World's End (Age of Misrule, Book 1) (5 page)

Ruth slipped into one of the chairs, put her head back and closed her eyes. "Wake me when it's over."

"You're absolutely sure you want to go through this together?" Delano continued. "I think it would be more effective to do it separately, if only to prevent what one is saying influencing the other. This isn't like surgery. Memories are delicate, easily corrupted by outside sources."

"We do it together," Church said firmly. When they had discussed it earlier, they both instinctively felt it was something they could only face up to together.

"Well, you're the bosses." Delano clapped his hands, then ushered Church into a chair next to Ruth's and manoeuvred a reel-to-reel recorder between them. "So we have a good record of what you say," he explained. "I can transfer it to a cassette for you to take away, and I'll store the master here."

After a brief explanation of the principle, he dimmed the lights even further with a hand-held remote control. Church expected to feel sleepy in the gloomy warmth, but the anxiety had set an uncomfortable resonance which seemed to be buzzing around his body. He turned to look at Ruth, her face pale in the dark. She smiled at him, but the unease was apparent in her eyes. Delano pulled up a chair opposite and began to talk in measured tones that were so low Church occasionally had trouble hearing him. After a minute or two, the words were rolling in and out of his consciousness like distant thunder and he was suspended in time.

For what could have been one minute or ten, the sensation was pleasurable, but then Church began to get an odd feeling of disquiet. On a level he couldn't quite grasp, he was sensing they were not alone in the room. He wanted to shout out a warning to Ruth and Delano, but his mouth wouldn't respond, nor would his neck muscles when he tried to turn his head so he could look around. He was convinced there was a presence somewhere in the shadows in the corner of the room, malign, watching them balefully, waiting for the right moment to make its move. When the sensation faded a moment later, Church convinced himself it was just a by-product of Delano's hypnosis, but it didn't go away completely.

"It is the morning of February 7," Delano intoned calmly. "Where are you, Jack?"

Church found himself talking even though he wasn't consciously aware of moving his mouth. "I can't sleep. I've gone out for a walk to wear myself out so I'll drop off quickly. I have bad dreams." He swallowed; his throat felt like it was closing up. "It's foggy, a real pea-souper. I've never seen it like that before, like something out of Dickens. I see a woman washing something in the river ..." A spasm convulsed him. "No ..

"It's okay, Jack. You rest a moment," Delano said quickly. "Ruth, where are you?"

Ruth's chest grew tighter; she sucked in a deep breath until her lungs burned. "I've been to The Fridge. Clive is whining on. He realises we've got nothing in common." Her voice turned spontaneously singsong: "`Why don't you do this? Why don't you do that?' He doesn't really want me, just the woman he thinks I am. He gets wound up ... blows his top ... walks off. I'm a bit frightened-it's so quiet, so still-but I try not to show it. I can make it home in a few minutes if I walk quickly. Then I hear the sound of ... a fight? ... coming from under the bridge." Her breath became more laboured. She wondered obliquely if she was having a heart attack.

"Jack, do you hear the fight now?" Delano's voice seemed to be floating away from both of them.

"Yes. I was frightened by the old woman, but when I hear them fighting I forget her. I could walk on ... ignore it ... but that's not right. I've got to try to help. Somebody might be in trouble."

"Are you afraid for yourself?"

"A little. But if I could do something to help I've got to try. Too many people walk by. I find the steps down to the river. They're wet ... I go down slowly. There're more scuffling noises. A grunt. I wonder if there's an animal down there. Maybe a dog or ... something. I can smell the river. Everywhere's so damp. My heart's beating so loud. I edge along the wall." Another spasm. He thought he almost saw something; was it in the room or in his head?

"Take a rest, Jack. Ruth?"

"I go down the steps. I'm ready to run at any moment, but I'm aware I've got heels on. If the worst comes to the worst I'll have to kick them off. They're expensive though ... I don't want to lose them. It's dark under the bridge. I can't see anything. I move closer. I think I've bitten my lip ... I can taste blood." She heaved in another juddering breath; each one was getting harder and harder. "There're two men. They just look like shadows at first. One of them's big, the biggest man I've ever seen. He's shaking the smaller one. I look over and there's another man there watching the fight. I can see he's come from the other side. I'm relieved ... I'm not alone."

"Is it jack?" Delano asked quietly.

"Yes, yes, it's Church. He's got a strong face. He looks decent. He makes me feel safer. We both look at the two men-"

"Is he dead?" Church suddenly interjected, his voice too loud. "Christ, I think he's dead! No ... he's moving. But the giant's picking him up. How can he be so strong? Just one arm ... what's going on? ... he's going to break his neck!"

"Calm down," Delano hushed.

"Don't do it or I'm going to call the police!" Ruth yelled. She snapped forward in her seat, then slumped back.

"Take it easy now," Delano said soothingly. "Be peacef-"

"Stop!" Church thrashed to one side. Delano placed a comforting hand on Church's forearm, but Church knocked it away wildly.

"He's looking-" Ruth was wheezing, but she couldn't seem to draw any breath into her lungs.

11 -at us!" Church continued.

Delano was alarmed at the paleness of her face. "I think that's enough now," he began. "It's time to take a break. We can come back to this."

"My God! Look at-" Church gasped.

"-his face! It's changing-"

-melting-"

They were convulsing in their seats. Delano grabbed both their wrists, gripped by anxiety that he was losing control; they were all losing control. He stood up so he could place his head between them. "On the count of three ..."

"Not human!"

"His eyes-"

-red-"

-a demon!" Ruth gasped. "Twisted ... monstrous ..." She leaned to one side and vomited on to the carpet.

"One ..."

"Evil!" Jack cried. "I feel evil coming off it! It's looking at me!"

Ruth vomited again, then stumbled off the chair to her knees.

"I can't bear to look at its face!"

"Three ..."

For a second, Delano was terrified he wouldn't be able to bring them out of it, but gradually they seemed to come together, as if he were watching them swim up from deep water. Church bobbed forward and put his face in his hands. He felt like he was burning up, his hair slick with sweat. Ruth levered herself back into the chair and sat there with her eyes shut.

Delano was visibly shaken. There was sweat on his own brow and his hands were trembling as he switched off the tape recorder. Frantically he thumbed the remote control until the light flared up too bright and drove the shadows from the room. "Well that was an unusual experience," he mumbled bathetically. He fetched them both water, which they sipped in silence. Then called in his assistant to clean up the carpet. It was a full ten minutes until they had recovered.

"That was unbelievable," Church said eventually. His voice was like sandpaper in the arid stillness of the room.

"You're right," Ruth responded, "because it's not true."

"What do you mean?" Church eyed her curiously. "We saw the same thing."

Ruth shook her head emphatically. "Think about it, Church. There must be a rational explanation. We have to use a little intellectual rigour here-the first answer isn't always the right one. We were talking about how memories can be corrupted by other aspects of the mind's working. That can happen, can't it?" she said to Delano. He nodded. "Remember in the pub you made some throwaway comment about us seeing the Devil, so that's exactly what we did see. You placed that thought in both our heads and our subconscious turned it into reality. It was self-fulfilling." She looked to Delano for support.

"Your reactions were very extreme, which suggests a serious trauma buried away, but if you witnessed a particularly brutal murder, as you told me on the phone, that would explain it," the therapist said. "What you recalled today is known as a screen memory. You create it yourself to protect your own mind from further trauma. Yes, it was quite horrible, but the unbelievable elements allow you to dismiss it within the context of reality as you perceive it so it's not as threatening as it first appears. The true memory that lies beneath is much more of a threat to you. I think we'll need a few more sessions to get to it, to be honest." Delano's smile suggested he was relieved by his own explanation. "I must admit, I was a little worried. I've never come across anything quite like that before."

Church wasn't convinced. "It was pretty real."

"Sorry about the carpet," Ruth said sheepishly. Church thought she was going to burst into a fit of embarrassed giggles.

"Don't worry," Delano said. "Let me just check the recording and I'll make arrangements to get your cassette copy."

He knelt down and rewound the tape. When he pressed play there was a blast of white noise and what sounded like an ear-splitting shriek of hysterical laughter. Delano's brow furrowed. He ran the tape forward a little and tried again. The white noise hissed from the speakers. A second later the giggling started, fading in and out as if it was a badly tuned radio signal, the laughter growing louder and louder until Church's ears hurt; it made him feel sick and uncomfortable. Delano snapped off the recorder in dismay.

"I'm terribly sorry. That's never happened before," he said in bafflement. "It must have picked up some stray signal."

"Remind me not to book with that mini-cab service," Church said.

Outside, the rain had stopped briefly to allow a burst of insipid sunlight, but the oppressive experience with Delano clung to them. Their reclaimed memories, even if false, were now free, scurrying round, insect-like, in the back of their heads, making them feel queasy and disoriented.

"I feel much better after that, even if we didn't find out exactly what happened," Ruth said, trying to put a brave face on it. She gave Church a comforting pat on the back. "Come on, don't let it get to you. It was a bad dream, that's all."

Church looked round at the black office windows above the shops, unable to shake the feeling they were being watched. "I need a drink."

"Let's see what we can do about that."

She took him for lunch to Wodka, a Polish restaurant nestling in the hinterland of well-heeled apartment blocks on Kensington High Street's south side. Over blinis and cream and ice-cold honey vodka, they discussed the morning's events and what lay ahead. Church was taken by Ruth's brightly efficient manner and sharp sense of humour which helped her see the inherent farce in even the bleakest moment.

"You always seem like you've got something on your mind," Ruth said when she felt comfortable enough to talk a little more personally.

"You know how it is." Church sipped at the strong Polish coffee, but if Ruth noticed his discomfort she didn't pay it any heed.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Nothing I should burden you with."

"Go on, I'm a good listener. Besides, after an experience like that we're a minority of two. We have to stick together."

It would have been easy to bat her questions away, but there was something in her which made him feel like unburdening himself; a warmth, an understanding. He took a deep breath, surprised he even felt like talking about it. "I had a girlfriend. Marianne Leedham. She was a graphic designer-magazine work, some book covers, that kind of thing. We met soon after I'd left university. I had a seedy flat in Battersea, just off Lavender Hill, and Marianne lived round the corner. We'd see each other in the local Spar or in the newsagents. You know how it is when you see someone and you know it's inevitable that sooner or later you're going to get together, even if you haven't spoken?" Ruth nodded, her eyes bright. "I felt like that, and I could tell she did too. The local pub, the Beaufoy Arms, used to hire a boat to go along the Thames each year. It was an overnight thing, lots of Red Stripe, jerk pork and dancing, up to the Thames Barrier and then back again for dawn. I went with my mates and Marianne was there with hers. We both knew something was going to happen. Then just before sunrise we found ourselves on deck alone." He smiled. "Not by chance. We talked a little. We kissed a lot. It was like some stupid romantic film."

Ruth watched his smile grow sad. "What happened, Church?"

His sigh seemed like the essence of him rushing out. "It was all a blur after that. We saw each other, moved in together. You know, people think I'm lying when I say this, but we never argued. Not once. It was just the best. It was so serious for both of us we never even thought about getting married, but Marianne's mum was getting a bit antsy, as they do, so we started muttering about getting engaged. Everything was fine, and then-" His voice drifted away; the words felt like heavy stones at the back of his throat, but somehow he forced them out. "Two years ago, it was. I'd been out for the night. When I came back the flat was so silent, I knew there was something wrong. Marianne always had some kind of music on. And there was this odd smell. To this day I don't know what it was. I called out for her-there was nowhere else she could have been at that time of night-and my heart started beating like it was going to explode. I knew, you see. I knew. I found her face down in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. She'd slashed her wrists."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Ruth said in dismay. "I shouldn't have pried."

"Don't worry, it's okay. It doesn't hurt me to think about her any more. I've got over all that grief thing, although sometimes I feel a little ..." His voice trailed off, but her smile told him she understood what he was trying to say. "It's how she died that I can't cope with. There hasn't been a single day gone by since then when I haven't tried to make sense of it. There was no reason for it. She hadn't been depressed. We'd never, ever argued. As far as I was concerned, everything in our lives was perfect. Can you imagine what that's like? To discover your partner had this whole secret world of despair that you never knew existed? Enough despair to kill herself. How could I have been so wrapped up in myself not to have even the slightest inkling?" He couldn't find the words to tell her what it was that had soured his life since that night: not grief, but guilt; the only possible explanation was that he, in some way, was complicit.