Incarnate (49 page)

“What is it now?” Joyce said harshly.

“It’s Freda, Joyce. Please don’t hang up until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude. I lost my husband recently. I don’t feel like talking just now.”

“I know you have, Joyce. I saw it on the news. That’s why I’m calling.” For a moment Freda didn’t think she would be able to go on. “Would you like to see your husband again?”

The silence lasted so long she thought Joyce had walked away from the phone, but Joyce must have been fighting to keep control of herself. “I’m sorry, Freda, I’ve given all that up. Oxford finished it for me. I’m sticking with reality, however hard it is.”

Freda heard a stifled sob. How could she persist when she didn’t believe what she was saying, when she hated herself for distressing Joyce? Then Sage came softly out of the parlor to watch her, standing between her and the front door. She had to go on, she knew this was her last chance. “This is real, Joyce. I give you my word,” she said, and writhed inside herself for lying. “I’ve done it for other people who’ve lost their loved ones. Let me do it for you.”

“I’ve given you my answer,” Joyce said. “He’s gone and that’s all. You don’t come back when you’ve fallen that far, when you’ve given up. Please leave me alone to live with that. I’m sorry, you aren’t helping at all. If you phone again you won’t get through.”

Freda clung to the phone as if it could stop her shivering, and gazed up the endless stairs. She tried to dial again, but when her shivery fingers succeeded at last, the line was engaged: Joyce had taken the phone off the hook. She stared hopelessly at Doreen, and might have rushed Sage to get to the front door if she’d had any strength. It was Sage who broke the empty silence. “Perhaps it was too delicate to discuss over the phone.”

Could he really be handing her the solution? She bit the inside of her lip to keep her mouth shut until she had suppressed her eagerness. “I think you’re right. I’ll go and see her first thing tomorrow.”

Doreen began to protest, but Sage shook his head. Could he really not see that he would be letting Freda out of the house, into the fresh air that would clear her head at last, clear away his influence for long enough to let her fight back? He was leading her back into the parlor. But as she sank into her chair, he nodded approvingly at her. “Yes,” he said with that faint calm smile. “A visit ought to be just what is needed.”

50

M
ARTIN’S NEW FLAT
was on Earl’s Court Road. The kitchen and the bathroom put together weren’t much more spacious than the cell the police had kept him in overnight.
H
is feet were aching from days of trudging from hospital to hospital. Molly’s parents hadn’t known where she was, and all he’d done was to make them worry. Leon wouldn’t help him find her, and he could certainly expect no help from the police. He mustn’t let any of this get through to him. He went to the phone, the one bright new object in the flat, at once.

He didn’t want to see Molly if she didn’t want to see him. He just wanted to know that she was all right. He wanted to be sure of that before he was forced to go back to America, if that was what they meant to do to him. Yesterday several members of Parliament had been asking why he was allowed to stay in Britain; so had some of the newspapers. He didn’t know how easy it would be for the police to have him extradited, but they had certainly given him the impression that they meant to try, even though for the moment they weren’t pressing charges against him. It felt as if the whole of Great Britain was against him, but he hadn’t time to brood over that. He was too worried that Molly was hiding somewhere, with nobody to help her or even aware that she needed help.

There was someone who ought to be aware, and by Christ, Martin would make sure he was. This time Stuart Hay would help, by God he would, because he was responsible for Molly’s breakdown. Martin had to believe that was what she’d suffered—that she’d injured herself and, for whatever reason, convinced herself that he’d injured her. The thought made him clench his fists until the receiver creaked. “Foundation for Industrial Psychology,” a voice eventually said.

“Stuart Hay, please.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t here just now.”

“Then I need to know where to get in touch with him.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“It’s extremely urgent,” Martin said, closing his aching eyes. “I’ll need to know his home address.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

It was unbearably predictable. “Then put me through to someone who is,” Martin said with an edge to his voice.

When a donnish-sounding woman asked him
₍
briskly what he wanted, he didn’t give her a chance. “Stuart Hay wanted to know whether a friend of mine had been affected by an experiment he ran. Well, she has, so badly that she can’t call him herself. I need to get in touch with him right now, but I don’t know where he lives.”

“We don’t give out private addresses without the permission of the. person concerned.”

“Either I call him or I get the police to find him. It’s up to you.”

“You were proposing to call him or visit him?”

“Call him, obviously. What else?”

“Since the circumstances are so unusual,” she said reluctantly, “I can give you the phone number but not the address.”

He scribbled the number, cut the connection, and dialed.

This phone was in Oxford too, but sounded fainter. Shouting to be heard might drain some of his rage—but it was a woman’s voice that answered. “Stuart Hay.” Martin demanded.

“He’s gone away.”

No longer there, did she mean? Martin’s fists clenched again. “Where to?”

“London. Just for the day, I think. I’m expecting him back this evening.”

“Back where?”

“Back home. Oh, you mean the address? Here you go,” she said, and gave it to him. “Who shall I say called?”

“Don’t bother,” Martin said, and cut her off, as much to make sure he didn’t take out his frustration on her as anything. He grabbed his overcoat. He wouldn’t call Hay, he would confront him. Never mind that he’d promised the police he wouldn’t leave this address. He didn’t care what he risked so long as he was sure that Molly was taken care of.

51

S
TUART
had almost passed the site of the cinema before he realized what it was. A few heaps of rubble, bony with timber, surrounded a blackened patch of earth. Two grubby boys were digging a half-melted Exit sign out of one of the heaps, but ran away when they saw him watching. He stood and wondered what could have made Danny Swain do such a thing, wondered what the others might be capable of. They might be well adjusted socially by now; it would be wrong to assume anything else. When a wind blew ash and the stench of burning toward him, he went on quickly to the police station.

“Stuart Hay to see Inspector Hackett,” Stuart said to the desk sergeant.

“That’s him,” a woman’s voice said. “Stuart Hay, that’s what he said.”

It was a middle-aged woman. Suddenly he knew who she and her companion were—would have known even if they hadn’t been staring at him with such dislike. He went over to them. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Swain.”

“Look at him, look at the cheek of him.” Mrs. Swain glared up at him with eyes that were red from weeping.

“Coming straight up to us, bold as you please. Hasn’t even the decency to pretend he’s not here.”

“That wouldn’t really make much sense, would it?” Stuart said, as gently as he could.

Mr. Swain got to his feet, his eyes narrowing, and Stuart had to step back. “We don’t need you to tell us what makes sense, lad. It’s you who filled our boy’s head with nonsense and worse. Proud of that, are you? You’ve got his mother afraid to stay at home in case he comes back.”

She was clutching at her husband’s arm and shaking her head tearfully when the desk sergeant beckoned Stuart. “Inspector Hackett can see you now.”

“And us.” Mrs, Swain used her husband to drag herself to her feet. “I want to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“I don’t mind if they come in,” Stuart said.

He might learn something that way. The desk sergeant looked dubious, but when he came back, he seemed surprised. “The inspector will see all of you.”

The inspector was a thickset man with curly hair. Two chairs waited to the right of the inspector’s desk, one to the left. When everyone was seated the inspector said, “Well, Mr. Hay. what do you know about all this?”

“I’m not sure I know anything.”

“Come now. You certainly know what you were told. You know Daniel Swain set fire to the cinema where he worked, shortly after he received your letter.”

“I wouldn’t say shortly after. It must have been a few weeks.”

“No, it was a few days.” The inspector held up one hand to forestall Mr. Swain from interrupting. “Mr. Swain kept the letter from him for several weeks because he feared it might have a bad effect on Daniel’s mind. It rather seems his fears were justified. Would you agree?”

Stuart felt as if he were on trial. “You’re sure it was Danny who set fire to the cinema?”

“I’m afraid so. The fire was started in the projection box. He used seats to start the fire, and”—he glanced at Mrs. Swain, and away—“we found his fingerprints on the remains of some magazines he must have set light to. And there is the way he behaved afterward.”

“That’s what you did to him.” Mrs. Swain was struggling to get to Stuart, while her husband held her in the chair. “You drove him mad and made him run away. He’s out there somewhere with nobody to look after him and the Lord God only knows what he may do.” She was weeping and furious that he should see. “What did you mean by it? What were you trying to do to him?”

“You really must allow me to ask the questions at this stage,” the inspector said. “By all means have your say when I’ve finished.” He gazed coolly at Stuart. “All the same, the question stands. Exactly what did you want with Swain?”

“Just what I said in the letter. You’ll have read it, won’t you?” When the policeman simply gazed at him, Stuart had to go on: “Just to find out how he was.” That sounded grotesquely insensitive under the circumstances. “I don’t know if you’re aware that he volunteered for a research project I helped run. This was years ago, in Oxford. He claimed he could see the future.”

“And you encouraged him, didn’t you?” Mr. Swain’s eyes were narrowing dangerously. “You must have had less bloody sense than him. Couldn’t you see how he was? Meddling in people’s minds. Your sort wants locking up.”

“I was only the assistant, you know.” Stuart resented being made to feel defensive. “It was Dr. Kent’s project.”

“Who?”

Stuart started, for all three of them had asked the question. “Guilda Kent,” he said.

Danny’s mother clutched her husband. “That’s who she said she was.”

“Or your son did.” The inspector spoke slowly and clearly. “I think we talked that through, Mrs. Swain. It couldn’t have been Dr. Kent, we’ve established that, and there would have been no reason for the woman who came to your home to say that she was, now would there?”

“I suppose not. Maybe Danny said it. I can’t remember, and I’m not surprised,” she said, glaring at Stuart. “I’d still like to know who she was.”

“I assure you we’re working on that, but since you can’t remember what she looked like … .” He turned back to Stuart. “All the same. Mrs. Swain, it’s significant that your son should have taken her for Dr. Kent if Dr. Kent was responsible for his delusions.”

“You’ve lost me,” Stuart said, feeling edgy and denied some vital piece of information. “Who did he say was Guilda Kent? How do you know she wasn’t?”

“A woman visited Mr. and Mrs. Swain’s flat just before Daniel ran away. We have no idea of who she was or whether it was her visit that made him run away. If he took her for your colleague, then I shouldn’t be surprised. But she wasn’t Dr. Kent. We’ve traced Dr. Kent to a mental hospital in Norfolk. She’s been there for years.”

“Best place for her,” Mr. Swain muttered. “Best place for both of you.”

So that was why Stuart hadn’t been able to trace her: because she had changed her profession. He hadn’t realized she was qualified to work in hospitals, but perhaps she had qualified since Oxford.

“If the sight of someone he believed to be your colleague was enough to make him flee,” the inspector said, “there’s little doubt in my mind that your project was responsible for his mental state.”

“Maybe. I’ve had my doubts about the project myself.” At least Stuart could answer the questions he could see in their eyes. “Dr. Kent wanted to monitor the dreams of several people who claimed they could dream of the future. What happened ultimately was that they affected one another with a kind of mass hysteria, and the experiment was terminated.”

If anything, the Swains looked even more hostile. The inspector seemed to be waiting for more. “Really, Guilda Kent is the person you should talk to,” Stuart said. “Have you been in touch with her?”

“Not yet.” The inspector began to search among his papers. “Perhaps you should, Mr. Hay.”

“I’d very much like to if you’ll give me the address.”

The inspector copied it onto a pad and tore off the page for Stuart. “Any questions you would like to ask him?” he said to the Swains.

“I’d like to tell him what I think of him” was all Mrs. Swain said.

“He’s not worth it,” her husband growled, then came to stand over Stuart. “Go off to your loony bin and stay there. And if Danny has to go in, I hope they put you all in the same cell.”

The possibility of a mental hospital seemed only now to have occurred to Danny’s mother. “Oh, don’t say that,” she sobbed.

“You can go,” the inspector said to Stuart. “If we should need you again, we’ll know where to find you.” To judge by the Swains’ faces, that might have been under a stone. Stuart felt he’d been let off lightly. He was at the door when the inspector said, “Just a minute.”

He was writing on the pad again. “You might as well have this. Swain had written it down. We found it among his clothes.”