‘I think we should have another circle, next Thursday.’
‘No.’
‘It’s important; for your son.’
‘I found it too frightening.’
‘The first time is. But things are not resolved.’ He looked anxiously round the room. ‘You will feel better when they are.’
‘I can’t imagine ever feeling better.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You won’t as long as the spirit is around. ‘When we have helped the spirit across, then you will have peace and the healing will start.’
‘Don’t you think perhaps I’ve just been raking things up; that it would be better to leave them as they are?’
‘You must think of your son.’
She stared at him, again trying to figure him out. Was it all a con, as David had insinuated? Had she been hypnotized, imagined everything? No, the voices had been too clear, too real, surely? And yet a small piece of doubt nagged at her. It was, after all, in Ford’s interest to go on for as long as he could spin it out, for as long as he could give work to his strange colleagues with their gold earrings and their big feet. ‘I also have to think of my husband.’
‘Because he is sceptical?’
‘There’s another reason.’ She paced around the room then sat down again. ‘This man who came through, claiming to be Fabian’s father –’
‘The mischievous spirit?’
Alex shook her head. ‘No, not necessarily a mischievous spirit.’ She paused. ‘David is not Fabian’s father.’
Ford stared at her, searching, and looked down at his fingernails, checking his immaculate manicure. Something was disturbing him, she thought. The revelation should have clarified things for him, but it seemed to have made them worse. ‘Bosley wasn’t it – a name like that?’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t know who he was.’
She saw Ford look at her oddly, and she smiled awkwardly. ‘I don’t mean it like that,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t have children, you see.’ She felt herself blushing. ‘My husband’s sperm count was too low.’
‘You had a donor?’
‘Not exactly – well, sort of.’ She sighed and inhaled deeply. ‘I didn’t want to have artificial insemination – some stranger’s sperm – I wanted to have David’s child. We were put in touch with a specialist who was experimenting at the time, mixing one’s husband’s sperm with a donor sperm, a high-mobility sperm, they called it.’
She smiled sadly. ‘That way you were supposed never to know whether it was your husband or –’ She tailed off.
‘And now you think that –?’
She blushed. ‘David’s always been convinced Fabian was his, which is good. But I’ve always known he wasn’t.’
‘How?’
She felt herself going even redder. ‘It wasn’t working. The specialist told me he felt David’s sperm was too hostile – I never quite understood – something in the chemistry wasn’t right. I asked the specialist to let me have it neat – without David knowing.’
Ford nodded. ‘Genes are important to the spirit world, you see,’ he said. ‘The blueprint for character. We know that they are essential to the carnate mind and body, that they shape and control everything, but I believe they are just as important to the discarnate state.’
‘That we take our genes with us?’
‘The part that relates to our character.’
‘So Fabian has found his real father now?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want David to know. He was so proud of Fabian. I don’t want his pride to be taken too.’
Ford nodded. ‘I understand. But your husband is not what we call a “sensitive”. He won’t pick it up from the spirit; he won’t know unless you tell him.’
She sank her face in her hands. ‘Oh God, I feel so confused, so confused and frightened.’
‘Alex,’ said Ford gently. ‘There is a terrible conflict going on between your son and his real father. It is something we must try to resolve, because it could harm your son – and it could harm you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There is a very strong dark force present; I have been trying to play it down, not to frighten you, but I have never in my life experienced anything stronger. Your husband reckons I am a charlatan; you, I think, believe me, although you have doubts. To prove my sincerity, I am prepared to waive all my fees, but you in turn must do exactly what I say. Do you understand?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go on.’
‘Alex,’ he said gently, ‘you cannot turn the spirit world on and off at the touch of a button or at the twist of a tap. These things have to be seen through, or else they will see it through themselves.’
Alex felt an ice-cold shiver again, felt a draught blowing down inside her blouse, a hideous damp cold wind that made her blouse stick to her skin, as if she had just put it on sopping wet.
‘Is there any way you can find out the real identity of your son’s father?’
‘I went to a man in Wimpole Street. A specialist in infertility. Saffier. Dr Saffier. He used sperm from donors – he told me they were very careful in matching up the donors – features –’ she paused. ‘Hair colour, eyes, that sort of thing.’
‘And he helped you.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you should go and see him. Try and find out more about this John Bosley.’
‘I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
‘It’s very important,’ said Ford.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll understand.’
The door opened and David came in. ‘Do you take milk, Mr Ford?’
Ford stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m very late. I must be on my way.’
‘Do you want a broomstick, or did you bring your own?’ said David, smiling.
Ford stood up and smiled politely back. ‘Oh, I don’t need things like that; I’ll just dematerialize in front of your eyes, if I may?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Land Rover lurched, jolted and slithered on the muddy track. Alex smelt the stench of the pigs, saw several rabbits staring into the headlights, twitching; they turned and fled away through the fencing and into the fields.
It was a clear night; she could see the stars, the half-moon and the dark contours of the land like a never-ending shadow.
‘Thanks for letting me come down.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I didn’t want to stay in the house tonight.’
‘I’m not surprised. That chap, what’s-his-name, Ford, has scared you silly with his tricks.’
She stared through the windscreen, across the spare wheel. The nose of the Land Rover dipped and she could see the sheen of the lake, almost as if it was glowing from some light inside it. Medieval pond. She shuddered; why could she never get those words out of her mind, why did they always sound so sinister? She thought of ancient carp, hundreds of years old, menacingly guarding the deeps. She tried to look away from the lake, but her eyes were drawn there as if it were a magnet.
‘He wasn’t what I’d imagined,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well – he had a bit of a sense of humour really; I never thought of people like that having a sense of humour – always thought they were deadly serious. He looked more like an insurance salesman than a medium.’
She smiled. ‘That’s what I thought when I saw him. Apparently he has a very fine reputation.’
David stopped the Land Rover sharply, yanked on the handbrake, and peered out of his side window.
Alex looked at him anxiously. ‘What’s the matter?’
He raised a finger and continued staring. She listened to the beat of the engine, like a heart racing, looked around, and felt vulnerable, afraid, wanted to get to the farmhouse, not be stopped out here in the dark, beside the lake and the fields.
‘Buggers,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Som
e sheep have got through into the vineyard – I’ve got my Chardonnay in that one; I don’t want them in there.’
She felt the relief surging through her.
‘I’ll have to sort that fence out in the morning.’
‘You don’t mind if I borrow the Land Rover tomorrow?’
‘It’s not much fun grinding it up to London – you’d be better to take the train from Lewes.’
She nodded.
‘But you just do whatever you like; I want you to rest, relax, get strong again.’
She smiled and rested her arm along the back of his seat. She wanted to hug him, squeeze him, but no, she knew, deep down, it was bad enough what she was doing to him already; she didn’t want to open all the old wounds again; it wasn’t fair to him, or to herself, she realized as an afterthought.
She sat down at the kitchen table and watched David opening a bottle of his own wine. Vendange padded into the room, looked around, and padded out again.
‘You really did what he said and didn’t eat for six hours before?’
She nodded. ‘Not since breakfast. And you?’
‘I usually only eat twice these days, breakfast and dinner.’ He opened the fridge. ‘Like an omelette?’
‘I’m surprised you don’t have your own hens; you always wanted to in London.’
‘That was for the novelty of keeping them in London; they wouldn’t be such a novelty out here.’
She smiled.
‘Anyway, wine and eggs don’t go that brilliantly together.’
‘Even if you were to bring the hens up on Chardonnay vines?’
He put a handful of eggs down on the draining board.
‘What were you doing during the séance – the circle, David?’
He looked at her and went red. ‘Doing?’
‘You seemed to be fiddling around a lot.’
He grinned and patted his chest. Carefully, he removed his jacket, to reveal a tape recorder strapped to his chest. ‘It’s all there. We’ll see which one of us is right.’ He unbuckled the straps, pressed the rewind button and put the machine down on the table in front of Alex. She heard the shuffling whirr and looked up at him.
‘Do you think that was wise?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It might have put the spirits off.’
‘No one said that tape recorders were banned.’
‘I think you might have told me.’
‘If I had, you wouldn’t have allowed it.’ He filled her glass, then frowned as the wine settled and clarified. He raised the glass by the stem and turned it around under the light bulb. ‘Colour’s good,’ he said.
‘Very clear.’
‘Not too watery, you don’t think?’
‘No.’
‘Just a hint of yellow, isn’t there?’ he said, excitedly. ‘The last lot came out a bit greeny.’
‘What do you do? Put colouring in?’
He frowned at her disapprovingly. ‘Never; not me. It’s the skins of the grapes that give the colour: depends how long you leave them in the must.’
Alex sniffed the wine. It had a tart, slightly oily smell at first, and she puckered her nose; on the second sniff, she detected a faint sweet scent of grapes.
‘Still very young,’ he said, defensively.
‘You must be careful not to make them too sophisticated, David. The majority of people aren’t connoisseurs – they just want something that tastes pleasant.’
‘Bugger the majority; they can have their Blue Nun and Hirondelle. God, you don’t understand, do you? It’s greatness I want; the great English wine.’
She sipped and closed her eyes and swilled the wine noisily around in her mouth, hoping that was what he wanted. It was sharp and stung her palate, making her wince; then she swallowed and felt it slide down her throat; as it hit her empty churned-up stomach, she flinched. ‘Good,’ she said, opening her eyes again. ‘Good, but a little sharp.’
There was a loud click from the tape recorder. David leaned down and pushed the play button. There was a cacophony of sound and he turned down the volume. ‘I didn’t bother with all the prayers and stuff,’ he said.
She heard Vivaldi’s Spring, tinkling, pretty, sadness tinged with optimism. ‘… feel the grass soft and springy beneath your feet,’ said Ford’s voice. ‘… you can see a white gate ahead of you …’
‘I’ll run through this bit,’ said David, pushing the fast-forward. Alex sat watching the machine, afraid. She heard the weird drum-beat, then the mournful hideous wail, like the cry of a vixen; slowly it dissolved into a ghastly choking sound. She felt a cold prickle seeping down her spine as she waited for the words to come.
But the choking faded into a quiet crackle of static.
Frowning, David twiddled with the knobs, turning the volume up and down, but there was nothing but crackle. He ran it forward a few seconds and tried again; still the static. He stared dubiously at Alex.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
‘I think he’s jammed it.’
‘Jammed?’
‘Your friend; I think he must have brought a jamming device with him.’
‘Why should he have done that?’
‘For precisely this reason.’
He played it on at fast-forward and the crackle continued, snapping, popping, hissing. Then, suddenly, they heard high-pitched voices, like chipmunks. David slammed his thumb down on the stop button and wound the tape back a short way. Then he pushed the start button again:
‘Are you all right, darling?’ It was his own voice. He stared, knowingly, at Alex.
‘I’m – O.K.,’ said Alex’s voice.
There was a pause and then she heard Ford. ‘The spirits have gone.’
David switched off the machine.
‘Don’t spirits and electricity have something to do with each other?’ said Alex, trembling, conscious of sounding slightly ridiculous.
‘A con, darling.’
She shook her head.
‘All a con.’
She shook her head again. ‘I wish you were right.’
Alex slept with the light on in the lumpy double bed. Throughout the night her waking thoughts and her sleeping thoughts were peppered with wails and screams and Fabian’s voice. Every time she lapsed into a doze she woke again, hearing him, close, right beside her. She felt the sweat pouring from her and sipped the water from the glass, afraid in case she should finish it before dawn, too afraid to go out of the room for more.
The night outside was full of sounds; an owl’s hoot echoed across the water. The medieval pond. She dozed and heard the sound of carp swimming, strange echoing bleeps, ripples of water, saw one larger than the rest racing to the surface, crashing upwards between the weeds and its face came out into the daylight, a hideous burnt human face, and she screamed, wildly.
There was a gentle knock on her door. ‘Darling, are you all right?’
She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’
She heard him wander around and felt safer. She heard him go downstairs, heard a tap in the kitchen, the clank of a door opening and closing. The noises outside were different now. Birds were singing; it was peaceful and she opened her eyes and saw that the morning had come.
David was already at work in his winery. She pushed open the heavy door and walked into the huge flint barn. How could he put up with the smell all day, the stale dull acidy smell of yesterday’s party?
There was a massive block and tackle hanging from a central beam, above a huge plastic vat in the middle of the floor. David was standing on top of the vat, adjusting the rope.
‘I’m ready,’ she shouted up to him.
‘I’ll come down!’
She watched him shin down the precarious ladder. ‘What are you doing?’
‘A new vat – only had it delivered yesterday. I want to move it over slightly. You’re welcome to stay tonight, too; stay for the weekend, at least.’
‘Thanks. Do you
mind if I see how I feel?’
‘If you’re definitely coming back, you might as well take the Land Rover and leave it at the station.’
‘You’ll be stranded if I don’t.’
He turned and gave his winery a loving glance, as if he could hardly bring himself to leave it, even for a few minutes. ‘I’ll be O.K.’
‘You’re lucky,’ she said, ‘having something you’re so passionate about.’
‘You have too.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve hardly been in the office since –’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose there are times in life when certain things become unimportant.’
‘Do you think your clients would agree with you?’
She looked away and blushed guiltily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It felt comfortable to be in the bustle of London, to travel on the underground amid the surge of the commuters. London had a good feeling on Fridays. You could see it in their faces, in their slightly brighter clothes and in the holdalls and suitcases some of them carried, stuffed with green wellies and baggy pullovers.
She walked down Wimpole Street. It had been a long time since she had last been here, she thought, and nothing in the street seemed to have changed.
She could not remember Saffier’s number, but she knew the house by heart; over a dozen visits before he hit the jackpot. Over a dozen visits, clutching David’s hand, trying to ignore his sheepish expression and feeling the little plastic pot wedged inside her blouse between her breasts to keep it warm.
She could still remember which button to push, the second from the top. ‘R. Beard FRCS, MRCOG’ it said. She scanned the rest of the names. D. B. Stewart, B. Kirkland, M. J. Sword-Daniels. No Saffier. She stood back, and double checked, then rang the bell marked Beard, and waited.
There was a sharp buzz and the latch clicked open. She pushed the door and went in. The hallway was painted a brighter colour, but otherwise was exactly as she remembered it. She climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. A smart beanpole of a girl looked up from her desk and stared at her from under her neat straw fringe. ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ said Alex. ‘I’m looking for Dr Saffier?’
The girl opened her lips and spoke in an unintelligible voice that sounded like a distant racing car; she tossed her fringe, which promptly fell back into place.