Читать книгу Mark of the Beast - Brian Ball - Страница 5

CHAPTER TWO

JANICE wished she had brought her coat. She could feel the goose pimples rising on her arms as they entered the hall.

“Mrs. Worrall’s waiting to start,” whispered Linda Pierce at her side. “We’re late.”

Janice looked around the hall. The walls were white, the roof high with old wooden beams. About twenty people were sitting on straight-backed chairs in a semi-circle at the far end of the hall. Many more chairs were empty, but the atmosphere was cosy. There was a little conversation amongst the congregation, women talking to their neighbours; Janice saw only three or four elderly men amongst them.

She and Alan were the object of some curiosity, so she kept her best smile in place whilst she checked that Alan was not fidgeting or talking inanely to cover his embarrassment. If he kept quiet all would be well.

She didn’t know if she was pleased or not that she had accepted Mrs. Pierce’s invitation. There was a certain excitement in the prospect of attending a séance, of course, but there was another side to it. Most of the people in the hall had a rather common appearance.

“See, Mrs. Worrall, I’ve brought my visitors!” called Linda Pierce in an ingratiating voice. “I’m sorry we’re late, but we had to wait whilst they got the car parked. You said it would be all right to bring them along?”

The Charnocks noticed the black woman for the first time. She was sitting amongst the others, to the right of the semi-circle.

“Hello. Good evening,” said Janice firmly.

“You did say I could bring my friends,” reminded Linda Pierce. “And I did ask my Charlie, Mrs. Worrall.”

“You’re welcome,” said the woman. “Come and sit down.”

Alan inspected her. He was not impressed. Mrs. Pierce might defer to her, but he could find nothing about her to suggest that she had unusual qualities. Janice seemed happy enough, however. He let her do the talking.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs. Worrall,” Janice was saying quietly. “Linda’s told me all about your power. It’s a very wonderful thing.”

Mrs. Worrall smiled back at Janice’s radiant face.

“Oh, it’s a small thing, dear, a gift that could come to anyone. I try to use it for good.”

The women on the chairs made small noises of admiration and agreement whilst Mrs. Worrall’s broad, good-humoured face split into a grin. She had good teeth. Good teeth, hair tinted blue, a firm, heavy body, large brown arms and the most hideous of yellow dresses reaching to her ankles. He looked up to avoid her smile and saw the beams in the roof. Woodworm, he guessed, noting their raddled appearance. And then he thought of Charlie Pierce in his grave. Was it possible that this woman in her terrible dress could bring the man to some semblance of life?

Janice dug him in the ribs. “Sit down,” she ordered.

“Next to me,” said Mrs. Pierce. She whispered: “We sing a hymn and then the messages start. Old Mr. Purbeck is first. He’s worried about his Sadie.”

“Poor thing,” said Janice. She would have said more, but Mrs. Worrall had risen.

“Brothers and sisters, we welcome tonight two guests, Mr. and Mrs. Charnock, introduced by our dear friend Linda Pierce.” She waited until the small murmurs of greeting and welcome died down. “Shall we sing our usual hymn, brothers and sisters, to prepare ourselves for the call to our dear ones?”

Alan Charnock suffered acutely. He stumbled as he got to his feet. Mrs. Worrall hit a true note to lead the singing, quite loud by local standards. Alan didn’t know the words and tried to look as though he was singing. But he was so much off-key that two or three of the singers turned to look at him. By the time the hymn had finished, he was heartily sick of Janice’s interest in psychic phenomena.

Janice felt herself trembling when the three verses of the hymn were sung. She helped to move chairs, conscious of a growing sense of mystery as the brown-skinned Mrs. Worrall supervised the alignment of the circle. It had seemed something of a joke when Mrs. Pierce told her that her dead husband wouldn’t mind if she were to come to the séance; then, when Janice heard about Mrs. Worrall’s successes in summoning the dead, she had become interested. She felt tremors running through her body. It was a little scary.

“Quiet,” she whispered to Alan as he settled into his chair.

“Please join hands,” said Mrs. Worrall. “I feel we shall have a good communication this evening. The skies are clear and the earth is full of good vibrations.”

Again there were murmurs of pleased anticipation from the congregation. Around the circle, they began to take one another’s hands, until all were linked, with the exception of the Charnocks and the medium.

Mrs. Worrall glanced around the circle of attentive faces. “Your friends should join too,” she told Mrs. Pierce.

“Oh, they haven’t linked hands yet! Janice—Alan—you can’t sit out. It isn’t allowed. You’re either in the circle or you have to leave.”

Mrs. Worrall’s smile was encouraging. Janice began to respond to the good nature of the woman. “Hold Linda’s hand,” she ordered.

Alan obeyed. He took his wife’s hand too, and she, in turn, held out her hand to a small, stout woman. For Alan, it was a further small embarrassment. He hadn’t held hands in public since childhood, not even with Janice. He felt his palms sweating and he wished the meeting over.

For Janice, there was a different sensation. The small feelings of rather fearful excitement gave way to much deeper and more complex emotions. She would have found it difficult to describe how she felt, but it seemed to her that she was experiencing sensations that she had not encountered often in her life, and then only for a few moments.

“It’s not easy—the darkness!”

The words ended suddenly with a piercing shriek. It was echoed by the outgoing breath of the congregation; women called out aloud now. They had caught the distress in the strange, unearthly voice. Janice found herself calling too, but she did not know what she was saying. Beside her, Alan gripped her hand reassuringly.

She responded gratefully.

“What’s happening, Jan?” he whispered. “What’s the old girl doing? I swear it’s not her voice! It can’t be—Jan?”

“I don’t know, Alan.”

Someone asked a question:

“Is it the guide? Mrs. Worrall, is it the guide who can tell me of Sadie? How’s my little Sadie, Mrs. Worrall? Is the Golden Girl ready to tell me how my little Sadie is?”

“Hush, Mr. Purbeck!” a woman called. “Mrs. Worrall’s having trouble!”

Janice was spellbound. Her breathing was jerky and irregular; her heart still pounded, but she could make out what was taking place. Alan wanted to ask questions. She told him to wait.

The medium appeared to be unconscious, yet she sat more or less upright in the chair. Her head had fallen to one side. The eyebrows still twitched, and her lips worked spasmodically as if more words struggled for exit. Suddenly she spoke again:

“Oh, yes! Yes, I am here!” The voice was clear and young, certainly not that of an immigrant from the West Indies. It was a cultured voice, one that had known breeding and education.

“I can hear! I can stay but not for long! The—the—darkness!”

And then the words were distorted, the sounds jumbled so that a mixture of strange consonants straggled out of the medium’s mouth.

“How’s my Sadie?” called the old man impatiently.

The answer came at once, quite clear and in the voice of the young girl. There was no doubt or hesitation: “Sadie? Sadie with the limp and the bushy tail? I can see her now. She is so happy. Sadie is well—Sadie sends a bark for her master!”

And a small, snapping barking came from the medium.

Alan stifled a groan. He had listened to the frantic squeals of the women in the circle, and to the maunderings of the old black lady. Now, he felt that the whole performance was on the level of farce.

It appeared that the people who attended the séance did so to get in touch with their deceased pets. Alan thought of the story he would have to tell at the office; a smile came to his face, yet he quickly erased it. Janice was taking it all seriously. He would have to be careful not to let her see how he felt. Mild interest with just a little skepticism, that was the attitude.

He murmured encouragingly to her. Mrs. Pierce told him to be quiet.

Alan decided to discuss mysticism with Janice when they got home. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to let her see that the people around her had been taken in by a bit of clever voice-modulation. Mrs. Worrall was clearly a first-rate mimic. She’d done the Golden Girl bit quite well, though she had gone bronchitic at one stage. Those grunts and groans were not in keeping with the rest of the performance. It was too much that the only effective message should be from a dead dog. Alan allowed himself a moderate smile as he looked about the circle.

Janice saw the disbelieving smile. It was like Alan, of course, to remain aloof when matters beyond the immediate perception of the senses were before him. He had a man’s cold, practical mind, disregarding what be couldn’t touch or see or have confirmed in writing by a couple of experts. Janice found herself disliking him greatly. But the feeling lasted only for moments. What was passing before her was of far greater interest.

Mrs. Worrall was in a trance; she was unconscious, but it was an odd kind of unconsciousness. A spirit guide was talking through her dark lips. More men and women, encouraged by her success with the dead Sadie, began to question the medium.

“Can you tell me anything about my mother?” asked one fairly well dressed woman of about fifty. “She passed over last week and we do miss her so!”

Mrs. Worrall’s lips moved:

“—not so dark now and the shadow passes—much light, much sweet light! Who calls?”

“Me, Golden Girl!” cried out the woman who had asked about her mother. “Me, Mrs. Wyatt! It’s about my mother—tell her we send our love!”

Janice was so moved by the woman’s sad cries that she wept. There was no darkness, no feeling of danger no hints of blackness and the deep caverns of the seas. The congregation assembled in the small Spiritualist church were her friends, and the lady who rolled and twitched and writhed in her straight-backed chair was the means through which the living around her contacted the dear departed. The momentary fear was past. The dead girl who was the spirit guide would help them.

Mrs. Worrall’s lips moved easily, with no reluctance at all:

“—there is one near me,” came the voice of the cultured young woman, “—faint voice, a new voice in this happy place of everlasting light—speak, speak to her—tell her who calls!”

Alan could hardly bear it. No doubt the medium would ask the congregation to take a collection when she had done with her wiles. Janice would probably contribute lavishly. The poor girl looked completely under the spell of the ridiculous black woman. And the others too were deluded: take the lady who was trying to speak to her mother, dead only the week before. She was bending forward as though she was speaking into some kind of celestial telephone. Absurd!

“It’s me, Mother!” she cried. “Me, Ada!”

“Ada!” mouthed Alan silently. Good God!

A thin, tired, faraway sound came from the black woman’s lips:

“—tell her not to worry—tell Ada I can rest now. Tell Ada there’s good luck coming.” The voice became stronger. “Tell Ada I’ve left my cameo brooch in the teapot—tell her!”

As the voice faded and sank away, the men and women gasped in amazed delight. Janice was rather annoyed. It seemed to her that the powers of Mrs. Worrall should not be debased in this way: the women thought it a splendid prize.

Without thinking at all about what she was doing, she called out clearly and sharply:

“May I say something to the spirit guide? May I, Mrs. Worrall?”

Linda Pierce was both astounded and annoyed:

“I was next, Janice! I wanted to ask about my Charlie! He’s been ill and—”

“Oh!” screamed the medium in the girl’s clear voice. The dark! No more—darkness and danger! Oh, Golden Girl fears the shadows!”

Abruptly the atmosphere changed. Where there had been a mild, pleasurable feeling of self-congratulation, there was doubt. The fear returned.

No one moved. No one uttered a sound.

The last of the light was gone. The skylights were patches of grey, the walls dark, and closer than before.

All attention was on the medium. Mrs. Worrall’s whole body shook in the chair. Her heels drummed three, four times on the old wooden floor. Strange guttural noises came from deep within her chest. The congregation sat rigid, hands biting into one another, the circle unbroken and every eye on the medium in her eerie delirium.

“Shadows! Danger—darkness!” yelled the medium. “Golden Girl afraid of the dark—afraid of the life-that-is-not-life, fears the life-that-is-not-life!”

“Is she all right?” whispered Alan. “What’s she talking about? What’s happening, Mrs. Pierce?”

In the deep silence the medium’s strange voice again called out; this time it was a hopeless, wailing cry:

“—can’t help now, the thing-that-never-was-life is too strong—can’t keep it away from dear life-that-is-your-life—danger!”

“I’ve had enough,” said Alan. He tried to release his hands. He had large, strong hands, yet he could not break free. And then he did not wish to, for something that defied all reason took shape in the gloom.

About the head of the medium, a thin, insubstantial grey-white shape was forming, weirdly, from spinning white and grey motes like black sunshine.

“Jan, let’s go,” whispered Alan. “Help me, Jan!”

Janice smiled her most brilliant smile.

“Whatever for, darling? The fun’s only just beginning.”