible through the flames, the light ahead getting more brilliant each second. He looked around. Otto’s seat was empty. ‘Where’s Otto?’
‘Must have fallen out,’ said Charles.
‘He’s just lit a cigarette. Where’s the cigarette?’
‘Probably taken it with him.’
Charles’s voice sounded strange, a long way off. Fabian looked over his shoulder. He thought Charles and Henry were there, but was not sure.
‘Did we hit that car, Charles?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
The brilliant light was hurting his eyes. Fabian leaned forward and fumbled for his sunglasses. Ahead he saw shadows in the white mist, shapes moving. ‘Péage,’ he said. ‘I need some money.’
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘No, I don’t think we need any money.’
Fabian felt the car lifting up, then drop away from him, found himself suspended in the white light; it was warm, and he sank back in it, and saw figures coming towards him.
Then he remembered again, and began to shake. ‘Carrie!’ He tried to shout at the figures, but nothing came out. ‘Carrie! You must let me. You must!’
The figures were standing around him now, smiling, kind, pleased to see him.
CHAPTER TWO
Alex watched the waiter pour an inch of Chambertin into her husband’s glass, retreat and stand stiffly beside him. David held the glass up to the dim light, swirled it around in his hand, hurtling the wine around the wall of the glass, and then examined the tears of glycerol after the wine had dropped down. He sniffed deeply, frowned, drained the glass into his mouth, sluiced it noisily around, then began to chew it as if it were a tough piece of steak. Don’t send it back, please God don’t send it back, she said to herself; I can’t bear it when you send it back.