Possession

  ‘He wouldn’t let me keep the photo.’

  Philip Main lay back with his feet on his desk. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and ground his heels into the pile of papers, then raised himself up on his elbows and shifted his weight in the armchair. He stared, pensively, at the phone. ‘Extraordinary, this man Bosley. Just left her?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Chained her up in a cellar?’

  Alex nodded, white-faced.

  ‘And left her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without telling anyone.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Did he have a grudge – against women?’

  Alex turned her cigarette over in her fingers. ‘She’d jilted him.’

  ‘Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. A doctor; must be an intelligent chap – you expect this sort of – in –’ He opened his hands out. ‘People do extraordinary things.’

  ‘Why, Philip?’

  The room darkened suddenly and she heard a spatter of rain outside. She thought of a cold cellar, a woman, chained, sitting, whimpering, shivering and heard the drip of water. She shuddered.

  Main pushed a cigarette through the fronds of his moustache and let it hang there, unlit. ‘What gave you the idea?’

  ‘The idea?’

  ‘To see the chaplain?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I rang up Broadmoor to see if I could see Bosley.’ She smiled, suddenly, weakly. ‘When they answered they sounded just like a hotel.’

  ‘And they wouldn’t let you see him?’

  ‘You have to write to the Board of Governors. I asked if there was anyone I could speak to.’ She shrugged. ‘They put me through to the chaplain.’

  Alex stared around the chaotic study, at Black, asleep on the sofa. His desk, work table, filing cabinets, military chest and almost every inch of floor space were covered in piles of paper. An ancient electric typewriter was buried under it, so were the printer, screen and keyboard of his computer. It was everywhere, like snow. ‘It reminds me of your car,’ she said.

  ‘My car?’

  ‘Your study. How do you work in here?’

  ‘I manage.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of my author’s studies before. It’s quite an insight.’

  He looked around, nodding. ‘You haven’t been in the office much.’

  ‘Are you keeping tabs on me?’

  ‘No, good Lord, no. I think it’s good that you are staying down with David.’

  ‘He’s trying to keep me sane.’

  He fumbled with a box of matches. ‘Will you –’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘Will you get back together?’

  She shook her head.

  He struck a match and lit his cigarette, looking at her quizzically. She blushed.

  ‘He’s being very kind to me; he has a lot of strength. I suppose I need him at the moment, and I wish I didn’t; I don’t want to hurt him again.’ She paused. ‘He deserves someone nicer than me.’

  ‘Gosh, don’t underestimate yourself, girl.’

  She felt weepy and closed her eyes tightly for a moment, nodding her head. ‘I’m so frightened, Philip.’

  ‘What’s David’s view?’

  She stared out through the window at the grimy rear wall of the house behind. ‘He wants me to see a psychiatrist.’

  Main shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Gosh, no.’

  ‘What do you think I should do? You’re so full of contradictions, aren’t you. I need help, Philip. I must have help.’ She looked at him again. ‘You said, last time we spoke, that sometimes spirits try to come back because they have unfinished business.’

  ‘It’s a theory. Just a theory.’

  ‘Everything’s just a bloody theory to you.’

  He looked hurt and stared around the room, helplessly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to get angry. But all you ever do is give me theories; all everyone does is give me damned theories. Last night I had three hours of David’s theory, how I’m emotionally disturbed, in need of psychiatric help. I had the curate’s theory, a few days ago, that I’m in need of pastoral help. I have Morgan Ford’s theory, about dark forces of evil. And I have you, going on about genes, what is it? That we are prisoners of our genes?’ She leaned forward in the hard chair. ‘The chaplain talked about genes, too; that schizophrenia could be passed on. Ford talked about genes as well. He said they were important to the spirit world; something about them being the blue-print for character.’

  Main nodded, slowly. ‘They are.’

  The phone rang. Main leaned over and picked up the receiver. ‘Hallo?’ he said, thoughtfully.

  Alex watched him. She felt safe here, safe with his clouds of smoke and his crumpled jacket and his solid furniture. Knowledge; he knew things, knew so much, had the answers to so many mysteries. He was comfortable with life.

  Except. She thought with a shudder of the last time he had sat in her drawing room.

  He picked up a pen and scribbled on the back of the nearest sheet of paper. ‘Good Lord.’ He paused, then continued scribbling for a long time. ‘Right,’ he said, finally. ‘Terrific. See you.’ He hung up and looked at Alex. There was something in his eyes, a heavy weight, hanging there awkwardly. ‘That was my – er – chum, the prison psychiatrist.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He smoothed out his moustache with his fingers. ‘The one who used to work in Broadmoor.’

  ‘He came back quickly.’

  Main picked up the sheet of paper and looked at it, then peered at her with a worried expression.

  ‘Did the chaplain say anything to you about –’ he hesitated, ‘– about Fabian visiting?’

  She went white. ‘When?’

  ‘About a year ago.’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing, except –’ she paused. ‘He was going to tell me about something, but didn’t. He seemed to change his mind; it might have been because we were short of time – but I don’t think so. Fabian went there? To see Bosley?’

  ‘There was quite a to-do, apparently.’ He crushed out his cigarette and shook another one out of the pack. ‘Quite a to-do.’ He glanced down at his notes, then struck a match and lit his cigarette.

  She stared at his two black boots on the desk, and noticed the heels were scuffed down at the back.

  ‘While the chaplain was away on holiday, apparently. They have a locum – the vicar of Sandhurst – he is cleared for security – and his curates –’ He turned his cigarette over in his hand. ‘Fabian got hold of some theology student, managed to pass him and some other chap off as curates from Sandhurst, and got inside.’ He looked across at her.

  She stared back at him puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘They carried out an exorcism.’

  The room darkened suddenly and she felt afraid. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘It wasn’t discovered until too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ she said, slowly, ‘that Fabian probably meant it kindly? That he thought he was doing the right thing. Wouldn’t you try to help your father?’

  The room was becoming cold, bitterly cold, and she could feel draughts all around her.

  Black sat up on the sofa and gave a low rumbling growl.

  Main drew hard on his cigarette.

  She stared at him, afraid, terribly afraid. ‘He was a kind boy; I’m sure he would have tried to help him.’ She thought of a cold dark cellar, a woman, chained, sitting, whimpering, shivering and heard the drip of water. ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Fabian, the theology student chap called Andrew Castle and another chap from Cambridge, not a priest at all –’ Philip leaned across to study his notes ‘– someone called Otto von Essenberg.’

  The room seemed to slip sideways. ‘Of course,’ she said, bitterly, ‘Otto. Fabian followed him around like a lamb.’ She shook her head. ‘What happens at exorcisms?’

  ‘They try to d
rive the demons – the evil spirits – out of the person.’

  ‘It sounds slightly barbaric.’

  ‘It is barbaric,’ he said, then raised his eyebrows mysteriously. ‘But sometimes the old remedies are best.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘There is evidence, girl, it does seem to have worked, sometimes.’

  ‘Did it work on Bosley?’

  He glanced at his scrawled notes. ‘His personality changed – and remained changed. He was aggressive and cruel before – then he became very docile, confused.’

  ‘Isn’t that his schizophrenia?’

  He drew deeply again on his cigarette and said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you think, Philip?’ she insisted. ‘Surely that could have been part of his condition?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, distantly.

  She shivered, and saw Philip watching her with a worried frown, saw him toy with his moustache. ‘I’m frightened, Philip.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, God, Philip, help me.’

  ‘I did suggest that you left it alone.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head violently. ‘No!’

  ‘It would have been better.’

  She looked up at him. ‘It’s easy to say that. He’s not your son.’

  Main stood up and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right, girl, don’t worry. Would you like some coffee?’

  She nodded and closed her eyes; she heard him walk out into the hall and listened to the steady drip of the rain, echoing around the room, around her head, around a dark empty chamber.

  ‘It’s hot.’

  She looked up and took the mug carefully. A car hooted outside. Normality; there was a real world somewhere out there, with ordinary people doing ordinary things. She wanted to be out there among them. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said.

  ‘Go away, have a holiday.’

  ‘You’re not even trying to understand.’

  He smiled, kindly. ‘I am, believe me.’

  ‘Nothing will change if I go away; it’ll all be the same when I come back.’ She felt the fear and her helplessness overwhelm her.

  He sank back down into the armchair. ‘Oh dear, girl,’ he said. ‘Oh dear.’

  She fumbled for her handkerchief as the tears streamed down her cheek, then sniffed and blew her nose. ‘Otto said that Saffier didn’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t know?’ said Philip, puzzled. ‘Didn’t know what?’

  ‘About Bosley. About his condition. Thought he was just a normal healthy student. None of this – it didn’t happen until years after.’

  ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘It was Otto that –’ she paused, suddenly, as if a curtain had come down inside her mind. ‘It was Otto,’ she repeated, the words sounding like an echo. ‘I – er–’ but she had forgotten what she was going to say.

  It seemed that the temperature in the room dropped even further. She sipped her coffee and sniffed again. Philip lit another cigarette and snorted the smoke through his nostrils. She watched the steam rise from her coffee.

  ‘If an exorcism is successful, Philip, what happens to the spirit – the demon – whatever it is that’s driven out?’ She shuddered as a cold chill eddied through her.

  He tested his coffee with his finger and stared thoughtfully at it. ‘It has to find a new host.’

  ‘Someone with the same genetic make-up?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ He tested his coffee again. ‘There’s a scene in the Bible – Jesus casting out devils – sent them into swine.’

  ‘I didn’t see any pigs at Broadmoor.’

  He stared at her and she felt her face reddening; she felt his gaze penetrating through, inside, deep into the innermost sanctum of her mind. He understood.

  ‘Perhaps, girl,’ he said.

  ‘It might explain a lot of things, Philip.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘It’s a job to know.’

  ‘Everything’s a bloody job to know.’

  He nodded, looking worried again. ‘You should be careful of your medium,’ he said, suddenly.

  She looked at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sometimes they can be dangerous.’

  She tried to read his face, but it was impossible. ‘What do you mean, dangerous?’

  ‘Having a go at –’ he paused ‘– at things even they are not sure about.’

  She blew her nose and sniffed again. ‘You know, don’t you, Philip? You know it all.’

  He paused for a long time before answering. ‘No, I don’t know.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side, then he stood up and walked over to his bookshelves, and stared at the titles. ‘No, good Lord no, far from it.’

  There was a long silence. ‘Philip,’ she said, finally, ‘last time we spoke, you said that sometimes spirits try to come back –’ she felt acutely self-conscious saying the words ‘– because they have unfinished business. How would they do that?’

  He spoke softly, almost apologetically. ‘The spiritualist view is that – that they would have to come back through someone.’

  ‘Through someone?’

  ‘Someone carnate. Living.’

  ‘Possess them?’

  Main nodded. ‘Discarnate spirits have no energy.’

  ‘So they would use a human’s energy?’

  ‘That is the spiritualist view.’

  ‘A host?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The same as a spirit that has been exorcised?’

  He nodded again, warily.

  ‘How would they find someone?’ she said, sensing a sudden dryness in her throat.

  He shrugged. ‘The spirit would look for someone with a weakness.’

  ‘What do you mean, weakness?’

  ‘Unguarded.’ He pushed his cigarette into his mouth and puffed furiously on it, then inhaled the smoke sharply, with a hiss. She looked at him and saw that he was shaking, deeply distressed.

  ‘Evil spirits are cunning. They can con people.’

  ‘Con?’

  ‘It’s been known.’

  ‘What sort of con?’

  ‘Often they pretend to be someone else.’

  She felt the single shiver roller-coaster through her, like a tidal wave; it nearly swept her out of her chair.

  ‘They pick on someone who is down; bereaved people make the easiest targets of all.’

  Stop looking at me, she thought; please stop looking at me like that. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No.’

  ‘They can be very clever. Far more clever than it is possible to imagine.’

  She shook her head. ‘How can you stop them?’ she said, her voice barely even a whisper.

  ‘As a scientist?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and her voice became bolder. ‘As a person honest with himself.’

  He looked at her, then away, down at the ground, and shifted his weight, embarrassed. He crushed out his cigarette and pulled out a fresh pack from under a deep layer of paper.

  ‘There has only been one effective way through the ages.’ He looked at her, then turned his attentions to opening the cigarette pack. ‘The power of prayer.’

  He looked relieved suddenly, she thought, as if he had overcome some deep inner conflict to get the words out.

  ‘Prayer?’

  ‘Hrrr.’

  ‘What sort of prayer?’

  His face went red and he stared at the ground as if reading from a prompter’s script. ‘Exorcism.’

  She began to shiver violently; the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped even further, ‘Is it cold in here?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Philip?’ She felt her voice quavering. ‘Philip?’ She looked wildly from side to side then spun around; he was standing behind her, a gentle worried look in his eyes. ‘Is it cold in here?’

  ‘I’ll shut the window.’

  ‘No.’ She did not want it to be shut, did not want the outside world excluded. ‘Perhaps I’ve just got a chil
l.’

  She felt his strong hands squeeze her shoulders and she tried to stop shaking, but she couldn’t. ‘I would do anything in the world to stop this nightmare.’

  ‘Then see a priest,’ he said, quietly, squeezing her shoulders again. ‘It would be best for both of us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  She drove up the narrow road behind Chelsea football ground, into a sprawling modern housing estate, and leaned over towards the passenger window trying to read the numbers. She hoped he wouldn’t mind being disturbed at lunch-time.

  Number 38, like all the rest, was a small semi with a prim front garden, and she was slightly embarrassed about parking the Mercedes outside. She walked down the short path and rang the doorbell. Please be in, she thought, please be in.

  The curate came to the door in clean and neatly pressed jeans and an old pullover, holding a piece of Lego in his hand. He looked younger than she remembered.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said, tentatively, then fumbled, wondering what to call him. Reverend? Mr?

  ‘John Allsop,’ he said helpfully, sensing her difficulty, and stared at her, trying to place her. There was a slight twitch of his right eye. ‘Mrs Hightower, isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How nice to see you. How are you?’

  The enthusiasm of his greeting stumped her and she was lost for words for a moment. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, nodding, then wondered why she had said that.

  ‘Good.’ He rocked from foot to foot and stared at the piece of Lego in his hand; she wondered if he was about to throw it in the air, like a juggler. ‘Good,’ he said again.

  ‘I wondered if it would be possible to have a word?’

  ‘Of course, come in.’

  She followed him into the narrow hallway. The sitting room floor was covered in Lego bricks, with what looked like a half-built crane in their midst.

  He smiled apologetically. ‘Dreadful stuff this, far too complicated for me. Gave it to my son for his birthday. Ever tried it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Looks very good.’

  ‘I’m afraid that was my son, not me.’

  They went into a tiny study at the rear of the house and he pointed her to the one armchair. She sat down, looking around. The room was blandly furnished and, in contrast to Philip’s study, immaculately tidy. There was a small homemade bookshelf, filled with religious reference books which looked as if they were dusted every day, and several fossils and fragments of pottery on a mantelpiece above an electric fire.