He found himself pressed close against a wall, with Beth against his chest so that her hair brushed his face and he had to force his arm forward against the wall to keep hold of her hand. For long moments they swayed and lurched in the press of bodies and voices, inched gradually forward; and then at his shoulder he felt someone take a tight grip on his arm, and a voice said in his ear: ‘Come with me. Come this way.’
He looked round, and saw Mary’s face bright and rapacious, her eyes wide, her lips parted; she pressed close against him, and he felt her breast against his arm. He thought, with more alarm than amusement: This is why they won’t let the men in. To whatever it is. Not with this little lot loose; there’d be an orgy. None of their precious family image then.
Mary drew him away insistently. He felt a helpless, comic figure—a woman holding him on either side. Keeping a firm grip on Beth to tug her after him, he moved dutifully sideways; found himself stumbling along rows of seated women in the centre of the room, to a sudden space in the far gangway where fewer people stood. Glancing back, he saw Oakley slipping after them; the journalist grinned at him, and rolled his eyes at the noise and warmth and shrill-soft crowds. A woman in black moved towards them with a look of forbidding; but Mary said something inaudible which sent her scurrying away, and they stood in a breathless group in the shadowed gap at the side. Still the girl thrust herself close against him. He held his arm stiff and motionless, and looked ahead. He felt giddy; the blue lights all round wavered in the darkness, over the thronging heads, around the square concrete pillars that braced the underground roof. Then a stronger blue glow took shape at the end of the room, and in it he saw the monstrous black figure of the big woman, the leader, standing on a raised platform with her cloak swathed round her; and at the same time he saw suddenly that it was not one room, but three. Two other long pillared chambers, immense and crowded as their own, stretched up to face the dais, so that she stood there not at the end of one room but in the centre of a vast three-armed amphitheatre.
‘My God,’ he called down to the girl Mary, forgetting the feel of her, ‘it’s fantastic. How many thousands of them are there?’
Her face shone, the eyes glittering as if she were drunk.
‘It’s all the Guild. The Winchester Guild. They’ve all come.’
He barely caught her voice over the hubbub; but then the woman standing high in the centre suddenly raised her arm, the cloak falling away from it in a black wing that jerked at his memory without giving him time to know why; and a swift hush swept like a wind over the whole crowd until they were silent. Straining his eyes in the half-light he saw a table beside her on the raised central dais, and two chairs, and then another figure mounting to stand beside her. He heard Beth’s indrawn breath before he too recognized the man. It was Warren.
The woman’s vibrant male voice rang out; it was made thinner by the size of the huge shelter, but still every word was clear.
‘Members of the Guild. We are honoured with Neville Warren’s presence again tonight. You all know his special gifts. Let us help give him all our strength to bring them to their best use.’
Queston peered out at the rows of seated women, and saw movement wash over them in a wave. He thought they had bowed their heads, but it was more; each one dropped her head until it rested on her knees, and let her arms hang limp so that the fingers touched the ground.
Oakley’s voice hissed softly, behind him: ‘What’s the betting they pray to the great god Mandrake? ’ But he only stared out at them; there was something peculiarly horrible about the obeisance, the seated grovelling.
The big woman still stood, but she bent her head. ‘O mighty power who givest us all things by which we live, give us also thy peace here. Come to thy son, and strengthen his vision, that he may see and tell of those things we cannot see or know. Serve us as we deserve. Amen.’
The word rustled through the crowd: ‘Amen.’ In another long ripple they rose and sat back, expectant.
The woman sat down, and Warren stood there alone in the blue light. Very faintly, around him, music took shape in the air; it came so gradually that Queston was not conscious of the first moment of hearing, only of finding it there as if it had existed from the beginning. It was soft, yet bleak and brooding. ‘How’s that for stage-management? ’ said Oakley, irrepressible, in his ear.
Warren stood with closed eyes, a square, solid figure; his face heavy and expressionless and old, without colour under the blue glow. He straightened himself; raised his chin; stepped slowly forward away from his chair and turned round, gradually swivelling in a full circle as if he were listening for something, or staring out through his closed eyelids in search. Then a broad, beatific smile spread over his face; on more noble features it might have looked impressive, but as his thick lips drew back to reveal two rows of large, gleaming false teeth, it seemed only an imbecile enjoyment of some private joke. Yet Queston heard sharp breaths of awe all round him; he glanced at the rows of women, and saw every face transfixed with expectancy, gazing ardently up.
He shifted uneasily. He had watched mediums at work before, without conviction; he knew all the pathetic tricks, the ambiguities that to the gullible shone with inspiration. This was a perfect audience, but if they were disappointed—he hoped for Warren’s own sake that he was good.
Warren said loudly, very slow and ponderous: ‘Good evening, friends.’ His eyes were closed still; he still smiled the wide, inane smile. ‘I am glad for the chance to come to you.’ The intonation and accent were his own, but the voice was deeper. It was not the genteel whine they had heard in the caravan. It carried easily, in the expectant, prickling hall, over the murmur of the music.
‘I am glad our brother has come back to you. He did not want to come. I think he was tired. We must be patient with him, the body is weak. But here where the body is no longer a prison we send out much love to you, our loved ones on the other side. There are many with me who wish to communicate their love. No. No. Not yet.’ Warren’s face puckered in annoyance; he patted at the air beside his head as if brushing away a fly. ‘They are eager to come through. We are glad here now, my friends, at what we see of you on earth. We see an end of discord and of rivalries, and we rejoice. The vibrations surrounding the minds of men are calmer now than they have ever been, a great disaster has been averted. We see you with wise leaders, teaching that evil can best be kept at bay by persuading the people of each country and city to live at home in contentment, enjoying the beauty and harmony of the world. It may be that there is still much to be suffered, that there are discontentments of the body—’
I’ll say, Queston thought. He looked at the gaping women, and thought of porridge and cheap black cloth and dim light.
‘—But thanks to the wisdom of your present leaders, whose minds are open to our loving thoughts of illumination from this side, all can be well. Only patience is needed, to bring strength for the great task ahead. To live as you live now is a blessed beginning. And at last, out of these trials there must come true brotherhood and peace throughout the world, linking men and women of every caste, creed and colour in perfect love.’
The deep, slow voice tolled monotonously out; Queston listened intently, frowning. It was the old nebulous love doctrine of the trance teacher, but there was a difference: a hidden, deliberate thread of propaganda. Your leaders… your leaders… He stared thoughtfully at Warren.
The music faintly rose and fell, muttering with vague menace. A few explosive coughs echoed out; the women were growing restless.
Warren suddenly stood upright and stiff, clenching the back of his chair. His eyes opened wide, the whites gleaming, but his expression did not change.
‘I have someone… there is a man, his name is Frederick. He is tall, dark-haired, a lot of dark hair. He tosses it aside all the time—’ He jerked his head backwards. ‘He has a strong face, but gentle eyes… he moves down in this direction… is there anyone who recognizes him?’
The wide white eyes turned in their direction, and he flung out a pointing arm; Beth drew closer to Queston, and he slipped his arm round her. He watched Warren sceptically, feeling contempt at the rustle of excitement that quickened the air round them. On their left, a dozen rows ahead, a young woman rose to her feet: ‘I know him,’ she called. ‘It’s my husband.’ Her voice shook.
Warren’s gaze moved quickly to her. ‘Ah yes, he’s coming to stand beside you, my dear… he’s on your right hand… he’s running his hand down your hair…’
The girl had long fair hair, straggling loose over her shoulders. She said faintly: ‘O yes—he used to do that.’ She stood as if all her body was tingling, gazing at Warren in agonized hope. The heads craned closer to see her.
Warren stretched out his hand dramatically. ‘Your name is Joan, I think… ’ She nodded. ‘He brings you great love, he tells you not to grieve, that he is always at your side as he is now… I have a feeling of something cut off suddenly, I think he died young, in an accident… he tells you that he is very happy, that you must be happy as well, live in the place where you were together and he will often speak to you through those like our brother. Only you must stay contented in your home… ’ Warren let out a long breath and bent his head; the girl said tearfully: ‘O thank you, thank you.’ She sat down; but still upright, gazing, her face shining up at him. Queston quivered with distaste and rage.
But Warren was erect again, half-shouting, pointing away from them into the depths of a second chamber of the three armed hall.
‘The name Turville, I have a Turville—’
They heard a woman’s voice, faintly: ‘Yes. O yes.’
He called: ‘Your husband is here, he is a very erect gentleman, military… what is this I see… yes, he has a white moustache and it may be the light round his head, but I think he has white hair. He has only one arm… he can’t give it to me very well because he is not conversant with the manner of communication, but he sends you his love… there are many whom you know on the other side, there is great love towards you, I feel it. He tells you to be content with your life, he says he is helping you in a decision you have to make… peace to you…’
The women were tense now with eagerness; the whole crowd murmurous and excited; and Queston thought that the music was growing, filling the pauses, heightening the emotional, smouldering air. Warren had swung round again, the sweat gleaming on his forehead; he was speaking more quickly now, pointing down at the rows in front of him.
‘You, my dear, I have your father to come to you… a short elderly gentleman who passed over some years ago… I think he is your father—’
‘It’s him, yes—’ The voice was barely audible.
‘He says you have been strong, you understand the need to cope with the difficulties we have now, your strength is a great joy to him. He shows me some papers… he left his papers in bad order, and you dealt with them. He is proud of you, he sends you his love…’
‘Thank you—’ The voice broke, but the spell moved away from it; Warren had jerked suddenly, twice, a quiver running over all his heavy body and twitching his face into an idiot gape. He crouched slightly, clutching the chair. The music shrilled softly, a high note of strings, and down again. A woman near Queston moaned: ‘Peter. O Peter my love, come back—’ The luminous blue glow over the centre of the room, as he strained to see, suddenly cut at his eyes as if it drove into his head, and he blinked and ducked.
Then the voice was there. He saw Warren’s mouth moving, as he looked up, and he saw the sagging clefts of age in the man’s face, but the voice was the high clear tone of a small child’s.
‘Mummie. Mummie, it’s Colin. Mummie, you were cross with me, don’t be cross. I didn’t mean to run out, I didn’t know what would happen.’ In some part of the darkness, beyond the platform, a woman sobbed.
‘Don’t cry, Mummie,’ the child’s voice said. ‘I’m very happy. I’m always at home with you. You kept my toys for me… stay at home with me. I’m very happy… ’ The voice died with a gurgle; Warren doubled up as if he had been struck, and fell sideways over his chair, clasping its back with both arms, gasping, each long breath a moan: ‘Aaaaaah… aaaaaah… aaaaaah…’ Then his head jerked up again, and the eyes were wide and white, the pupils rolled up invisible; his face twitched and grimaced and seemed to change, the cheeks hollower, the nose and chin more pointed. He opened his mouth, and the voice that came was a man’s voice but not his own; thinner, rasping, with the Gloucestershire vowels clear and marked. And he spoke, Queston saw, to the big woman beside him where she had been sitting all the time, an indistinct black shape on the edge of the platform, outside the glow of the strange blue pool of light. The music, from its hidden source, reached an end just as he spoke, and the thin voice husked out electrifying in the sudden silence.
‘Daphne,’ it said. ‘Take care. It’s coming.
Take care
—’
They never knew if it would have said more. The big woman sprang to her feet, immensely appearing in the light. Her face was brilliant with a kind of ecstasy; as she leapt up, the music rang out into the air again, a new music, throbbing and darkly triumphant. Above it she cried out, taking Warren by the shoulders, staring out over the crowded hall: ‘Help him now—he needs the force of our minds and hearts and then he can tell us. The revelation can come to us, the Guild can know its purpose. Help him now, in the work for which he came, call on his gift—’
The women’s voices rose round her own, in a diffuse babel of shrieks and cries from every part of the triple hall; Queston heard Mary scream: ‘Come! Come! ’ and saw her oblivious of him or anyone near her, gazing up, her hands clenched, her face caught in a frenzied mask of hope and lust. Staring round him wildly he saw every face frozen in the same passion of eagerness, a fearful tide unleashed through the place as if a restraining cord had been cut. The air was hot, oppressive, the noise beat on him as if it were one with the heat. He saw Warren, half-standing half-conscious, jerking like a marionette.