Authors: Frederic Lindsay
People
sometimes
pretended
to
be
hypnotised.
Said
afterwards
it
was
a
joke.
The
boy
moved
his
face
up
along
the
inside
of
her
leg.
It
was
only
when
Maitland
caught
at
her
that
Lucy realised
she
had
got
to
her
feet.
'It's
wrong,'
she
said
to
him.
He
pulled
at
her
to
make
her
sit
down.
The
hypnotist
was
standing
looking
at
what
was
happening,
not
stopping
it.
Laughter
rolled
forward
like
a
wave
that
would
knock
her
from
her
feet.
In
the
row
behind
they
were
shouting
at
her
to
sit
down.
Sophie
Lindgren
was
slipping
down
in
her
chair,
the
boy's
head
was
hidden
by
her
skirt,
her
legs
sprawled
open.
The
hypnotist
came
forward
at
last
and
bent
over
her.
It
was
indecent.
'Can't
you
see
she's
dead?'
she
screamed.
It
wasn't
what
she
had
intended
to
say;
but
as
the
Great
Sovek
straightened
and
turned
with
his
face
ugly
and
shapeless
with
fright,
she
knew
that
it
was
true.
Poor
Sophie
Lindgren
was
dead.
BOOK
FIVE
Chapter 14
One
Time
in
Winter
Doctor
Cadell
was
a
very
tall
man.
When
he
walked
in
the
corridors,
the
evenly
spaced
lamps,
bulbs
behind
curved
moulds
of
dimpled
glass,
spread
a
uniform
light;
but
once
she
had
glimpsed
him
from
a
window
walking
on
a
bright
cold
morning,
the
moon
like
a
white
fingernail
in
the
middle
of
an
empty
sky,
going
from
this
building
to
the
administration
block
and
his
shadow
which
was
hidden
inside
unrolled
itself
and
leaping
out
stretched
black
upon
the
grass.
The nurses used your first name; Sit up, How are we this morning? Drink it all, That's a good girl;
but
Dr
Cadell,
who
would
have
more
right
than
any
of
them,
had
never
called
her
Lucy,
not
once.
It
was
strange.
'Mrs
Ure?'
he
said
again.
'Thinking?
Not
about
anything.
I
was
wondering
why
you
never
call
me
by
my
first
name.’
'Does
that
trouble
you?'
'It
doesn't
matter.’
There
was
a
silence.
'Plenty
of
people
call
me
by
my
first
name,
after
all.’
More
silence.
'The
nurses
here.
They
use
your
first
name.
Without
a
by
your
leave.’
She
thought
he
might
pursue
that.
She
knew
sometimes she
gave
the
impression
of
being
arrogant,
no,
that
was
too
flattering,
she
flattered
herself,
some
people
thought
she
was
a
snob.
'Do
you
think
it
special?'
What
does he mean?
'Phatic
communion,'
she
said.
There
was
a
silence.
She
was
accustomed
to
these
intervals,
which
would
stretch
until
she
filled
them.
She
always
did at
last.
Today
she
wondered
what
would
happen
if
she
kept
silent.
Not
a
word
till
the
end
of
the
hour.
'You
would
be
making
a
mistake,'
Dr
Cadell
said,
'assuming
you
ever
want
to
go
home.’
That
she
had
spoken
aloud
frightened
her.
What
he
had
said
frightened
her.
It
was
a
threat
they
might
shut
her
up
in
a
place
like
this
for
the
rest
of
her
life.
But
at
once,
with
the
thought
came
its
rebuttal,
I don't believe that
.
She
had
been
unwell,
but
soon
she
would
be
going
home.
The
thought
popped
into
her
head
–
perhaps he's irritated because he has never heard of phatic communion; they're often surprisingly ignorant these men.
Not
that
he
was,
not
that
he
was,
not
that
he
was;
how
angry
he
might
be
if
he
could
look
inside
her
head!
The
truth
was
that
he
did
frighten
her.
'The
anthropologist
Malinowski,'
she
began.
Behind
the
desk
he
had
his
back
to
the
window
and,
although
the
daylight
was
feeble,
the
lamp
angled
towards
her
left
his
expression
uncertain.
'People
saying,
“Good
morning”
to
one
another,
or
asking,
“How
are
you?”
It's
not
that
they
want
to
know.
It's
just
a
friendly
noise.
Saying
someone's
there.’
'Who
do
you
think
should
be
there?'
Dr
Cadell
asked.
'Anybody
.’
She
was
puzzled,
it
was
so
obvious.
'Anybody
except
yourself.’
'Your
husband,
for
example?'
'I
wasn't
talking
about
myself.’
'You
feel
we're
here
for
some
general
philosophical
discussion?'
'Anthropological,'
she
said,
and
for
some
reason
finding that
funny
began
to
laugh
and
then
could
not
stop
and
then
was
finished
and
listened
again
to
the
silence.
'I'm
sorry,'
she
said.
'Do
you
know
how
long
you've
been
here?'
'Just
now?'
She
wasn't
certain
what
he
meant
and,
unsure,
genuinely
did
not
want
to
displease
him.
He
did
not
answer,
but
made
a
sharp
little
jerk
with
his
chin.
It
seemed
to
her
a
movement
of
irritation,
even
if
he
hadn't intended
to
show
it.
The
boredom
with
her
had
just
come
out
of
him
and
that
made
it
worse.
'In
the
hospital?
You
mean,
in
the
hospital?
If
you
mean
in
the
hospital,
I've
been
here
for
days,
oh,
days
and
days.’
'This
is
the
seventh
week.’
If
he
had
thought
to
startle
her,
he
had
miscalculated.
The
days
had
a
different
texture
from
any
before;
the
nights
were
outside
time.
'Perhaps
it's
time
to
try
something
different,'
he
said.
They
had
kept
her
asleep
at
first.
Later,
they
had
given
her
a
drug
which
made
her
hands
spasm
into
claws.
Lately,
he
had
given
her
an
hour
of
his
time
and
at
each
session
sat
her
in
this
low
chair
to
look
up
at
him
against
the
light
and
talk
about
Maitland,
her
father,
teachers
she
remembered
from
schooldays.
She
could
not
talk
about
things
she
did
not
remember.
No
one
could
expect
her
to
do
that.