Читать книгу Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling - Barbara Erskine - Страница 11

Jo wanted to ring Sam.

For hours she had lain tossing and turning, thinking about Bill Walton and Sarah Potter, who had once been a street girl called Betsy; and about Tim and Judy Curzon; but her mind refused to focus. Instead again and again she saw images of Cohen’s little Edinburgh study, with the huge antiquated radiator against which Sam had leaned, then the snow, whirling past the window, blotting out the sky, then her hands. Somehow her hands had been hurt; she remembered her fingers, blistered and bleeding, and Michael Cohen, his face pale and embarrassed, talking about chilblains and suddenly with startling clarity she remembered the bloodstains on the floor. How had the blood, her blood, come to be smeared all over the floor of his study?

She sat up abruptly, her body pouring with sweat, staring at the half-drawn curtains of her bedroom. The sheets were tangled and her pillow had fallen to the floor. Outside she could just see the faint light of dawn beginning to lighten the sky. Somewhere a bird had begun to sing, its whistle echoing mournfully between the tall houses. With her head aching she got up and staggered to the kitchen, turning on the light and staring round; automatically she reached for the kettle.

She found Sam’s number in her old address book. Carrying a cup of black coffee through to the sitting room, she sat on the floor and picked up the phone. It was four thiry-two a.m. as she began to dial Edinbugh.

There was no reply.

She let the phone ring for five minutes before she gave up. Only then did she remember that Sam had gone abroad. She drank the coffee slowly, then she rang Nick’s flat. There was no answer from his phone either and she slammed down the receiver.

‘Goddamn you, Nick Franklyn!’ she swore under her breath. She stood up and went to throw back the curtains, staring out over the sleeping square. On the coffee table behind her lay a scrap of paper. On it was written in Pete Leveson’s neat italic script: Dr Carl Bennet, hypnotherapist. (Secretary Sarah Simmons: sister of David who you rather fancied if I remember when he came to WIA as a features writer in ’76.) Have made an appointment for you Friday, three pm to sit in on a session. Don’t miss it; I had to grovel to fix it for you.

Jo turned and picked up the piece of paper yet again. She did not want to go.

It was two forty-five as she walked slowly up Devonshire Place peering at the numbers and stopping at last outside one with a cream front door. Four brass plates were displayed on the elegantly washed panelling.

The door was opened by a white-coated receptionist. ‘Dr Bennet?’ she said in response to Jo’s enquiry. ‘Just one minute and I’ll ring upstairs.’ The place smelled of antiseptic and stephanotis. Jo waited in the hall, staring at herself in a huge gilt-framed mirror. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and she could see the strain in her face as she watched the woman on the telephone in the reflection behind her.

‘You can go up, Miss Clifford,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘The first floor. His secretary will meet you.’

Jo walked up slowly, aware of a figure waiting for her on the half-landing at the head of the flight of stairs. Sarah Simmons was a tall fair-haired woman in a sweater and shirt and Jo found herself sighing with relief. She had been afraid of another white coat.

‘Jo Clifford?’ Sarah extended her hand with a pleasant smile. ‘Pete Leveson spoke to us about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Jo grinned. ‘Did he warn you I’m the world’s most violent sceptic?’

She laughed. ‘He did, but Carl is very tolerant. Come and meet him.’

Carl Bennet was sitting at a desk, in a room which looked out over the street. It was a pleasant book-lined study, furnished with several deep armchairs and a sofa, all with discreet but expensive upholstery; the fitted carpet was scattered with Afghan rugs – sufficiently worn to emphasise their antiquity. It was a comfortable room; a man’s room, Jo thought with sudden amusement, the sort of room which should smell of cigars. It didn’t. There was only the faintest suspicion of cologne.

Carl Bennet rose to greet her with a half-hesitant smile. ‘Miss Clifford. Please, come and sit down. Sarah will bring us some coffee – unless you would prefer tea?’ He spoke with a barely perceptible mid-European accent. He nodded at Sarah who disappeared through a door in the far wall, then he looked back at Jo. ‘I find my kitchen is the most important part of my office here,’ he said gently. ‘Now tell me, exactly how can I help you?’

Jo took out her notebook and, balancing it on her knee, sat down on one of the chairs. It was half turned with its back to the window. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

‘As I believe Pete Leveson told you, I am writing an article on hypnotic regression. I should like to ask you about it and if possible see how you work.’ She was watching his face intently. ‘Yesterday I attended a session with Bill Walton in Richmond. I wonder whether you know him?’

Bennet frowned. ‘I’ve heard of him of course –’

‘And you don’t approve?’

‘On the contrary. He has published some interesting papers. But we practise in very different ways.’

‘Can you tell me how your approach differs?’ Jo kept her eyes fixed on his face as Sarah came in with a tray.

‘Of course. Mr Walton is an amateur, Miss Clifford. He does not, I believe, ever claim medical benefits from his work. I am a psychologist and I use this form of hypnosis in the treatment of specific conditions. I use it primarily in a medical context, and as such it is not something to be debunked by cheap journalism. If that is what you have in mind, then I would ask you to leave now.’

Jo flushed angrily. ‘I feel sure, Dr Bennet, that you will convince me so thoroughly that I will have no cause to debunk – as you put it – anything,’ she said a little sharply. She took a cup from Sarah.

‘Good.’ He smiled disarmingly. He took off his spectacles and polished them with the cloth from the spectacle case which lay on his desk.

‘Are you really going to allow me to sit in on a session with a patient?’ Jo asked cautiously.

Bennet nodded. ‘She has agreed, with one proviso. That you do not mention her name.’

‘I’ll give you a written undertaking if you wish,’ Jo said grimly. ‘Would you explain a little of what is going to happen before she gets here?’

‘Of course.’ He stood up and, walking over to the chesterfield, sat down again. ‘It has been found that unexplained and hitherto incurable phobias frequently have their explanation in events which have occurred to a subject either in very early infancy or childhood, or in a previous existence. It is my job to regress the patient to that time, take them once more through the trauma involved, which is often, I may say, a deeply disturbing experience, to discover what it is that has led to the terror which has persisted into later life or even into another incarnation.’

Jo strove to keep the disbelief out of her voice as she said, ‘Of course, this presupposes your absolute belief in reincarnation?’

‘Of course.’

She could feel his eyes steady on her face. She glanced away. ‘I am afraid you will have to convince me, Dr Bennet. I must admit to being very dubious. If you were to affirm to me your belief in reincarnation as part of a religious philosophy I should not presume to query it. It is this quasi-medical context –’ she indicated the consulting room couch. ‘Are you saying therefore that everyone has lived before?’

He gave a tolerant smile. ‘In my experience, no. Some have lived on this earth many times, others are new souls.’

She stared at him, swallowing with difficulty the bubble of laughter which threatened to overwhelm her as he stood up again, a solid greying man in his sixties, and walked over to her chair. ‘I can see you are derisive, Miss Clifford,’ he said severely, his eyes on hers, magnified a little by the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘One grows used to it as an initial, perhaps defensive response. All I ask is that you keep an open mind while you are here. Are you objective enough to be able to do that?’

Jo looked away. ‘I am sorry, I really am. I pride myself on my objectivity and I will try. In fact –’ she set her cup down at her feet ‘– you have aroused my curiosity intensely. Can you tell before you start whether people have lived before?’

He smiled. ‘In some cases, yes. Sometimes it is harder.’

Jo took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell by looking at me?’

He stared at her, holding her gaze for a while, until she dropped her eyes and looked away.

‘I think you have been on this earth before, yes.’

She felt her skin creep. ‘How can you tell?’

He shrugged. ‘I might be wrong. It is an instinct I have developed after years of studying the subject.’ He frowned. ‘I have a suspicion that the patient you are about to meet may not have done so in fact,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I can’t promise anything from her that will necessarily help you with your article. I have had one preliminary interview with the lady – we shall just call her Adele. She is a good hypnotic subject. She has a very strong and illogical fear of water which can be explained by nothing that she can remember. I shall try to regress her and it may be that we need go no further than her own childhood to discover the cause.’ He walked thoughtfully back to his desk, glancing at his watch. ‘She is late, I fear. Sarah!’ He called towards the side room from where they could hear the sound of a typewriter. It stopped and Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Ring Mrs Noble and make sure she has remembered her appointment.’

He scowled at the blotter on his desk, tracing the ornate gold tooling of the leather with a neatly manicured finger. ‘This lady is both vague and a hysteric,’ he said almost to himself. ‘It would not entirely surprise me if she did not turn up.’ He picked up the file on his desk and turned back the cover.

Jo felt a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘Are people usually apprehensive about your treatment?’ she asked after a moment’s pause.

He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘It would be strange if they were not.’

Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, Carl, she’s not coming. She says her daughter is ill and she has to go to see her. I told her she’d have to pay for the appointment anyway –’

Bennet gave a sharp gesture of dismissal. He stood up abruptly. ‘I am sorry, Miss Clifford. I was looking forward to proving my case to you. I am afraid this visit has wasted your time.’

‘Not necessarily surely.’ Sarah had picked up the folder on the desk. ‘Have you ever considered undergoing hypnotic regression yourself, Joanna? After all, Carl now has an afternoon free – at your disposal.’

Jo swallowed. ‘I suppose I should try it myself,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Do you think I could be regressed, Dr Bennet?’

He spread his fingers in the air and shrugged. ‘We could try. People of strong personality tend to make good subjects, but of course they must allow themselves to be hypnotised. No one can be against their will, you know. If you are prepared to set aside your reservations completely I would be prepared to try.’

‘I have no phobias to speak of.’ She managed a little smile. ‘Hobby horses yes. Of such are my columns made, but phobias, I don’t think so.’

‘Then we could regard it merely as an interesting experiment.’ He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy.

Jo found she was breathing rather fast. The palms of her hands were sweating. ‘I’m afraid I would be a difficult subject even if I co-operate as hard as I can. I did take part in a survey at university under Professor Cohen. He didn’t manage to get anywhere with me.’

Bennet sat down on the edge of the desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Michael Cohen was one of the great authorities on the subject. I wish I had met him before he died,’ he said a little wistfully. ‘I’m surprised to find you so hostile to the theories behind hypnotic regression if you were involved in any of his clinical trials. When you say nothing happened, do you mean he was not able to regress you at all?’

Jo shook her head. ‘He couldn’t hypnotise me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t fight it. I wanted it to happen.’

Bells were ringing in her mind once more, full of warning. Almost in panic she turned away from him, not wanting him to see the struggle going on inside her, and crossed the carpet to look out of the window into the busy street below, shivering in spite of the humid warmth of the afternoon. The sun was reflecting on a window opposite, dazzling as she stared at it. She turned back to Bennet.

‘I have a small tape recorder in my bag. Would you object if I used it while you try?’

He shook his head and gestured towards a table by the far wall. ‘As you see, I use one too, for various reasons. I also always insist that Miss Simmons is present to act as a chaperone.’ He did not smile. ‘I should explain, however, that often one needs a preliminary session to establish a rapport between hypnotist and patient. It is a far more delicate relationship than that implied by music hall acts on the pier or sensational fiction. So you should not expect too much on this occasion.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Or too little either, Miss Clifford. You may indeed be a hard subject – I’m sure with your co-operation, though, I can achieve something. And I have a feeling you would be an interesting case.’ He smiled boyishly. ‘Quite a challenge in fact. But I don’t wish to talk you into this if you still have any reservations. I think you should take a little time to consider –’

‘No!’ Jo surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply. ‘No, let’s do it. I’d like to.’

‘You are quite sure?’

‘Quite.’ She reached for her bag and pulled the recorder out of it. ‘What shall I do?’

He walked towards the window and half pulled one of the curtains across, shading the room. Above the roof of the opposite building a huge purple cloud had appeared, threatening the sun. He glanced at it as he went back to Jo.

‘Just relax. You are very tense, my dear. Why don’t we have a cup of tea or some more coffee perhaps whilst we talk about what is to happen.’

Jo shook her head. ‘I’ll be OK. I suppose it’s natural to want to resist giving your mind to someone else.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can I just ask you to promise one thing? If anything happens, you’ll do nothing to stop me remembering it later. That’s important.’

‘Of course. It will all in any case be on tape.’ He watched as she set the tape recorder on the floor next to his couch.

‘Shall I lie down?’ she asked, eyeing it nervously.

‘If you wish. Wherever you feel most comfortable and relaxed.’ He glanced at Sarah, who had quietly seated herself at the table in the corner before the tape deck. Then he turned back to Jo. ‘Now, Joanna – may I call you Joanna?’

‘Jo,’ Jo whispered.

‘Very well, Jo. I want you to relax completely and close your eyes.’

Jo felt the panic overtaking her. Her eyes flew open and she sat upright. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do it.’

‘Just as you like. Try leaning back against those cushions. Why don’t we try a light trance first, just to make you feel more relaxed, shall we? There’s nothing to worry about. Just something to make you feel good. You may have seen Bill Walton do it. It’s a very usual way of testing people’s reactions.’

Behind him Sarah smiled grimly, recognising the tone of his voice as she saw Jo make herself comfortable against the cushions, her ankles crossed on the soft hide of the sofa. Jo closed her eyes once more and visibly tried to make herself relax.

‘That’s fine.’ Bennet moved towards her on silent feet. ‘Now, the sun is filling the room once more, so I’m going to ask Sarah to pull down the blinds, but meanwhile I want you to keep your eyes tight closed.’ He glanced at the window. The sun had gone. The narrow strip of sky visible from the room was a livid bruise of cloud. There was a low rumble of thunder as he began speaking again. ‘That’s right. You can feel the light burning your eyes. Keep them tightly closed. That’s fine.’ He touched her face lightly. ‘Now, you want to open them but you can’t. The light is too bright.’

Jo did not move. She could hear him clearly and she knew she could open her eyes if she wanted to, but she could sense the glare behind her lids. There seemed no point in moving until Sarah had shut out the sun, the dazzling white shape which had appeared over the rim of the house on the other side of Devonshire Place, shining directly into the room.

Bennet took her hand gently. ‘Jo, can you hear me? Good. Now, I’m going to tickle your hand slightly, just enough to make you smile. Can you feel me do it?’

Sarah gasped. He had taken a small pin from his lapel and driven it deeply into her palm. Jo smiled, her eyes still closed, still wondering why he didn’t shut out the sun.

Bennet glanced at Sarah. Then he turned back to Jo. ‘Now my dear, I want you to go back to when you were a little girl …’

Some ten minutes later Sarah’s whisper broke into his concentration. ‘Carl, she’s the best subject I’ve ever seen.’

He frowned at her, his whole attention fixed on the figure lying back against the cushions in front of him. ‘I had a feeling she might be,’ he replied in an undertone. ‘I can’t understand why Cohen couldn’t reach her, unless –’ He broke off and looked at her thoughtfully.

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless he gave her a post-hypnotic suggestion that she should not remember for some reason.’ He turned back to Jo. ‘Now, Jo, my dear, I want you to go back, back to the time before you were born, to the dark time, when you were floating free …’

Jo stirred uneasily, moving her head from side to side. Then she lay still again, completely relaxed as she listened to him.

‘Now, Jo. Before the darkness. When you lived before. Do you remember? You are another person, in another time. Do you remember? Can you tell me? What do you see?’

Jo opened her eyes and stared hard in front of her at the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Dark and cold.’

‘Are you indoors or out, can you see?’ Bennet frowned at the window, which showed that it was indeed getting dark and that a torrential summer rain had begun to fall, streaming down the windows, gurgling from a broken gutter. There was another deep roll of thunder.

Jo spoke hesitantly. ‘It’s the trees. They’re so thick here. I don’t like the forest.’

‘Do you know which forest it is?’ Bennet was watching her intently.

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me your name?’

She frowned, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. Some call me – they call me Matilda – no, Moll … I don’t know.’

‘Can you tell me something about yourself, Matilda? Where do you live?’

Slowly Jo pushed herself up from the cushions till she was sitting bolt upright, staring into space. ‘I live,’ she said firmly, ‘I live far away from here. In the mountains.’ Then she shook her head, perplexed. ‘The mountains fill my eyes. Black and misty, not like at home.’ She began to rub her eyes with her knuckles, like a child. She looked bewildered. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I want to sleep.’ She lay back and closed her eyes.

‘Tell me something else then, Matilda,’ Bennet prompted gently. ‘What are you doing?’

There was no answer.

‘Are you walking in the forest, or riding perhaps?’

Jo hunched her shoulders rebelliously and said nothing. Bennet sighed, ‘Come now, my dear. Tell me what are you wearing? Are you dressed in your prettiest clothes?’ He was coaxing now. He glanced at his watch and then looked at Sarah. ‘Pity. I thought we were going to get something interesting. We might try again another time –’ He broke off as Jo let out an exclamation.

‘They told me to forget. How can I forget? It is happening now …’

Bennet had not taken his eyes off her face. He leaned forward, every nerve ending suddenly tense.

Slowly Jo was standing up. She took a couple of paces from the sofa and stood looking at the wall, her eyes wide open. ‘When is it going to stop snowing?’ she asked distinctly. She wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to enfold herself more warmly in her thin linen dress and he saw her shiver violently.

‘It is snowing hard,’ Bennet agreed cautiously.

She frowned. ‘I had hoped it would hold off until we reached the castle. I don’t like the snow. It makes the forest so dark.’

‘Can you tell me what the date is, my dear?’

‘It is nearly Yule.’ She smiled. ‘Time for feasting.’

‘And which year, do you know?’ Bennet reached for a notepad and pen. He watched Jo’s face carefully. Her eyes were normal and focusing, but not on him. Her hand, when he reached gently and touched it, was ice-cold.

‘It is the twentieth year of the reign of our Lord King Henry,’ she said clearly. ‘What a foolish question.’ She took another step. ‘Oh Holy Mother of God, we’re nearly there.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘I am going to William.’

‘Who is William?’ Totally absorbed, Bennet stopped writing and looked up, waiting for an answer.

But Jo did not answer. Her whole attention was fixed on something she could see distinctly lying on the road in front of her in the snow. It was the bloody body of a man.