Mystical Paths (45 page)

‘I certainly see the logic,’ said Lewis. ‘But how successful were you in achieving a cure?’

Well, I did get him away from Martin, although it was hardly my fault that Christian chose to disembowel him as a farewell gesture. And eventually I did get him away from Dinkie, so at least I achieved my aim of channelling the madness out of the bedroom. I started my campaign by luring him away on a holiday to the Continent where we whizzed around behaving like a couple of undergraduates — we even played a crazy rag on his brother James in Germany, but that was a mistake because Christian couldn’t be Charles Gore with James and afterwards he just felt rather a fool. God knows what James thought. Meanwhile everyone was criticising Christian for leav- ing Katie on her own when she was eight months pregnant, but I couldn’t help that. The emergency was too acute to wait, and Christian had to have this therapy in order to avoid a complete breakdown.’

‘So apart from the incident with James, the holiday was a success?’

‘I thought so. It enabled Christian to let off a lot of steam - and as we all know, a volcano’s far less dangerous after an eruption. But then, damn it, he wanted to do it all over again! No more being Charles Gore - he’d "done" Charles Gore and now he had to be Henry Scott Holland.

‘However, we soon ran into problems. I did get the Scott Holland passport, but I was carpeted by my boss who wanted to know what the hell was going on; someone had tipped him off that I was on a false passport kick, and although I do have access to a number of peculiar departments, I’m not normally in the business of providing false identities. I told him the passports were all part of an entertainment being planned for an old Wykehamist reunion, and luckily my boss, who’s an old Etonian, was very willing to believe that old Wykehamists were capable of a really esoteric degree of inanity. So I crawled out of that tight corner and swore blind that both passports had been destroyed, but I knew I couldn’t go to that particular well for water again so Christian’s plan to work his way through the
Lux Mundi
theologians came to an end. But at least he did still have those two passports and at least every weekend I could take him sailing and enable him to escape into another identity. Even if we didn’t go to France he always kept the passports with him to make him feel liberated ... Nick, how in God’s name did you find out about them?’

‘Dinkie said she searched his pockets once when he was asleep.’

‘But he’d given up Dinkie by the time I got him the Scott Holland passport! In fact I made that a condition of the deal: I’d only get the passport, I said, if he’d ... Bloody hell, he double-crossed me! He kept on with her!’

‘In retrospect,’ said Lewis as Perry blundered back to the brandy decanter to refill his glass, ‘what do you yourself see as the source of this compulsion to be someone else?’

‘Well, to be honest I didn’t believe all that allegorical rubbish he was spouting about the journey to the centre to find the source of the river within. That was just his intellectual way of dressing up a basic problem in high-flown language in order to make it bearable. I thought at the time - and I still think - that this split identity arose because he was a decent man who knew he was going to have to behave like a bastard.’

‘You mean -’

‘I think he was subconsciously winding himself up to ditch the wife who loved him.’ Perry slumped down in the chair again with his glass. ‘It was like this,’ he said. ‘Christian, the real Christian, was such a good, moral, decent man that he couldn’t consciously face up to what he had to do to get his life back on course. So his escape into other identities where he played the bastard was in a bizarre way an acting-out of what he had to do in his real life but which simultaneously he couldn’t bring himself to do at all. That was the conflict that was driving him crazy, and at the time he died he still hadn’t come close to resolving it.’

Lewis merely said: ‘You’re sure that ditching Katie would have been the answer to his problems?’

‘Positive. With the marriage out of the way he would have had the strength to reorganise his career - maybe he would have gone back to the classics. His first degree was in Greats, Lewis, and the classical languages were his favourite subjects at Winchester. If he could have lived in the classical world during his working hours and afterwards returned not just to the twentieth century but to the right wife ... But he didn’t. He died. End of story ... Or is it?’ Drinking his brandy he relapsed into silence.

‘It was the end of the story until Nicholas Darrow started to bob around saying Christian was alive.’

‘But that’s what’s so bloody odd! When Nick turned up last Friday, he wasn’t saying Christian was still alive - he was just dredging up the old suicide theory. So why, ever since Nick’s visit, have I felt ...’ He stopped again.

‘Haunted,’ I said.

Lewis looked as if he wanted to throw me out of the window, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Perry at once. ‘I’m a rational man. I don’t see ghosts.’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ said Lewis briskly. ‘Why should you? The real issue is this, isn’t it: what did Nicholas do last Friday that had such a profoundly unpleasant effect?’

‘Exactly. Well done, Lewis. But I don’t know the answer. What is it?’

‘Well now, I wonder,’ said Lewis, offering him another cigarette.

V

‘I’m sure there’s a rational explanation,’ he added, ‘but before I offer a theory I need some more facts. Can you describe more precisely what’s been happening since Nicholas visited you?’

‘I seem to be unable to do anything except sit around and drink.’

‘Have you been out?’

‘Once. I bought some cigarettes, but
in
Piccadilly I thought I saw him – I mean
him –
Christian. All right, I know that’s ridiculous, but I haven’t been able to face going out again.’

‘Did you have any doubt about the identification?’

‘Well, of course I did! The pavements were crowded, the look-alike was some way off and Christian’s at the bottom of the Channel, so I knew at once I was mistaken. But nevertheless ...’

‘It seemed very real.’

‘Yes. So when you said just now that Nick had seen him too, I nearly had a stroke. For God’s sake, why are we both seeing Christian like this and what happened last Friday to turn us into hallucinating lunatics?’

‘I doubt if either of you were hallucinating in the medical sense of the word,’ said Lewis mildly, ‘and I doubt too if Nicholas’s sighting arose solely from his visit here last Friday. But if I may venture a tentative theory about the trouble that’s overtaken you yourself since then, I would suggest you seem to be exhibiting some excruciating symptoms of bereavement. A lot of people hit the bottle and become paralysed with inertia when the full shock of bereavement begins to bite. And the sighting in Piccadilly, which you recognise wasn’t real, can also be explained in this way because the bereaved often do make mental projections involving the deceased; the most common example is for them to be acutely aware of the dead person’s presence in the family home.’

‘My God!’ said Perry, much struck by this diagnosis and regarding Lewis with a genuine, though wary, respect. Well, that’s certainly cut all my irrational terrors down to size! But I suppose that as a clergyman you’re well accustomed to bereavement symptoms.’

‘Deal with them all the time.’

‘Wonderful. So what you’re saying is that last Friday – no, hang on, I’m still not with you. What exactly happened last Friday when Nick came here?’

‘I think he must somehow have resurrected all the horror and grief you experienced when Christian died. He cross-questioned you, didn’t he, about Christian?’

‘Very persistently. Much more persistently than anyone else who’s ever trotted here to serve up the suicide theory.’

‘We were in the kitchen, weren’t we, Perry,’ I said. I remember you getting up in the middle of the meal and taking a bottle of wine from the fridge. I could see you were rattled.’

‘What often happens after a traumatic accident,’ said Lewis, ‘is that the sufferer represses the memory, perhaps for some considerable time, but eventually it breaks back into his conscious mind and demands to be constantly replayed. Tell me, what happened after the sighting in Piccadilly? Did you become more acutely aware of your memories of him here at Albany?’

‘I hate to admit it but yes, I even started to feel he was actually present in the set – although of course I knew that was quite irrational — and when the feeling persisted I began to wonder if I was going mad. In fact I reached the point where I only felt sane when I was drunk, and now every time I stop being drunk I feel as if he’s cleared a spot in my brain and moved in — it’s as if he’s taken possession, like an occupying army, and ... No, I’m sorry, I’m talking rubbish, I know I’m talking rubbish, and Lewis, that’s exactly what’s so extraordinary: I can listen to myself saying all these crazy things but I know quite well they’re crazy — so that must mean I’m sane, mustn’t it? If I was completely mad I wouldn’t know I was talking rubbish.’

‘Let me reassure you again by saying that these bereavement symptoms of yours are very common and the likelihood is that you’re still far from certifiable. Have there been any other visual projections in addition to the incident in Piccadilly?’

‘No, but ... well, you won’t believe this —’

‘Aural projections, perhaps?’

‘Right. Last night I heard — or thought I heard — his footsteps in the kitchen. Frightful. Of course there was no one there. I had a slug of brandy and thought: come on, Perry, you’re rational, be rational. But I couldn’t sleep again.’

‘Has there been any unusual smell? Any change in the light or temperature?’

‘No smell. No change in the light. But ... now, this sounds preposterous, but there was a cold spot. I noticed it as soon as I passed by.’

‘Is it still there?’

‘Don’t know. I’ve kept away ever since.’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

But Perry, finishing his brandy, remained silent.

‘I’ve encountered the cold spot phenomenon before,’ said Lewis. ‘In fact I’m not infrequently called in to remove it. There are various things a priest can do to alleviate an unpleasant atmosphere, and if you like I’d be very willing to deal with this problem for you.’

There was a long pause. Then Perry said, staring into his empty glass: ‘I’m not a believer.’

‘That wouldn’t necessarily matter, although of course it would be helpful if you were. So long as you believe that I believe and that I’m opening up a channel of power that can wipe out this form of pollution, then my prayers should be sufficient for us both.’

‘No, I ... No, I’m sorry, I know you mean well, but —’ ‘Would it help if I gave a demonstration of my experience in this field? Let me walk around both floors of the flat. If I can tell you where the cold spot is, perhaps you’ll be more willing to believe I have access to a power that can rid you of it.’

‘No, no, we’re getting into very superstitious waters here and I can’t have that, I’m rational. Sorry, Lewis — no offence meant, but —’

‘None taken. But can I at least give you my card so that you can contact me if you change your mind?’

Well...’

‘Or you might simply wish to talk. I’d always be very willing to listen.’

‘To be honest I don’t usually go in for chats with clergymen — except old Aysgarth, marvellous man, never put his foot in it by mentioning God — but since you seem a very decent sort of chap, respectable, properly dressed, not the sort of nutty-fringe clergyman who runs around in mufti with a guitar ...’ He took the card.

‘Nicholas,’ said Lewis, ‘we must be going.’

I followed him from the room in silence, but as Perry paused at the head of the stairs, such a wave of psychic pollution washed past him from the kitchen that I could no longer contain myself. ‘Perry,’ I said urgently, ‘change your mind and trust Lewis! The atmosphere in this place is enough to drive anyone round the bend!’

Perry looked startled but Lewis said swiftly to him: ‘Thanks for the drink. I hope things improve soon, but if they don’t, please do get in touch.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ I exclaimed, exasperated beyond endurance by this inexplicable reticence. ‘Why can’t we all call a spade a spade? Perry, Christian’s spirit’s trying to possess you. Lewis is an exorcist who knows all about dealing with demonic infestations. He –’

‘I do apologise!’ said Lewis ruefully to Perry. ‘I’m afraid the child’s been reading too many horror comics. Come along, Nicholas – time to find an antidote to all that whisky you’ve been putting away.’

I was outraged, but not so outraged that I failed to notice Perry’s response. He was looking at us both as if a black pit of irrationality had opened up at his feet, and as soon as I saw this reaction the ‘gnosis’ hit me between the eyes. The trigger was the image of the black pit. Instantly the word ‘coal’ flashed on the screen of my psyche.

‘The coal-cellar!’ I shouted at once. ‘That’s where the trouble is! Lewis must exorcise the coal-cellar!’

Perry was now looking not only horrified by the irrationality but incredulous, as if he felt that no normal person could have uttered such an opinion.

‘Lewis has no intention of exorcising anything except his very considerable hunger,’ said Lewis, still effortlessly conveying the impression that he was in charge of a precocious child who was determined to embarrass him by showing off. ‘I’m off to Jermyn Street for a good dinner. Goodbye, Perry – good luck.’ And he placed his hand firmly on my shoulder in order to propel me outside.

We left the flat. Lewis closed the front door behind us with a tug of the door-knocker and shoved his way past me into the Rope Walk.

‘Lewis –’

‘BE QUIET!’ He paused only to glare at me in fury before striding ahead again.

Much shocked by this violent reaction I hurried after him, but as we entered Piccadilly my shock faded and I too gave way to fury. I was livid that I had been treated like a child, livid that my helpful advice had been brushed aside and livid that poor Perry had been so feebly abandoned. In fact I felt ready to lose my temper with Lewis, but since he had lost his temper first I felt I had been in some subtle way outmanoeuvred, and as I became increasingly aware of his rage I found I was too nervous to do more than scuttle along in his wake.

We ploughed across Piccadilly, plunged downhill past the side-entrance of Fortnum’s and pulled up at last on the brink of Jermyn Street. By this time I was experiencing such a disturbed reaction from all the chaotic abnormality at Albany that when Lewis paused as if to remember the exact location of the res- taurant, I tugged the sleeve of his jacket and muttered an apology; I felt an urgent need for him to resume his normal manner without delay.

He swung to face me. Then he sighed and to my relief I realised he was no longer angry. In a resigned voice he said: ‘Someone will really have to do something about you, and I have the terrible feeling that the someone’s going to have to be me. You’ve got to be trained. You’re a menace.’

‘But what did I do wrong? I was only trying to help, and you see, I knew, I absolutely
knew –
’

‘
You knew blank-blank nothing,’ said Lewis, not hostile but clearly welcoming the chance to sound robust. ‘However, that’s no surprise. People under thirty hardly ever do know anything, even though they’re usually pig-headed enough to think they know everything there is to know.’

‘Excuse me, Lewis, I don’t want to upset you all over again, but don’t you think you’re being just a little unfair to the younger generation?’

‘You wait. I haven’t started yet. Come along, I’m feeling extremely peckish.’

We hurried down Jermyn Street. Outside the door of one of those quiet, dimly-lit, dark-panelled establishments where the menu prices are not intended to be read by the timid, Lewis produced the school tie he had brought for me and said: ‘Put that on. And put it on quickly.’

But the design at once made me hesitate. Automatically I said: ‘This isn’t a Starwater tie.’

‘No, it’s a relic of my ill-fated days at Charterhouse. My Fordite mentor said later that it would be a useful exercise in humility if I kept the tie and looked at it once a year to remind myself of my expulsion ... Now, why are you gaping at me like a goldfish? I told you I was a mixed-up psychic teenager!’

‘But if you were expelled from Charterhouse, how on earth did you manage to get into Starwater Abbey?’

‘Nicholas,’ said Lewis, ‘I’m quite extraordinarily hungry after witnessing your psychic pirouetting at Albany, and my patience could by no remote stretch of the imagination be described as infinite. If you think I’m going to loiter on the pavement of Jermyn Street while you cross-question me about a part of my youth which I’d prefer to forget, I assure you you’ve made a very big mistake.’

I apologised hastily, knotted the tie and hurried after him into the restaurant.