Читать книгу Mystical Paths - Susan Howatch - Страница 38

My father had calmed me by his brisk dismissal of the Devil during his bilingual analysis; I was now able to believe that although I had encountered a demon, its master had been absent from the scene. Or, in the other language: I was now able to believe I had encountered neurosis but not the insanity which destroys the personality and prompts the murder and maiming of others. Nevertheless the memory of the paranormal phenomena continued to trouble me, and that evening in my sitting-room I began to reflect on the condition known in religious language as ‘possession’. If Christian was occupying Katie’s psyche in such a way that he was driving her to breakdown, could this perhaps represent the traditional ‘demonic possession’ in an updated form? My father had brushed aside the possibility that Katie was, in a traditional sense, ‘possessed’, but it seemed to me that the reality behind all the language did reflect a form of psychological possession.

I juggled with the two languages for a moment. One could say that Christian’s memory was at the root of Katie’s guilt, and that this guilt was making her neurotic. But could one say that Christian, not at peace with God as I had blithely supposed, was roaming around as a malign discarnate shred and infesting her? Perhaps, if one acknowledged the heavy use of symbolism, one could – but how confusing language was, how distracting! No wonder philosophers had become so bogged down in the problems it created for clear thinking.

The intercom buzzed on the side-table.

‘Call for you, Nicholas,’ said Agnes as I responded with a grunt. ‘Marina Markhampton.’

‘Okay, I’ll talk to her.’ I kept the bell of my telephone extension switched off because I liked the Community to screen my incoming calls; this was useful when I was meditating or studying or just feeling unsociable. Picking up the receiver I said: ‘Hang on, Marina,’ and waited for the click as Agnes hung up. It was always vital to wait for the click. Then I said: ‘Hi – how is she?’

‘Look, we’ve got to talk.’

The hairs rose on the nape of my neck. ‘What’s happened?’

‘When she got home she tried to cut her wrists.’

I opened my mouth. No words emerged. I clutched the phone and started to sweat.

‘It’s all right,’ said Marina rapidly. ‘She didn’t get far – the knife she chose was blunt. I got hold of the doctor and we managed to get her into that funny-farm near Banbury, the one where everyone goes to be dried out and detoxified. Emma-Louise went there after her first husband ran off with another man, Holly spent a month there after her first suicide attempt and Venetia’s sister Arabella practically lives there, so it’s all madly respectable.’

I managed to say: ‘Katie needs a hospital, not a chic rest-home! She needs a psychiatrist!’

‘My dear, there are oodles of psychiatrists there, they’re wall-to-wall. Anyway, I got Katie settled in and now I’m back in Oxford waiting for Katie’s mother to collect the children – that au pair’s good but I don’t think it’s right to give her total responsibility for three children in a crisis which could last some time. I plan to stay the night here, go back to the funny-farm tomorrow morning for a visit and then head for London. If you could come to my flat –’

‘What time?’

‘About three? Oh, and don’t forget I’ve moved from Cadogan Place – you do have my new address, don’t you?’

I flicked stiff-fingered through my address-book and eventually read aloud some words which included ‘Eaton Terrace’.

‘That’s it. Thanks, Nick.’ She hung up.

That night I walked in my sleep, and when I awoke the next morning I was lying on the library couch. That shocked me so much that I almost decided to visit Father Peters after all. Eleven years ago after my mother’s death he had cured me of somnambulism just as he had simultaneously cured me of triggering the poltergeist activity; he had taught me to stroke my psyche at regular intervals by prayer and meditation, and to channel the abnormal psychic energy out of my body by means of strenuous physical activity.

Remembering these vital lessons I devoted myself to reciting the mantra for half an hour. Then after attending mass I meticulously expended a lavish amount of energy on washing and waxing my car until it looked like a four-wheeled fantasy in an advertisement. But all the effort was worthwhile. By this time I was feeling well in control of myself, and as soon as I had finished an early lunch I drove off in my jet-black Mini-Cooper towards the road which led to London.