The Macbeth Prophecy (9 page)

To be truthful, the arrival of the Marshalls had shaken me considerably. Being able to influence someone as a result of deep concentration, an effort of will, was exhilarating. But as Eve had said, that a casual thought, no sooner formed than forgotten, should have had such instant ratification was something else entirely.

When we set out for home that evening, Philip put a hand on my shoulder. “Don't worry about it. We'll need it eventually but the time is not yet. It developed more quickly than we expected, that's all.”

“But suppose I can't control it?” I heard my voice shake. “Hell, I can't help what I think. It's like the old fairy story of being granted three wishes and not taking time to choose carefully.”

“Except that you're not rationed to three. Nobody's counting, as far as I can see. Perhaps this is what Janetta meant when she spoke of the power we should have. I don't suppose the Marshalls had any intention of calling at the vicarage until they received your ‘message', which means you didn't just
read
their thoughts but actually influenced them. A kind of hypnotism, as Eve said – even brainwashing. However –” as he felt me shudder under his hand “– we must take things slowly. We don't want to alarm anyone. Relax, Matthew. I'll help you to suppress it until we know which direction to take. In the meantime, as Eve said, we'd better cool it for a while.”

So “cool it” we did, for over two years in fact, though it's hard to believe, looking back, that so much time could have passed. For myself, I was happy enough to leave well alone. The upsurgence of unlooked-for power had worried me, not least because of the ideas it had given Philip. I put it firmly to the back of my mind and developed the habit of breaking any train of thought which threatened to become too concentrated, and having satisfied myself everything was under control again, I was able to relax and enjoy my new life to the full.

The routine of village life sucked us into its comfortable predictability, the seasons came and went, and we were content. It was only after our third Christmas in Cumbria that I began to feel uneasy again.

Several times that spring I experienced a sudden and inexplicable draining of energy, so devastating that I could only slump to a chair and wait for it to pass. It usually occurred during school hours, and more than once my sudden stumbling lunge towards my desk caused suppressed titters. I was completely at a loss to account for these attacks and too frightened to mention them. Only when I began to hear the first whispers of Philip's growing reputation did an inkling of their cause begin to filter into my mind.

These unsolicited testimonials, overhead in shop or pub, were broken off at my entrance with embarrassed grins and murmurs, but they began to add up in my brain and it finally became clear that my extreme lassitude and Philip's successes were not unconnected. He was beginning to flex his psychic muscles again and since we apparently shared our power source, these experiments took their toll of me as well.

“You might have warned me!” I burst out furiously one evening up in the flat. “How do you think I've felt, imagining for weeks that I'm suffering from some incurable disease?”

“I'm sorry, Matthew, really. I'd no idea it would affect you so much, and you never said anything. I'll try to spread it a bit. There's no reason why we should take the full impact.”

I paused in the act of getting a can of beer from the fridge. “I'm not sure that I follow you.”

“I don't see why Eve and Anita shouldn't contribute their share. Come to that –” he was avoiding my eyes “– the Marshalls as well. The more there are in the ‘pool', the less hard it will be on individuals.”

“Philip –” The coldness from the can had moved up my arm and across my shoulder-blades. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

He smiled, and the light in his eyes did nothing to reassure me. “Create Utopia, Matthew, that's all. An ideal state!”

I moistened my lips. “How long have you been thinking along these lines? Why didn't you discuss it with me?” What I meant was, why hadn't I known what he was thinking?

He said gently, “It was for your own sake. You panicked when you realized how much power was on tap, so when I began working things out, I felt it wise to – block you off for a while.”

“You put up a barrier to stop me reading your mind?”

“Not a barrier, only a screen. It can come down now, if you're ready to join me.”

Slowly I poured the beer into a tankard.

“Matthew? You're not angry, are you? I wasn't trying to shut you out, only mark time till you could accept it.”

“Accept what?” My voice was still stiff.

He perched on the edge of the kitchen table. “Remember what Janetta said?”

I moved impatiently. “For God's sake! Only fools believe in crystal balls!”

“The crystal had nothing to do with it. She could sense something in us, something which was bound to find expression, which couldn't be stopped. ‘Power over body and soul, life and death'.”

“So you're planning a Brave New World?”

“A corner of it, perhaps. I want to see if it's possible, by the power of thought, to influence things for the better. Why don't you try it? Pick out one of your pupils – someone, perhaps, who isn't particularly bright – and try to instil knowledge into him telepathically. You might well find yourself with a class of Einsteins!”

I had a sudden picture of the dark lake that Easter nearly three years before, and Philip saying, “I'll take care of their bodies and you look after their minds!” And I'd thought he was joking.

“The Smith twins are psychic.”

“What?” Abruptly I came back to the present.

“Davy and Kim. I can contact them any time.”

“Philip, they're
babies.”

“Even babies have minds. As a matter of fact they're very self-sufficient for their age. They've had to be, poor little blighters. The rest of the crowd up there are frightened of them. They get food and shelter and precious little else.”

Philip had been paying regular visits to the Smiths. Sometimes he invited me to go with him, but I preferred to spend my Sunday afternoons relaxing with the papers. Now I furiously resented this further evidence of our separation.

“They're intelligent boys,” he went on. “They talk pretty fluently and they're not three yet. I've great hopes of them.”

Jealous of his interest in the Smiths, I switched back to his original point. “You mentioned involving Eve and Anita.”

Although the four of us still met regularly, telepathy had not been mentioned since the evening of the Marshalls' visit, and our meetings now took the innocuous form of bridge evenings. I suspected this also satisfied their husbands as a plausible reason for our meeting at all.

“Yes, we've soft-pedalled long enough,” Philip answered firmly. “I don't think Anita will take much persuading, but Eve has Douglas to contend with. And it's also time we began to take the Marshall girls in hand. There's a lot of untapped potential there.”

It was getting dark, but neither of us made a move to switch on the light. Our conversation was more suited to the shadows.

“Eve and Anita perhaps,” I said finally, “but I don't like meddling with children's minds. We should leave the Smiths and Marshalls alone.”

“Absolute nonsense! There has to be some reason for this concentration of twins. Four pairs in a village this size – a veritable power-house! It's not as if we're going to hurt them; in some cases they won't even know they're being used. I just want to open the channels and see what happens. And
if
we can overcome disease, just here, on our own small patch – and
if
we can produce extra-bright children in our local school, well, there's no knowing where it could lead! To a Nobel Prize at the very least!”

“Given the choice, people might prefer illness and thick kids to a mental take-over.”

But my objections were only token, because Philip had progressed so far without me. Already I could feel a stirring of excitement as I mentally took stock of my class with a view to selecting the first guinea pig.

A week or two later, Jason Quinn came into our lives.

“Would you mind if we didn't start playing straight away?” Anita asked when she and Eve arrived for our bridge evening. “There's a programme I'd like to see on television and you might find it interesting too. Have you seen any of the Jason Quinn interviews?”

Philip lifted the card table to one side. “No, but the name sounds familiar.”

Eve said, “He wrote that play there was such a fuss about a few years ago –
The Temple Builders,
wasn't it? Now he's started these interviews on TV, making a point of choosing people whose views he disagrees with, and there seems to be no shortage of them! Poor souls, he gives them no quarter at all!”

“I'm surprised they agree to appear. Who's his victim tonight?”

“A medium.” Anita's voice shook slightly. “That's why I thought you'd be interested.”

Philip said softly, “And we're to presume he doesn't agree with mediums either?”

“There's not much doubt about that. He has absolutely no patience with the supernatural.”

“Then it should be an interesting half-hour.” Certainly it was no disappointment. Dr Arnold Fosdock was, we could see at once, a lost cause. A small thin man, balding and with rimless spectacles, he fidgeted nervously with his tie and took several sips of water from the glass in front of him while Jason Quinn, smooth and unhurried, began the interview with a series of deceptively innocuous questions. It was a classic case of the lion amusing itself till it was ready to pounce and destroy. Nor was the metaphor of a lion misplaced, considering the mane of brown-gold hair and lazy, assessing eyes.

There was something about the man which instilled in me a strong dislike while at the same time commanding my attention. He was so casually immaculate, so totally at his ease, that I was conscious of an increasingly powerful desire to ruffle him out of his complacency. So engrossed was I in my analysis that by the time I began to listen to the exchange, Quinn was already moving in for the kill.

“And you actually believe that this – ectoplasm – flows from your body to clothe the ‘spirit'?” His voice was politely incredulous.

“Of course I do. Yes.” And, as Quinn didn't speak, “Yes, I do.”

“But if as you say you're in a trance at the time, presumably you're not able to see it?”

“Not personally, but everyone else does.”

“You see, Doctor, that's precisely my point. These phenomena always seem to be experienced at one remove, which I find strains my credulity to the limit.”

“But it's actually been photographed!” Fosdock began to rummage frantically through the papers in front of him.

Jason Quinn raised a hand. “I believe I've seen some of those photographs.” His tone made clear his opinion of their authenticity. “I might add that in the cause of research I've attended séances myself, but regrettably nothing whatever materialized at them.”

“I'm not surprised!” muttered the doctor.

Quinn smiled. “Naturally I don't doubt your sincerity; I merely suggest that it's misplaced.”

So it went on, deceptively gentle, entirely merciless, until the poor doctor had contradicted himself several times and in struggling to retrieve lost ground, became hopelessly stuck in the quagmire prepared for him. It was a relief to all of us when the programme came to an end. Philip leant forward and switched off the set.

“What a bastard!” he commented. “Anyone's drink need freshening?”

But I was unable to dismiss Jason Quinn so lightly from my mind, and as is often the way, having once been brought to our notice, his name kept cropping up repeatedly over the next few weeks. His programme had become a cult, and secure in their own living-rooms, the viewing public relished each ensuing destruction as voraciously as had the crowds in Roman arenas or the
tricoteuses
at the guillotine.

One Sunday in April a leading newspaper featured his profile, and leaving Philip to pay his customary visit to the gypsies, I settled down with some interest to read it.

... Physically, Quinn is an imposing figure, over six feet and with the well-known thatch which reviewers have not been slow to dub ‘Jason's Golden Fleece'. At Cambridge, where he read classics, he was in constant demand for debates, always appearing against rather than for the motion, and frequent invitations to speak at College dinners soon earned him a reputation as a brilliant raconteur. It was at Cambridge that he met his first wife, writer Penelope Russell, though they didn't marry till some years later. For a while after coming down he worked with a firm of stockbrokers but found his true vocation with the outstanding success of his brilliantly satirical play
The Temple Builders
in the early eighties. Two more plays followed, and although they didn't attract such wide critical acclaim, one of them,
Lord Moses
, was adapted for television and it was this that first fired his interest in the medium. Shortly afterwards he was invited to take part in the quiz programme
Next Question
, where his caustic wit and wide general knowledge were an immediate success.

His new series,
Jason Quinn Interviews
which he hosts himself, has already attracted high viewing figures and though his cavalier treatment of guests seems to be making him a man the viewers love to hate, he must nevertheless be admired for his sincere dislike of chicanery, into which category he uncompromisingly groups most of the fringe sciences. “The supernatural,” he once said, “has nothing to recommend it. It's dangerous to the gullible and unacceptable to everyone else.”

... He was divorced from his first wife last December and shortly afterwards married the actress Tania Partridge ...