Darkness Looking Back, The (14 page)

PAXTON WONDERED OVER and over whether he was making the biggest mistake of his life. First he was ushered into a make-up room to have foundation plastered all over his face, then the man himself was there, shaking his hand as Paxton rose out of his seat.

'Mr Paxton, nice to meet you! We've been trying for ages to get you on the show. Why so shy?'

Although he'd heard how short Simon Burgess was, Paxton was still a bit taken aback. For a man who seemed so much larger than life on the screen, he crammed his energy into a damn small space.

So did Napoleon
, he thought.
Don't give the little bastard an inch — looks like he'd take as many as he can get his hands on.

'I don't much like publicity,' he said bluntly. 'But it seemed like I had little option. If you'll pardon me, there's a hell of a lot of crap flying around these days, thanks to the media. It's about time a few things got sorted out.'

Burgess didn't seem the least bit offended, just nodded, looking pleased. 'Well, that's the idea.'

Someone else was fussing over his sound equipment, with a mike tucked into the collar of his shirt. Conceding that he was out to make a good impression, Paxton had dressed up in a proper shirt and his best trousers. He'd even gone out for a haircut this afternoon, as soon as they'd confirmed his slot on the show.

The floor manager sent him into the studio, directing him to the chair on its plinth opposite Burgess's. This time Burgess didn't even spare him a glance, busy in muttered conversation with one of his studio rats. Paxton's uncertainty peaked. The desire to get up out of this chair and make a run for it was stronger than ever. He recalled the day after he'd channelled a woman who'd been dead for more than 500 years, going into a trance and screaming in her voice in front of his terrified class. The next morning he'd stepped through the school gates knowing,
knowing,
that barely one pupil in the entire place would be ignorant of it. He'd gone inside himself as if back in the trance, knowing his fourteen-year-old life was altered beyond repair, feeling his stomach lurching out of step with his knees at every glance and whisper.

Tomorrow was going to be much, much worse.

When the news ended on the screens behind him and the ads started, Paxton clamped his mouth tighter shut in case his lunch ended up on Burgess's desk. His heart was fighting to get out the same way, and he could almost feel the make-up turning to liquid on his face. The studio lights were like heat lamps.

He was startled to realise his mind had drifted when Burgess's voice cut in.

'Who believes in psychics, ghosties and things that go bump in the night? The police do. Tonight we have an exclusive interview with psychic medium James Paxton, the man who's helping the Auckland police track down a serial killer. Later on we'll be bringing fellow medium Cristiana Austin back to debate with Mr Paxton and share further insights into these dreadful Auckland killings.'

It was as well the cameras were focused on Burgess at that point. The
bastard
. He'd never mentioned having
her
on as well. Paxton knew he'd been ambushed, and he was furious.

'Good evening to you, James.'

'Evening Simon.' It came out more crisply than he'd intended.

'Welcome to the show at last! It's great to have you here. You say you hate publicity.'

'I wouldn't say
hate
. Loathe would be more accurate.'

'And why
is
that?'

'I was just trying to live my own life, and you chose to make it all public without consulting me. Even criminals get name suppression sometimes, but I wasn't even given the chance. And all
I
was trying to do was help the police.'

'Mmm,' said Burgess. 'People have been a bit . . . unflattering lately. I guess you'll have seen the article in Saturday's
Canvas
?'

'Exactly.'

Burgess turned to the camera. 'The article in question was about psychics in criminal investigations, and mentioned Mr Paxton.' He lifted a copy of the magazine section, like a lawyer tabling evidence. 'And I quote: "The reclusive bartender lives in a tiny, shabby ex-state house in a low-income street in Glen Innes. His neighbours say they've never seen clients, and barely any visitors. It's almost as if he doesn't exist." ' He carelessly threw the magazine back on his desk with a smile at Paxton. 'Well! What do you have to say to that?'

Paxton gave it a second. 'It's completely prejudiced, and it's probably for the best.'

Burgess bit down hard on whatever he was about to say, trying not to choke on his astonishment.

Paxton didn't even smile. 'I'm finding out who my friends are, and I don't have to pretend about anything any more, that's for sure.'

'You've come out of the closet, so to speak. Or the coffin . . .'

'It's been good for me, Simon, painful as it's been. I can't say I particularly like people pointing and whispering about me, but maybe it's about time my friends find out who I am. However, what it's doing to my girlfriend is another matter.'

'This would be Lena Bradley, Mark Bradley's daughter?'

'That's right. I came to the studio tonight to break up with her.'

Burgess's eyebrows shot up. 'Is she watching tonight?'

'I didn't tell her about this, but someone's bound to have rung her by now.' Paxton shrugged. 'Either way it doesn't matter, because I've changed my mind. I won't do it. I love her. And I'm here to tell those people who are blackmailing her that they're going to regret it.'

'Blackmailing?' Burgess looked astonished.

'They're saying that if she doesn't dump me, they won't renew her contract at the language academy where she teaches. Basically they're firing her because they don't approve of me.'

'Who don't? The other teachers?'

'Some of them. The head of the academy is called Veronique — she's been pressuring Lena to get rid of me. Don't know her last name, sorry, but the academy is Lingua Europa in Parnell. Apparently it's the parents who've been pressuring the school to drop Lena. And
I'm
the evil one! I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to have done, but possibly they're afraid she'll bring my pet demons to work.'

Burgess laughed. 'How many have you got, James? Less than ten?'

'Too many to count.'

'Bet you haven't got as many as I have. But that's blackmail, all right. How do they think they can get away with that?' He was frowning. 'And your girlfriend won't dump you?'

'Not so far.'

Burgess faced the camera. 'Don't dump him, Lena. He's a good man! We'll have to take a look at this.'

Paxton breathed out wearily. 'I hope so, Simon. I've been going through hell these past couple of weeks, wondering if I shouldn't just walk away from her for her own good. But if she's happy with me, as I'm happy with her, why should I have to? It's none of their business who she goes out with — it's not like I'm running a porn ring or something. She's just being punished for something I
haven't
done wrong . . .'

'So what
do
you do?'

'You mean, how does my gift work?'

'Yes. Do you conduct private readings? What's your background? Tell us about
yourself
.'

Paxton sat there silently for a few seconds, trying to distil it all into a few workable sentences. The sweat was forming a moustache under the lights, but he knew it would look foolish or worse, guilty, to wipe it away.

'You're from the UK originally,' Burgess prompted. 'Where?'

'Shropshire — a place called Telford. It's actually made up of some old medieval towns with a big new business park in the middle. It's like a giant conference centre whacked on top of some lovely villages. Strictly speaking, I come from the town of Wellington.'

'Oh really? Have you been to our Wellington?'

'Yes, I was there for a few months. That was long enough.'

Burgess grinned. 'So why come here?'

Paxton nodded. He had to make an effort to look at Burgess when he spoke, and not down at the desk in front of him, especially since he was telling less than half the truth. 'I've always loved travel — I thought it was good motivation to get on with my own life.'

'But why New Zealand? Why
here
?'

Paxton was used to that question from Kiwis; they were perennially kicking themselves in the back of their own heads. 'It reminded me of home, a bit. Without the hassles. And then, of course, there was Lena.'

'Yes.' Burgess smiled. 'Do you love her?'

Paxton blinked. 'Yeah, of course I do.'

'And you won't leave her, even though it looks like she'll lose her job?'

Paxton exhaled slowly, then made himself look up again. 'I'm all she has left,' he said. 'I don't want to sound like she's a pathetic loner or anything — she has some really good friends. More than I do . . . But she's been through so much, and now when she's trying to move on with her life, they throw this at her. It just makes me so
angry
. Her dad's dead, her mother lives on the other side of the world, and so do her brother and sister. Am I supposed to walk away from her too? When you look at it, getting to work with a bunch of snobs doesn't compare with just having someone to come home to. I'm . . .' Paxton shrugged, frustrated. 'I'm not very good with words,' he mumbled.

When he met Burgess's eye, the presenter paused and nodded briskly. 'I think it's time to ask our viewers what
they
think.'

He turned to the camera. 'James Paxton's partner, Lena Bradley, Lena, whose father was murdered so horribly just six short months ago . . . Lena is about to be let go from her job
if
she doesn't get rid of her boyfriend. What do you think, New Zealand? Is this fair? Is this only to be expected given that Mr Paxton meddles with the other side — bit like Catholic priests, if you want to be frank? Is it right that we should try to separate our impressionable young people from such doings? Or is this a heartless and prejudiced attack on two people who've done nothing to deserve it?'

He rattled off the studio's automated phone number. 'Dial one if you think that psychics are dangerous frauds, or two if they're just misunderstood. I would also like to hear from any parents with children at the Lingua Europa Academy in Parnell to ask them
why
they deemed it necessary to let Lena Bradley go. Send us a fax, a text or an email. We'll be back with fellow psychic Cristiana Austin after the break.'

As soon as the cameras were off, Paxton gulped back an entire glass of water and gratefully accepted another. He gave his sweaty lip a swipe and blotted his forehead with his sleeve.

'Here.' The make-up girl suddenly materialised from nowhere, stuck a damp towelette in his direction, then swept more foundation over his face as briskly if she were giving him a spring-clean. As she gave his complexion a critical once-over, Paxton saw Cristiana Austin appear over her shoulder. He had to keep himself from scowling in case he cracked the finish.

Burgess was already shambling over to greet her. 'Good to see you. Have a seat.'

Suddenly Paxton felt a surge of anticipation. He'd be polite, but he wasn't going to nod and smile and agree with the patronising cow. Maybe her abilities were stronger than his, but he doubted it. He saw only a surface — a beautifully dressed woman with a wide smile and an assured air.

Call me a fraud again and you won't be going home smiling . . .

'And Cristiana, this is James Paxton, the guy who was involved with the investigation.'

From the look on her face, Paxton saw she hadn't been expecting him either. She looked positively panicked for a second.

Paxton didn't stand up, but made himself more comfortable. 'Hi.'

'Hello.'

The call went out that the ads were nearly over, and everyone scrambled back to their places. Cristiana perched herself in her seat, quickly smoothing her skirt down over her knees, even though no one could see it. Paxton felt eerily calm as Burgess smiled at the camera.

'Welcome back, and welcome to our next guest, well-known psychic Cristiana Austin. Hello again, Cristiana.'

'It's good to be back, Simon.'

'Now, you've told us you get your messages by seeing images on a sort of screen in your head, just like our viewers at home are watching us on TV . . .'

'Not quite as precise at that, Simon, but yes, that's right.

Sometimes I just get a strong feeling about something, or I hear a voice in my head.'

'So how does it work for you, James? Do you see images too?'

'No, actually, I don't. That's what you call clairvoyance, but I've never pretended to be one of those.' Paxton chose his words deliberately. 'I'm clairaudient — that means I hear people. And I do sense things too.'

'Do you have a spirit guide?'

'I think we all do. It's just that most of us aren't listening. I spent years ignoring mine.'

'Cristiana says hers is a Maori chief, a tohunga — was it Tama?'

'Te Mahia. But I have others.'

'Who's yours?' Burgess's hands were crossed expectantly in front of him.

Paxton took a deep, silent breath. What little credibility he had wasn't going to outlive this evening. 'I don't tend to use him, as I said, but from time to time I do communicate with a man named Septus. He was from Roman Britain, way back before the Dark Ages. I used to be able to see him as a kid. He was my not-so-imaginary friend.'

'Really?' Burgess's eyebrows met the wrinkles of disbelief on his forehead. 'And has Septus told you anything about these murders? Did he help you the last time?'

'He did help me last year, yes, but I don't really make a habit of talking to him. Most of the time I get by well enough. I really prefer to just live an ordinary life.'

'But
why
?' Cristiana looked at him like he'd just put his hand up to the murders himself. 'If you have gifts, you can't just turn your back on them — that's like being a fantastic piano player and refusing to play.'

Paxton smiled. 'I've never heard of a fantastic pianist who doesn't play the piano.'

'You know what I'm getting at! Refusing to play in public. People are given gifts for a reason. With something like this, it's almost criminal not to help others.'