Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time
Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time
Barbara Erskine
A story spanning centuries. A long awaited revenge.In London, journalist Jo Clifford plans to debunk the belief in past-lives in a hard-hitting magazine piece. But her scepticism is shaken when a hypnotist forces her to relive the experiences of Matilda, Lady of Hay, a noblewoman during the reign of King John.She learns of Matilda's unhappy marriage, her love for the handsome Richard de Clare, and the brutal death threats handed out by King John, before it becomes clear that Jo’s past and present are inevitably entwined. She realises that eight hundred years on, Matilda’s story of secret passion and unspeakable treachery is about to repeat itself…Barbara Erskine’s iconic debut novel still delights generations of readers thirty years after its first publication.
Lady of Hay
Time’s Legacy
Sands of Time
by Barbara Erskine
Copyright (#ulink_a6e0d4e5-4748-5f33-b2b6-40ed6ed7ed1a)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
This ebook collection first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2013
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1986, 2010, 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007515318
Version: 2017-09-07
Contents
Cover (#u7acf4e16-bea3-5eeb-998a-8b844895d7e5)
Title Page (#ub4a0fd8b-4dfa-5c21-8626-95a42815e283)
Copyright (#udd8b40a7-37ab-5b98-aa6b-cd5ddddcc509)
Lady of Hay (#u10fe9b3d-f329-5df6-a3c4-b1c6934120d3)
Time’s Legacy (#u3dc2bc33-db9b-5078-bb70-4273b236f19a)
Sands of Time (#u8c4894e6-e617-5d41-9cfe-8f74d1334f47)
Keep Reading (#u8556b488-e051-546f-a962-c1123874a5a7)
About the Author (#uc2577cc9-93b1-56bf-b523-ce730f3cda3d)
Also by Barbara Erskine (#u4ac466df-5aef-5195-b4df-58baf5893334)
About the Publisher (#u4247f60f-207f-5c4f-a354-d56a7646334f)
Copyright (#ulink_2a5fd3db-4306-5294-ae9e-f25b460a06a0)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007250868
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007368822
Version: 2017-09-07
Praise for Lady of Hay: (#ulink_0f624cc1-94dd-5e92-829f-c47bc555920a)
‘The author’s storytelling talent is undeniable. Barbara Erskine can make us feel the cold, smell the filth and experience some of the fear of the power of evil men.’ The Times
‘Convincing and extremely colourful.’ The Mail
Contents
Title Page (#u67243472-49a2-52db-9eb7-43489bf886ac)
Copyright (#u1a93f3a1-a890-57f0-8f12-5fd31693a2ae)
Praise (#ud40950fc-00bc-56cd-8947-c3e0e7db0777)
Prologue: Edinburgh 1970 (#uceb8e267-1460-53c9-94c7-04b23e56de5c)
Chapter 1: London: 1985 (#u75ede334-55b3-5f26-b756-36d57cb6595a)
Chapter 2 (#u6d4ff647-9abd-5880-8170-71c422b57ec4)
Chapter 3 (#u7105aae9-f7c4-5f56-804b-0ffb288fc713)
Chapter 4 (#u8baac508-cbf9-55cd-a761-42df80fb4eba)
Chapter 5 (#u66ad8c39-0359-59cf-8421-9b1e5ca60ecb)
Chapter 6 (#u9fdb5017-f636-5664-806d-84074f835e77)
Chapter 7 (#u0841dff2-6b55-5c5b-8bba-aacc14b7b4be)
Chapter 8 (#ue21ab92e-85fa-53a6-9879-a0918ed23ea8)
Chapter 9 (#u97aa1cea-88d5-55bd-935f-9d5b788c2af4)
Chapter 10 (#u470908f0-1e77-51ff-931d-3f7eac595668)
Chapter 11 (#u1914d5e5-ecf7-5add-bcfc-bac75fc12ea9)
Chapter 12 (#u7e1de886-edeb-52b8-aeda-38c6c57450e4)
Chapter 13 (#uf2e63039-19f8-5dd3-ab87-4cf83a789cf5)
Chapter 14 (#ub997d8c1-cb1c-531d-972e-fb9fa6084d37)
Chapter 15 (#ua4089f54-c692-5f93-a864-c915109d054c)
Chapter 16 (#u793ce462-a0a3-5f27-8c34-ead94c5b09fc)
Chapter 17 (#ub49955c2-3477-5a5b-87da-7d33e3c56ec9)
Chapter 18 (#uae82afa4-911c-5348-9b17-6b4e93cc3f74)
Chapter 19 (#u84e12415-4073-50f4-a5a3-6752df58526e)
Chapter 20 (#ua0987ff2-0328-50d6-8281-2860fe3303d7)
Chapter 21 (#u4a2d465d-a845-5402-9f94-7009c50ba5c0)
Chapter 22 (#u190eb7fa-bf2d-558c-80c5-33bbb9b98e1a)
Chapter 23 (#ue90ac4ab-4cb9-55db-a7eb-a1b272519d1d)
Chapter 24 (#ub89a5824-bfbb-5f71-a279-1540dcddc73b)
Chapter 25 (#u8d574ad4-c909-5651-8fa1-612c64a043ce)
Chapter 26 (#u4fa8086a-ed42-5285-8825-dc87fe7b3bf2)
Chapter 27 (#ub002fe7f-983f-5c69-94da-bdccdc822a6f)
Chapter 28 (#ubb771ec4-92c8-5de3-994a-d571ae5b184b)
Chapter 29 (#u77ef3593-9e7e-514c-bf0b-8553c5d17023)
Chapter 30 (#u8870a922-b66c-517b-ac72-aae7b7ba018b)
Chapter 31 (#u2769321f-bf7a-53a4-866f-c4dd431e9bac)
Chapter 32 (#ub3fd33c8-c075-5e07-ba77-c74e9231b3ae)
Chapter 33 (#u92bc256f-1927-5b4f-b246-3ed926f303b6)
Chapter 34 (#u956239b2-f2a6-50f5-90de-d831c4d37f07)
Chapter 35 (#u2bf047ef-02d5-570a-84e5-4572cce4a8cf)
Chapter 36 (#u77ced2bb-3bd8-5c8b-a979-8f152d504835)
Chapter 37 (#u356e3a18-404c-5fee-a220-7406dfbb7698)
Chapter 38 (#u94b6bd7d-04b6-5bad-a410-bd4ca5c10323)
Chapter 39 (#u390828e6-2d28-5705-9426-031149f00e27)
Chapter 40 (#u94a55e5b-6f89-57b3-b01a-85b7adf7f2be)
Epilogue one: 10 October 1216 (#ue2c2e3c8-1e28-5357-9cf9-60d208d2cfe6)
Epilogue two: Paris – January 1986 (#u11b5cd17-c0c3-5ffd-81f1-bc13fdb8b1c1)
Historical note (#u98bdf7da-b960-593f-919d-0996317da5bd)
Acknowledgements (#u0ca7ef08-9502-57ef-b19d-e9153ae87c0a)
Family Tree (#uf2efbfad-e368-51f4-ae07-b3ae61204e11)
Prologue (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719)
Edinburgh 1970 (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719)
It was snowing. Idly Sam Franklyn stared out of the dirty window up at the sky and wondered if the leaden cloud would provide enough depth to ski by the weekend.
‘Tape on now, Dr Franklyn, if you please.’ Professor Cohen’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. Sam turned, glancing at the young woman lying so calmly on the couch, and switched on the recorder. She was an attractive girl, slender and dark, with vivacious grey-green eyes, closed now beneath long curved lashes. He grinned to himself. When the session was over he intended to offer her a lift back into town.
The psychology labs were cold. As he picked up his notebook and began heading up a new page he leaned across and touched the grotesquely large cream radiator and grimaced. It was barely warm.
Cohen’s office was small and cluttered, furnished with a huge desk buried beneath books and papers, some half-dozen chairs crowded together to accommodate tutorial students, when there were any, and the couch, covered by a bright tartan rug, where most of his volunteers chose to lie whilst they were under hypnosis, ‘as if they are afraid they will fall down’, he had commented once to Sam as yet another woman had lain nervously down as if on a sacrificial altar. The walls of the room were painted a light cold blue which did nothing to improve the temperature. Anyone who could relax comfortably in Michael Cohen’s office, Sam used to think wryly, was halfway to being mesmerised already. Next to him the radiator let out a subterranean gurgle, but it grew no hotter.
Professor Cohen seated himself next to the couch and took the girl’s hand in his. He had not bothered to do that for his last two victims Sam noticed, and once more he grinned.
He picked up his pen and began to write:
Hypnotic Regression: Clinical Therapy Trials
Subject 224: Joanna Clifford 2nd year Arts (English)
Age: 19
Attitude:
He chewed the end of the pen and glanced at her again. Then he put ‘enthusiastic but open-minded’ in the column:
Historical aptitude:
Again he paused. She had shrugged when they asked her the routine questions to determine roughly her predisposition to accurate invention.
‘Average, I suppose,’ she had replied with a smile. ‘O-level history. Boring old Disraeli and people like that. Not much else. It’s the present I’m interested in, not the past.’
He eyed her sweater and figure-hugging jeans and wrote as he had written on so many other record sheets: Probably average.
Professor Cohen had finished his preliminary tests. He turned to Sam. ‘The girl’s a good subject. There’s a deep trance established already. I shall begin regressing her now.’
Sam turned back to the window. At the beginning of the series of tests he had waited expectantly at this stage, wondering what would be revealed. Some subjects produced nothing, no memories, no inventions; some emerged as colourful characters who enthralled and amazed him. But for days now they had been working with routine ill-defined personalities who replied in dull monosyllables to all the questions put to them and who did little to further their research. The only different thing about this girl – as far as he knew – were her looks: those put her in a class by herself.
The snow was thickening, whirling sideways, blotting out the buildings on the far side of the street, muffling the sound of car tyres moving north towards the city. He did not bother to listen to the girl’s words. Her soft English voice sounded tired and blurred under hypnosis and he would have to listen again and again to the tape anyway as Cohen transcribed it and tried to fathom where her comments, if there were any, came from.
‘And now, Joanna,’ the Professor’s voice rose slightly as he shifted on the high stool to make himself more comfortable. ‘We’ll go back again, if you please, back before the darkness, back before the dreams, back to when you were on this earth before.’ He is getting bored too, Sam thought dryly, catching sight of his boss glancing at his watch.
The girl suddenly flung out her arm, catching a pile of books on the table beside the couch and sending them crashing to the floor. Sam jumped, but she seemed not to have noticed. She was pushing herself up onto her elbow, her eyes open, staring in front of her.
Cohen was all attention. Quietly he slid from the stool and as she stood up he moved it out of her way.
Sam recovered from his surprise and wrote hastily: Subject somnambulant; moved from couch. Eyes open; pupils dilated. Face pale and drawn.
‘Joanna,’ Cohen spoke softly. ‘Would you not like to sit down again, lassie, and tell us your name and where you are.’
She swung round, but not to face him. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth as if trying to speak and they saw her run her tongue across her lips. Then she drew herself up with a shudder, clutching at the neck of her sweater.
‘William?’ she whispered at last. Her voice was husky, barely audible. She took a step forward, her eyes still fixed on the same point. Sam felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he found himself looking at it too, half expecting someone or something to appear.
His notebook forgotten, he waited, holding his breath, for her to speak again, but she stayed silent, swaying slightly, her face drained of colour as she began to stare around the room. Disconcerted, he saw that huge tears had begun to run slowly down her cheeks.
‘Tell us where you are and why you are crying.’ The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. ‘William,’ she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry which tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. ‘William!’ Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realised with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat.
Her hands had begun to bleed.
Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out towards her but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him.
‘Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,’ the older man breathed. ‘It’s auto-suggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!’
Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. ‘William, don’t leave me. Oh God, save my child,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘Let someone come. Please … bring us … bring him … food. Please … I’m so cold … so cold …’ Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. ‘Oh God … have mercy on … me.’ Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting which carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibres, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs.
‘Joanna? Joanna!’ Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.’ His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek. ‘I want you to stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying now and sit up, there’s a good girl.’ His voice was calm, professionally confident as the two men watched her, but there was growing anxiety in his eyes. Slowly her sobs grew quieter and she lay still, the harsh rasping in her throat dying away. Cohen bent closer, his hand still on her shoulder. ‘Joanna.’ Gently he shook her. ‘Joanna, are you hearing me? I want you to wake up. When I count three. Are you ready? One … two … three …’
Under his hand her head rolled sideways on the matting. Her eyes were open and unblinking, the pupils dilated. ‘Joanna, do you hear me? One, two, three.’ As he counted Cohen took her by the shoulders and half lifted her from the floor. ‘Joanna, for the love of God, hear me …’
The panic in the man’s voice galvanised Sam into action. He dropped on his knees beside them, his fingers feeling rapidly for a pulse in the girl’s throat.
‘Christ! There’s nothing there!’
‘Joanna!’ Cohen was shaking her now, his own face ashen. ‘Joanna! You must wake up, girl!’ He calmed himself with a visible effort. ‘Listen to me. You are going to start to breathe now, slowly and calmly. Do you hear me? You are breathing now, slowly, and you are with William and you have both eaten. You are happy. You are warm. You are alive, Joanna! You are alive!’
Sam felt his throat constrict with panic. The girl’s wrist, limp between his fingers, had begun to grow cold. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, her lips were turning grey.
‘I’ll ring for an ambulance.’ Cohen’s voice had lost all its command. He sounded like an old man as he scrambled to his feet.
‘No time.’ Sam pushed the Professor aside. ‘Kneel here, by her head, and give her mouth-to-mouth. Now man! When I say so!’ Crouching over the girl he laid his ear to her chest. Then, the heel of one hand over the other, he began to massage her heart, counting methodically as he did so. For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent towards her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonising, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. ‘Go on talking to her,’ he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her colour was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; laboured painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hands, feeling the sticki-ness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle.
Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. ‘That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me … That’s lovely … Good girl.’
Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room, nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. ‘That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?’
Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. ‘I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.’ He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully, the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the rug. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal.
Cohen hooked his stool towards him with his toe, and perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘Now, Joanna, I want you to listen carefully. I am going to wake you up in a moment and when I do you will remember nothing of what has happened to you here today, do you understand? Nothing, until we come and ask you if you would like to be regressed another time. Then you will allow us to hypnotise you once more. Once you are in a trance again, you will begin to relive all the events leading up to this terrible time when you died. Do you understand me, Joanna?’
‘You can’t do that.’ Sam stared at him in horror. ‘Christ, man! You are planting a time bomb in that girl’s mind!’
Cohen glared back. ‘We have to know who she is and what happened to her. We have to try and document it. We don’t even have a datefix …’
‘Does that matter?’ Sam tried to keep his voice calm. ‘For God’s sake! She nearly died!’
Cohen smiled gently. ‘She did die. For a moment. What a subject! I can build a whole new programme round her. Those hands! I wonder what the poor woman can have been doing to injure her hands like that. No, Dr Franklyn, I can’t leave it at that. I have to know what was happening to her, don’t you see? Hers could be the case which proves everything!’ He stared down at her again, putting his hands lightly on her face, ignoring Sam’s protests. ‘Now Joanna, my dear, you will wake up when I have counted to three and you will feel refreshed and happy and you will not think about what happened here today at all.’ He glanced up at Sam. ‘Is her pulse normal now, Dr Franklyn?’ he asked coldly.
Sam stared at him. Then he took her hand, his fingers on her wrist. ‘Absolutely normal, Professor,’ he said formally. ‘And her colour is returning.’
‘We’ll send her home now, then,’ Cohen said. ‘I don’t want to risk any further trauma. You go with her and make sure she is all right. Her flatmate is a technician at the labs here, that’s how we got her name for the tests. I’ll ask her to keep an eye on things, too, to make sure there are no after-effects, though I’m sure there won’t be any.’
Sam walked over to the window, staring out at the snow as he tried to control his anger.
‘There could well be after-effects. Death is a fairly debilitating experience physically,’ he said with quiet sarcasm. It was lost on Cohen, who shook his head. ‘The lass won’t remember a thing about it. We’ll give her a couple of days to rest, then I’ll have her back here.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement behind the pebble lenses. ‘Under more controlled conditions we’ll take her back to the same personality in the period prior to her death.’ He pursed his lips, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it.
‘All right. Here we go. Joanna, do you hear me? One … two … three.’
Joanna lay still, looking from one to the other, dazed. Then she smiled shakily. ‘Sorry. Didn’t hypnosis work on me? In my heart of hearts I thought it probably wouldn’t.’ She sat up and pushed back the rug, swinging her feet to the floor. Abruptly she stopped and put her hands to her head.
Sam swallowed. ‘You did fine. Every result is an interesting result to us, remember.’ He forced himself to smile, shuffling the papers on the table so that her notes were lost out of sight beneath the pile. The tape recorder caught his eye, the spools still turning, and he switched it off, unplugging it and coiling up the flex, not taking his eyes off her.
She stood up with an effort, her face still very pale, looking suddenly rather lost. ‘Don’t I get a cup of tea or anything, like a blood donor?’ she laughed. She sounded strained; her voice was hoarse.
Cohen smiled. ‘You do indeed. I think Dr Franklyn has it in mind to take you out to tea in style, my dear. It’s all part of the service here. To encourage you to return.’ He stood up and went over to the door, lifting her anorak down from the hook. ‘We ask our volunteers to come to a second session, if they can, to establish the consistency of the results,’ he said firmly.
‘I see.’ She looked doubtful as she slipped into the warm jacket and pulled the scarf around her neck. Groping in the pocket for her gloves she gave a sudden cry of pain. ‘My hands! What’s happened to them? There’s blood on my scarf – there’s blood everywhere!’ Her voice rose in terror.
Cohen did not blink. ‘It must be the cold. You’ve been a naughty girl and not worn your gloves, that’s nasty chapping.’
‘But –’ She looked confused. ‘My hands weren’t cold. I wore gloves. I don’t even get chilblains. I don’t understand …’
Sam reached for his raincoat. He suddenly felt very sick. ‘It’s the heavy snow coming so soon on top of a warm spell,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. ‘I’ll prescribe something for you if you like. But I suggest scones and cream and hot tea might be the best medicines to start with, don’t you think?’ He took her arm. ‘Come on. My car is round the back.’
As he closed the door of the room behind them he knew that he would personally see to it that she did not return.
1 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa)
London: 1985 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa)
‘Basically I like the idea.’ Bet Gunning leaned across the table, her eyes, as they focused on Jo’s face, intense behind the large square lenses of her glasses. ‘Six articles exploring various fads which have swept the world showing man’s fear and rejection of modern life and values. Shit! That sounds pompous!’ The eyes narrowed and gleamed suddenly. ‘I’m right in thinking that the usual Jo Clifford approach will be used? A ruthless appraisal, then a knife in the back?’
Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism. The relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s, the casual gossip – she had seemed only to glance at the typed notes Jo had pushed across the table but now, as she reeled off the titles of the articles, she proved she had memorised and digested them. Bet had no need to refer back to the paper she had slipped into the enormous leather sack she toted everywhere on her shoulder.
‘“Whole Food: Health or Nostalgia” – a bit old hat, lovie, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been bunked and debunked so often. Unless you’ve got a new approach?’
Jo grinned. ‘Trust me, Bet. OK the series in principle and I’ll show you some outlines.’
Bet looked at her sharply. Jo was wearing her innocent look, her grey-green eyes staring vaguely into the middle distance, her dark hair framing her face so that she looked disarmingly soft and feminine. Meeting her for the first time she had thought Jo might be an actress, or a model perhaps; Bet smiled inwardly. Were there any clues? The uncompromisingly large man’s Rolex watch perhaps?
Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing.
‘“Anything Ethnic”, “Medieval Medicine”, “Cosmic Consciousness” – my God, what’s that? – “Meditation and Religion” – you’ll have to keep that light –’ Bet was going through the list in her head. ‘“Regression: Is history still alive?” That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try and look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.’
Jo smiled. ‘They tried it on me once, at university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under – and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.’
Bet gave a mock sigh. ‘So another set of anodynes for the people bites the dust, already!’ Her raised shoulders emphasised the sudden Jewish accent.
Jo gave an unexpected gurgle. ‘Am I that cruel?’
‘You know damn well you are. That’s what we’re paying you for! OK, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?’
‘I want Tim Heacham.’
‘You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.’
‘He’ll do it for me.’
Bet raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he know that?’
‘He will soon.’
‘And what will Nick say?’
Jo’s face tightened for a moment. ‘Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.’
‘I see. That bad?’
‘That bad.’
‘He’s moved out?’
‘He’s moved out. With cream please.’ Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffee pot.
Bet waited until he had withdrawn. ‘Permanently?’
‘That’s right. I threw his camera across the room when I found out he’d been sleeping with Judy Curzon.’
Bet laughed. ‘You cow.’ She sounded admiring.
‘It was insured. But my nerves aren’t. I’m not possessive, Bet, but he’s not going to mess me about like that. If it’s off it’s off. I don’t run a boarding-house. What do you think about the title of the series?’
‘Nostalgia Dissected?’ Bet looked up, her head a little to one side. ‘Not bad. I’m not totally convinced, but it certainly puts the finger on your approach.’ She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me any more about Nick?’
Jo put down her coffee cup and pushed it away. She stared down at her hand, extending it over the tablecloth, flexing her fingers as if amazed they still worked. ‘It is three years, four months and eight days since I met Sam again and he introduced me to his brother. Doesn’t that surprise you?’
‘It surprises me that you counted, lovie,’ Bet said, slightly acidly, tossing her American Express card down on the waiter’s tray.
‘I worked it out last night in the bath. It’s too long, Bet. Too long to live in someone’s pocket, however well one gets on. And, as you know, we don’t all that often!’
‘Bullshit. You’re made for each other.’
Jo picked up her coffee spoon and idly drew a cross in the surface of the sugar in the earthenware bowl in the centre of the table, watching the crystals impact and crumble with a concentrated frown.
‘Perhaps that’s it. We’re so awfully alike in a lot of ways. And we are competitive. That’s bad in a relationship.’ She stood up, the drab olive of her dress emphasising her tanned arms with their thin gold bangles as she unslung the canvas satchel from the back of the chair and swung it onto her shoulder.
‘Tim said he’d be at his studio this afternoon so I’m going up to see him now. Are you going straight back across the river?’
‘’Fraid so. I’ve a meeting at three.’ Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. ‘I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.’
Jo smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?’
She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives them to commit murder.
She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. ‘Jo! How’s life?’ He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
‘Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champers.’
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms. ‘Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?’
He raised his eyebrows, hurt. ‘When am I not?’
‘Frequently. I’ve a job for you. Six to be precise and I want to talk about them. Then we’ll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.’
‘Ah, another great exposé for Women in A!’ He put the can down with exaggerated care and placed his fist on his right breast as though about to take an oath. ‘The Leith Police Dismisseth Us! There. Right first time. Not a milligram over the limit. Fit to drive a beautiful lady reporter-person anywhere, any time. Reporting for duty, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Better give me coffee too, though, just in case. I’ve just been spurned by a little corker of a dolly. Old enough to be her father, she said I was.’ He pulled a mournful face.
Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé. ‘How old are you, Tim?’
‘Guess.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Pushing fifty I’d say.’
He groaned, clutching at his head. ‘The bitch. She sees my soul and not my body. Actually I’m forty-two next Wednesday. You and Nick must come to my party. Ouch. What have I said?’
He slumped once more onto the couch and held out his hand for the coffee.
‘Not me and Nick.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Separately if you like. Together. Not.’
‘Sorry. When did it happen?’
‘A couple of days ago, going on a couple of years. Forget it, Tim. It’s not important. I want to talk business.’
‘Always the hard worker, our Jo.’ He glanced at her, completely attentive suddenly. ‘OK. Fire. What do you want? A series for W I A you say. Is it going to be colour or are we going for black and white?’
She pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. ‘Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.’
He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. ‘Presumably it’s the approach that’s going to be new, sweetie? When’s the deadline?’
‘I’ve got months. There’s quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?’
He glanced up at her, his clear light green eyes intense. ‘Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff – whole-foods and weaving – the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one specially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she’s Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing.’ He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I saw someone being hypnotised a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.’
Jo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Faked, of course.’
‘Uh-uh. I don’t think so. The chap swore he’d never learned German at all, and there’s no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn’t manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.’
Jo smiled gleefully. ‘Do you think it’ll make a good article?’
‘More like a book, love. Don’t be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there’s a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That’s the hypnotist chap.’
Jo nodded. ‘Please, Tim. I’m genned up on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It’s incredible that people really believe that it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.’ She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black and white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
He grinned. ‘Who else? Like them?’
‘Does her husband?’
‘I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.’
Jo looked back at him and laughed. ‘OK, Tim. You tell your Mr Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?’ She got up to examine the photos. ‘It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.’
‘That’s what they pay me for, Jo.’ He was watching her closely. ‘I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?’
‘I know.’ She turned. ‘So you know about it.’
‘About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.’
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. ‘It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.’ She looked at him with a small grimace. ‘I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.’ She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.’ He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?’
‘Not if I can bring someone too.’
He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. ‘Someone?’
‘I’ll think of someone.’
‘Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.’ He laughed. ‘’Course you can.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. ‘It could always be me, you know, Jo.’
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.’
He groaned. ‘The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. “I like you too much,”’ he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. ‘At least you didn’t say I was too old, though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.’
Nick Franklyn sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.
‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.
‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.
Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower.
‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.
He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’
‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’
‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.
She smiled. ‘Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.’
‘I’m not?’
‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’
‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’
She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘About?’
‘Jo.’
She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.
‘Does Jo need any favours from me?’ she asked.
‘She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.’
He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. ‘I think you’d better explain, Nick.’
‘She’s planning a series of articles which she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.’
‘And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?’ Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face.
A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. ‘I care about her, Bet.’
Bet stood up. ‘Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.’ She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. ‘Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?’
Nick rose to his feet. ‘I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.’ He was pacing up and down the carpet. ‘She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly …’ He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
‘And why shouldn’t she?’ Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.
He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. ‘If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.’
‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re a hard bitch, Bet. OK. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject – that means if she gets hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical programme. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it – they did that business of “you won’t remember when you wake up” on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.’
Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’
‘But that’s fantastic, Nick! Think of the article she’ll produce!’
‘Christ, Bet!’ Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. ‘Can’t you see, she mustn’t do it?’
‘No I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows –’
‘But she doesn’t know.’ His voice had risen angrily. ‘I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing. Nothing. I’ve told her I think it’s dangerous to meddle with hypnosis – which it is – but she laughs at me. Being her, if she thinks I’m against it she’s keener to do it than ever. She thinks everything I say is hokum. Please, Bet. Just this once, take my word for it. When she brings the idea to you, squash it.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Bet reached for another cigarette. ‘Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition this week, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it so the publicity should be good.’
He glared at her. ‘It’s a damn good exhibition.’ He reached out for the doorknob. ‘Bet –’
‘I said I’d think about it, Nick.’
She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag which lay on the carpet at her feet, and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it.
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Barbara Erskine
A story spanning centuries. A long awaited revenge.In London, journalist Jo Clifford plans to debunk the belief in past-lives in a hard-hitting magazine piece. But her scepticism is shaken when a hypnotist forces her to relive the experiences of Matilda, Lady of Hay, a noblewoman during the reign of King John.She learns of Matilda's unhappy marriage, her love for the handsome Richard de Clare, and the brutal death threats handed out by King John, before it becomes clear that Jo’s past and present are inevitably entwined. She realises that eight hundred years on, Matilda’s story of secret passion and unspeakable treachery is about to repeat itself…Barbara Erskine’s iconic debut novel still delights generations of readers thirty years after its first publication.
Lady of Hay
Time’s Legacy
Sands of Time
by Barbara Erskine
Copyright (#ulink_a6e0d4e5-4748-5f33-b2b6-40ed6ed7ed1a)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
This ebook collection first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2013
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1986, 2010, 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007515318
Version: 2017-09-07
Contents
Cover (#u7acf4e16-bea3-5eeb-998a-8b844895d7e5)
Title Page (#ub4a0fd8b-4dfa-5c21-8626-95a42815e283)
Copyright (#udd8b40a7-37ab-5b98-aa6b-cd5ddddcc509)
Lady of Hay (#u10fe9b3d-f329-5df6-a3c4-b1c6934120d3)
Time’s Legacy (#u3dc2bc33-db9b-5078-bb70-4273b236f19a)
Sands of Time (#u8c4894e6-e617-5d41-9cfe-8f74d1334f47)
Keep Reading (#u8556b488-e051-546f-a962-c1123874a5a7)
About the Author (#uc2577cc9-93b1-56bf-b523-ce730f3cda3d)
Also by Barbara Erskine (#u4ac466df-5aef-5195-b4df-58baf5893334)
About the Publisher (#u4247f60f-207f-5c4f-a354-d56a7646334f)
Copyright (#ulink_2a5fd3db-4306-5294-ae9e-f25b460a06a0)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007250868
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007368822
Version: 2017-09-07
Praise for Lady of Hay: (#ulink_0f624cc1-94dd-5e92-829f-c47bc555920a)
‘The author’s storytelling talent is undeniable. Barbara Erskine can make us feel the cold, smell the filth and experience some of the fear of the power of evil men.’ The Times
‘Convincing and extremely colourful.’ The Mail
Contents
Title Page (#u67243472-49a2-52db-9eb7-43489bf886ac)
Copyright (#u1a93f3a1-a890-57f0-8f12-5fd31693a2ae)
Praise (#ud40950fc-00bc-56cd-8947-c3e0e7db0777)
Prologue: Edinburgh 1970 (#uceb8e267-1460-53c9-94c7-04b23e56de5c)
Chapter 1: London: 1985 (#u75ede334-55b3-5f26-b756-36d57cb6595a)
Chapter 2 (#u6d4ff647-9abd-5880-8170-71c422b57ec4)
Chapter 3 (#u7105aae9-f7c4-5f56-804b-0ffb288fc713)
Chapter 4 (#u8baac508-cbf9-55cd-a761-42df80fb4eba)
Chapter 5 (#u66ad8c39-0359-59cf-8421-9b1e5ca60ecb)
Chapter 6 (#u9fdb5017-f636-5664-806d-84074f835e77)
Chapter 7 (#u0841dff2-6b55-5c5b-8bba-aacc14b7b4be)
Chapter 8 (#ue21ab92e-85fa-53a6-9879-a0918ed23ea8)
Chapter 9 (#u97aa1cea-88d5-55bd-935f-9d5b788c2af4)
Chapter 10 (#u470908f0-1e77-51ff-931d-3f7eac595668)
Chapter 11 (#u1914d5e5-ecf7-5add-bcfc-bac75fc12ea9)
Chapter 12 (#u7e1de886-edeb-52b8-aeda-38c6c57450e4)
Chapter 13 (#uf2e63039-19f8-5dd3-ab87-4cf83a789cf5)
Chapter 14 (#ub997d8c1-cb1c-531d-972e-fb9fa6084d37)
Chapter 15 (#ua4089f54-c692-5f93-a864-c915109d054c)
Chapter 16 (#u793ce462-a0a3-5f27-8c34-ead94c5b09fc)
Chapter 17 (#ub49955c2-3477-5a5b-87da-7d33e3c56ec9)
Chapter 18 (#uae82afa4-911c-5348-9b17-6b4e93cc3f74)
Chapter 19 (#u84e12415-4073-50f4-a5a3-6752df58526e)
Chapter 20 (#ua0987ff2-0328-50d6-8281-2860fe3303d7)
Chapter 21 (#u4a2d465d-a845-5402-9f94-7009c50ba5c0)
Chapter 22 (#u190eb7fa-bf2d-558c-80c5-33bbb9b98e1a)
Chapter 23 (#ue90ac4ab-4cb9-55db-a7eb-a1b272519d1d)
Chapter 24 (#ub89a5824-bfbb-5f71-a279-1540dcddc73b)
Chapter 25 (#u8d574ad4-c909-5651-8fa1-612c64a043ce)
Chapter 26 (#u4fa8086a-ed42-5285-8825-dc87fe7b3bf2)
Chapter 27 (#ub002fe7f-983f-5c69-94da-bdccdc822a6f)
Chapter 28 (#ubb771ec4-92c8-5de3-994a-d571ae5b184b)
Chapter 29 (#u77ef3593-9e7e-514c-bf0b-8553c5d17023)
Chapter 30 (#u8870a922-b66c-517b-ac72-aae7b7ba018b)
Chapter 31 (#u2769321f-bf7a-53a4-866f-c4dd431e9bac)
Chapter 32 (#ub3fd33c8-c075-5e07-ba77-c74e9231b3ae)
Chapter 33 (#u92bc256f-1927-5b4f-b246-3ed926f303b6)
Chapter 34 (#u956239b2-f2a6-50f5-90de-d831c4d37f07)
Chapter 35 (#u2bf047ef-02d5-570a-84e5-4572cce4a8cf)
Chapter 36 (#u77ced2bb-3bd8-5c8b-a979-8f152d504835)
Chapter 37 (#u356e3a18-404c-5fee-a220-7406dfbb7698)
Chapter 38 (#u94b6bd7d-04b6-5bad-a410-bd4ca5c10323)
Chapter 39 (#u390828e6-2d28-5705-9426-031149f00e27)
Chapter 40 (#u94a55e5b-6f89-57b3-b01a-85b7adf7f2be)
Epilogue one: 10 October 1216 (#ue2c2e3c8-1e28-5357-9cf9-60d208d2cfe6)
Epilogue two: Paris – January 1986 (#u11b5cd17-c0c3-5ffd-81f1-bc13fdb8b1c1)
Historical note (#u98bdf7da-b960-593f-919d-0996317da5bd)
Acknowledgements (#u0ca7ef08-9502-57ef-b19d-e9153ae87c0a)
Family Tree (#uf2efbfad-e368-51f4-ae07-b3ae61204e11)
Prologue (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719)
Edinburgh 1970 (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719)
It was snowing. Idly Sam Franklyn stared out of the dirty window up at the sky and wondered if the leaden cloud would provide enough depth to ski by the weekend.
‘Tape on now, Dr Franklyn, if you please.’ Professor Cohen’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. Sam turned, glancing at the young woman lying so calmly on the couch, and switched on the recorder. She was an attractive girl, slender and dark, with vivacious grey-green eyes, closed now beneath long curved lashes. He grinned to himself. When the session was over he intended to offer her a lift back into town.
The psychology labs were cold. As he picked up his notebook and began heading up a new page he leaned across and touched the grotesquely large cream radiator and grimaced. It was barely warm.
Cohen’s office was small and cluttered, furnished with a huge desk buried beneath books and papers, some half-dozen chairs crowded together to accommodate tutorial students, when there were any, and the couch, covered by a bright tartan rug, where most of his volunteers chose to lie whilst they were under hypnosis, ‘as if they are afraid they will fall down’, he had commented once to Sam as yet another woman had lain nervously down as if on a sacrificial altar. The walls of the room were painted a light cold blue which did nothing to improve the temperature. Anyone who could relax comfortably in Michael Cohen’s office, Sam used to think wryly, was halfway to being mesmerised already. Next to him the radiator let out a subterranean gurgle, but it grew no hotter.
Professor Cohen seated himself next to the couch and took the girl’s hand in his. He had not bothered to do that for his last two victims Sam noticed, and once more he grinned.
He picked up his pen and began to write:
Hypnotic Regression: Clinical Therapy Trials
Subject 224: Joanna Clifford 2nd year Arts (English)
Age: 19
Attitude:
He chewed the end of the pen and glanced at her again. Then he put ‘enthusiastic but open-minded’ in the column:
Historical aptitude:
Again he paused. She had shrugged when they asked her the routine questions to determine roughly her predisposition to accurate invention.
‘Average, I suppose,’ she had replied with a smile. ‘O-level history. Boring old Disraeli and people like that. Not much else. It’s the present I’m interested in, not the past.’
He eyed her sweater and figure-hugging jeans and wrote as he had written on so many other record sheets: Probably average.
Professor Cohen had finished his preliminary tests. He turned to Sam. ‘The girl’s a good subject. There’s a deep trance established already. I shall begin regressing her now.’
Sam turned back to the window. At the beginning of the series of tests he had waited expectantly at this stage, wondering what would be revealed. Some subjects produced nothing, no memories, no inventions; some emerged as colourful characters who enthralled and amazed him. But for days now they had been working with routine ill-defined personalities who replied in dull monosyllables to all the questions put to them and who did little to further their research. The only different thing about this girl – as far as he knew – were her looks: those put her in a class by herself.
The snow was thickening, whirling sideways, blotting out the buildings on the far side of the street, muffling the sound of car tyres moving north towards the city. He did not bother to listen to the girl’s words. Her soft English voice sounded tired and blurred under hypnosis and he would have to listen again and again to the tape anyway as Cohen transcribed it and tried to fathom where her comments, if there were any, came from.
‘And now, Joanna,’ the Professor’s voice rose slightly as he shifted on the high stool to make himself more comfortable. ‘We’ll go back again, if you please, back before the darkness, back before the dreams, back to when you were on this earth before.’ He is getting bored too, Sam thought dryly, catching sight of his boss glancing at his watch.
The girl suddenly flung out her arm, catching a pile of books on the table beside the couch and sending them crashing to the floor. Sam jumped, but she seemed not to have noticed. She was pushing herself up onto her elbow, her eyes open, staring in front of her.
Cohen was all attention. Quietly he slid from the stool and as she stood up he moved it out of her way.
Sam recovered from his surprise and wrote hastily: Subject somnambulant; moved from couch. Eyes open; pupils dilated. Face pale and drawn.
‘Joanna,’ Cohen spoke softly. ‘Would you not like to sit down again, lassie, and tell us your name and where you are.’
She swung round, but not to face him. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth as if trying to speak and they saw her run her tongue across her lips. Then she drew herself up with a shudder, clutching at the neck of her sweater.
‘William?’ she whispered at last. Her voice was husky, barely audible. She took a step forward, her eyes still fixed on the same point. Sam felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he found himself looking at it too, half expecting someone or something to appear.
His notebook forgotten, he waited, holding his breath, for her to speak again, but she stayed silent, swaying slightly, her face drained of colour as she began to stare around the room. Disconcerted, he saw that huge tears had begun to run slowly down her cheeks.
‘Tell us where you are and why you are crying.’ The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. ‘William,’ she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry which tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. ‘William!’ Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realised with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat.
Her hands had begun to bleed.
Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out towards her but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him.
‘Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,’ the older man breathed. ‘It’s auto-suggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!’
Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. ‘William, don’t leave me. Oh God, save my child,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘Let someone come. Please … bring us … bring him … food. Please … I’m so cold … so cold …’ Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. ‘Oh God … have mercy on … me.’ Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting which carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibres, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs.
‘Joanna? Joanna!’ Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.’ His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek. ‘I want you to stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying now and sit up, there’s a good girl.’ His voice was calm, professionally confident as the two men watched her, but there was growing anxiety in his eyes. Slowly her sobs grew quieter and she lay still, the harsh rasping in her throat dying away. Cohen bent closer, his hand still on her shoulder. ‘Joanna.’ Gently he shook her. ‘Joanna, are you hearing me? I want you to wake up. When I count three. Are you ready? One … two … three …’
Under his hand her head rolled sideways on the matting. Her eyes were open and unblinking, the pupils dilated. ‘Joanna, do you hear me? One, two, three.’ As he counted Cohen took her by the shoulders and half lifted her from the floor. ‘Joanna, for the love of God, hear me …’
The panic in the man’s voice galvanised Sam into action. He dropped on his knees beside them, his fingers feeling rapidly for a pulse in the girl’s throat.
‘Christ! There’s nothing there!’
‘Joanna!’ Cohen was shaking her now, his own face ashen. ‘Joanna! You must wake up, girl!’ He calmed himself with a visible effort. ‘Listen to me. You are going to start to breathe now, slowly and calmly. Do you hear me? You are breathing now, slowly, and you are with William and you have both eaten. You are happy. You are warm. You are alive, Joanna! You are alive!’
Sam felt his throat constrict with panic. The girl’s wrist, limp between his fingers, had begun to grow cold. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, her lips were turning grey.
‘I’ll ring for an ambulance.’ Cohen’s voice had lost all its command. He sounded like an old man as he scrambled to his feet.
‘No time.’ Sam pushed the Professor aside. ‘Kneel here, by her head, and give her mouth-to-mouth. Now man! When I say so!’ Crouching over the girl he laid his ear to her chest. Then, the heel of one hand over the other, he began to massage her heart, counting methodically as he did so. For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent towards her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonising, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. ‘Go on talking to her,’ he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her colour was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; laboured painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hands, feeling the sticki-ness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle.
Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. ‘That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me … That’s lovely … Good girl.’
Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room, nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. ‘That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?’
Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. ‘I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.’ He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully, the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the rug. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal.
Cohen hooked his stool towards him with his toe, and perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘Now, Joanna, I want you to listen carefully. I am going to wake you up in a moment and when I do you will remember nothing of what has happened to you here today, do you understand? Nothing, until we come and ask you if you would like to be regressed another time. Then you will allow us to hypnotise you once more. Once you are in a trance again, you will begin to relive all the events leading up to this terrible time when you died. Do you understand me, Joanna?’
‘You can’t do that.’ Sam stared at him in horror. ‘Christ, man! You are planting a time bomb in that girl’s mind!’
Cohen glared back. ‘We have to know who she is and what happened to her. We have to try and document it. We don’t even have a datefix …’
‘Does that matter?’ Sam tried to keep his voice calm. ‘For God’s sake! She nearly died!’
Cohen smiled gently. ‘She did die. For a moment. What a subject! I can build a whole new programme round her. Those hands! I wonder what the poor woman can have been doing to injure her hands like that. No, Dr Franklyn, I can’t leave it at that. I have to know what was happening to her, don’t you see? Hers could be the case which proves everything!’ He stared down at her again, putting his hands lightly on her face, ignoring Sam’s protests. ‘Now Joanna, my dear, you will wake up when I have counted to three and you will feel refreshed and happy and you will not think about what happened here today at all.’ He glanced up at Sam. ‘Is her pulse normal now, Dr Franklyn?’ he asked coldly.
Sam stared at him. Then he took her hand, his fingers on her wrist. ‘Absolutely normal, Professor,’ he said formally. ‘And her colour is returning.’
‘We’ll send her home now, then,’ Cohen said. ‘I don’t want to risk any further trauma. You go with her and make sure she is all right. Her flatmate is a technician at the labs here, that’s how we got her name for the tests. I’ll ask her to keep an eye on things, too, to make sure there are no after-effects, though I’m sure there won’t be any.’
Sam walked over to the window, staring out at the snow as he tried to control his anger.
‘There could well be after-effects. Death is a fairly debilitating experience physically,’ he said with quiet sarcasm. It was lost on Cohen, who shook his head. ‘The lass won’t remember a thing about it. We’ll give her a couple of days to rest, then I’ll have her back here.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement behind the pebble lenses. ‘Under more controlled conditions we’ll take her back to the same personality in the period prior to her death.’ He pursed his lips, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it.
‘All right. Here we go. Joanna, do you hear me? One … two … three.’
Joanna lay still, looking from one to the other, dazed. Then she smiled shakily. ‘Sorry. Didn’t hypnosis work on me? In my heart of hearts I thought it probably wouldn’t.’ She sat up and pushed back the rug, swinging her feet to the floor. Abruptly she stopped and put her hands to her head.
Sam swallowed. ‘You did fine. Every result is an interesting result to us, remember.’ He forced himself to smile, shuffling the papers on the table so that her notes were lost out of sight beneath the pile. The tape recorder caught his eye, the spools still turning, and he switched it off, unplugging it and coiling up the flex, not taking his eyes off her.
She stood up with an effort, her face still very pale, looking suddenly rather lost. ‘Don’t I get a cup of tea or anything, like a blood donor?’ she laughed. She sounded strained; her voice was hoarse.
Cohen smiled. ‘You do indeed. I think Dr Franklyn has it in mind to take you out to tea in style, my dear. It’s all part of the service here. To encourage you to return.’ He stood up and went over to the door, lifting her anorak down from the hook. ‘We ask our volunteers to come to a second session, if they can, to establish the consistency of the results,’ he said firmly.
‘I see.’ She looked doubtful as she slipped into the warm jacket and pulled the scarf around her neck. Groping in the pocket for her gloves she gave a sudden cry of pain. ‘My hands! What’s happened to them? There’s blood on my scarf – there’s blood everywhere!’ Her voice rose in terror.
Cohen did not blink. ‘It must be the cold. You’ve been a naughty girl and not worn your gloves, that’s nasty chapping.’
‘But –’ She looked confused. ‘My hands weren’t cold. I wore gloves. I don’t even get chilblains. I don’t understand …’
Sam reached for his raincoat. He suddenly felt very sick. ‘It’s the heavy snow coming so soon on top of a warm spell,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. ‘I’ll prescribe something for you if you like. But I suggest scones and cream and hot tea might be the best medicines to start with, don’t you think?’ He took her arm. ‘Come on. My car is round the back.’
As he closed the door of the room behind them he knew that he would personally see to it that she did not return.
1 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa)
London: 1985 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa)
‘Basically I like the idea.’ Bet Gunning leaned across the table, her eyes, as they focused on Jo’s face, intense behind the large square lenses of her glasses. ‘Six articles exploring various fads which have swept the world showing man’s fear and rejection of modern life and values. Shit! That sounds pompous!’ The eyes narrowed and gleamed suddenly. ‘I’m right in thinking that the usual Jo Clifford approach will be used? A ruthless appraisal, then a knife in the back?’
Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism. The relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s, the casual gossip – she had seemed only to glance at the typed notes Jo had pushed across the table but now, as she reeled off the titles of the articles, she proved she had memorised and digested them. Bet had no need to refer back to the paper she had slipped into the enormous leather sack she toted everywhere on her shoulder.
‘“Whole Food: Health or Nostalgia” – a bit old hat, lovie, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been bunked and debunked so often. Unless you’ve got a new approach?’
Jo grinned. ‘Trust me, Bet. OK the series in principle and I’ll show you some outlines.’
Bet looked at her sharply. Jo was wearing her innocent look, her grey-green eyes staring vaguely into the middle distance, her dark hair framing her face so that she looked disarmingly soft and feminine. Meeting her for the first time she had thought Jo might be an actress, or a model perhaps; Bet smiled inwardly. Were there any clues? The uncompromisingly large man’s Rolex watch perhaps?
Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing.
‘“Anything Ethnic”, “Medieval Medicine”, “Cosmic Consciousness” – my God, what’s that? – “Meditation and Religion” – you’ll have to keep that light –’ Bet was going through the list in her head. ‘“Regression: Is history still alive?” That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try and look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.’
Jo smiled. ‘They tried it on me once, at university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under – and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.’
Bet gave a mock sigh. ‘So another set of anodynes for the people bites the dust, already!’ Her raised shoulders emphasised the sudden Jewish accent.
Jo gave an unexpected gurgle. ‘Am I that cruel?’
‘You know damn well you are. That’s what we’re paying you for! OK, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?’
‘I want Tim Heacham.’
‘You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.’
‘He’ll do it for me.’
Bet raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he know that?’
‘He will soon.’
‘And what will Nick say?’
Jo’s face tightened for a moment. ‘Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.’
‘I see. That bad?’
‘That bad.’
‘He’s moved out?’
‘He’s moved out. With cream please.’ Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffee pot.
Bet waited until he had withdrawn. ‘Permanently?’
‘That’s right. I threw his camera across the room when I found out he’d been sleeping with Judy Curzon.’
Bet laughed. ‘You cow.’ She sounded admiring.
‘It was insured. But my nerves aren’t. I’m not possessive, Bet, but he’s not going to mess me about like that. If it’s off it’s off. I don’t run a boarding-house. What do you think about the title of the series?’
‘Nostalgia Dissected?’ Bet looked up, her head a little to one side. ‘Not bad. I’m not totally convinced, but it certainly puts the finger on your approach.’ She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me any more about Nick?’
Jo put down her coffee cup and pushed it away. She stared down at her hand, extending it over the tablecloth, flexing her fingers as if amazed they still worked. ‘It is three years, four months and eight days since I met Sam again and he introduced me to his brother. Doesn’t that surprise you?’
‘It surprises me that you counted, lovie,’ Bet said, slightly acidly, tossing her American Express card down on the waiter’s tray.
‘I worked it out last night in the bath. It’s too long, Bet. Too long to live in someone’s pocket, however well one gets on. And, as you know, we don’t all that often!’
‘Bullshit. You’re made for each other.’
Jo picked up her coffee spoon and idly drew a cross in the surface of the sugar in the earthenware bowl in the centre of the table, watching the crystals impact and crumble with a concentrated frown.
‘Perhaps that’s it. We’re so awfully alike in a lot of ways. And we are competitive. That’s bad in a relationship.’ She stood up, the drab olive of her dress emphasising her tanned arms with their thin gold bangles as she unslung the canvas satchel from the back of the chair and swung it onto her shoulder.
‘Tim said he’d be at his studio this afternoon so I’m going up to see him now. Are you going straight back across the river?’
‘’Fraid so. I’ve a meeting at three.’ Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. ‘I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.’
Jo smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?’
She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives them to commit murder.
She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. ‘Jo! How’s life?’ He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
‘Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champers.’
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms. ‘Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?’
He raised his eyebrows, hurt. ‘When am I not?’
‘Frequently. I’ve a job for you. Six to be precise and I want to talk about them. Then we’ll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.’
‘Ah, another great exposé for Women in A!’ He put the can down with exaggerated care and placed his fist on his right breast as though about to take an oath. ‘The Leith Police Dismisseth Us! There. Right first time. Not a milligram over the limit. Fit to drive a beautiful lady reporter-person anywhere, any time. Reporting for duty, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Better give me coffee too, though, just in case. I’ve just been spurned by a little corker of a dolly. Old enough to be her father, she said I was.’ He pulled a mournful face.
Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé. ‘How old are you, Tim?’
‘Guess.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Pushing fifty I’d say.’
He groaned, clutching at his head. ‘The bitch. She sees my soul and not my body. Actually I’m forty-two next Wednesday. You and Nick must come to my party. Ouch. What have I said?’
He slumped once more onto the couch and held out his hand for the coffee.
‘Not me and Nick.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Separately if you like. Together. Not.’
‘Sorry. When did it happen?’
‘A couple of days ago, going on a couple of years. Forget it, Tim. It’s not important. I want to talk business.’
‘Always the hard worker, our Jo.’ He glanced at her, completely attentive suddenly. ‘OK. Fire. What do you want? A series for W I A you say. Is it going to be colour or are we going for black and white?’
She pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. ‘Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.’
He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. ‘Presumably it’s the approach that’s going to be new, sweetie? When’s the deadline?’
‘I’ve got months. There’s quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?’
He glanced up at her, his clear light green eyes intense. ‘Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff – whole-foods and weaving – the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one specially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she’s Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing.’ He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I saw someone being hypnotised a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.’
Jo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Faked, of course.’
‘Uh-uh. I don’t think so. The chap swore he’d never learned German at all, and there’s no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn’t manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.’
Jo smiled gleefully. ‘Do you think it’ll make a good article?’
‘More like a book, love. Don’t be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there’s a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That’s the hypnotist chap.’
Jo nodded. ‘Please, Tim. I’m genned up on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It’s incredible that people really believe that it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.’ She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black and white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
He grinned. ‘Who else? Like them?’
‘Does her husband?’
‘I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.’
Jo looked back at him and laughed. ‘OK, Tim. You tell your Mr Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?’ She got up to examine the photos. ‘It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.’
‘That’s what they pay me for, Jo.’ He was watching her closely. ‘I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?’
‘I know.’ She turned. ‘So you know about it.’
‘About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.’
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. ‘It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.’ She looked at him with a small grimace. ‘I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.’ She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.’ He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?’
‘Not if I can bring someone too.’
He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. ‘Someone?’
‘I’ll think of someone.’
‘Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.’ He laughed. ‘’Course you can.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. ‘It could always be me, you know, Jo.’
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.’
He groaned. ‘The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. “I like you too much,”’ he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. ‘At least you didn’t say I was too old, though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.’
Nick Franklyn sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.
‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.
‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.
Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower.
‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.
He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’
‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’
‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.
She smiled. ‘Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.’
‘I’m not?’
‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’
‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’
She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘About?’
‘Jo.’
She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.
‘Does Jo need any favours from me?’ she asked.
‘She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.’
He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. ‘I think you’d better explain, Nick.’
‘She’s planning a series of articles which she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.’
‘And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?’ Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face.
A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. ‘I care about her, Bet.’
Bet stood up. ‘Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.’ She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. ‘Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?’
Nick rose to his feet. ‘I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.’ He was pacing up and down the carpet. ‘She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly …’ He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
‘And why shouldn’t she?’ Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.
He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. ‘If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.’
‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re a hard bitch, Bet. OK. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject – that means if she gets hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical programme. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it – they did that business of “you won’t remember when you wake up” on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.’
Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’
‘But that’s fantastic, Nick! Think of the article she’ll produce!’
‘Christ, Bet!’ Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. ‘Can’t you see, she mustn’t do it?’
‘No I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows –’
‘But she doesn’t know.’ His voice had risen angrily. ‘I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing. Nothing. I’ve told her I think it’s dangerous to meddle with hypnosis – which it is – but she laughs at me. Being her, if she thinks I’m against it she’s keener to do it than ever. She thinks everything I say is hokum. Please, Bet. Just this once, take my word for it. When she brings the idea to you, squash it.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Bet reached for another cigarette. ‘Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition this week, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it so the publicity should be good.’
He glared at her. ‘It’s a damn good exhibition.’ He reached out for the doorknob. ‘Bet –’
‘I said I’d think about it, Nick.’
She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag which lay on the carpet at her feet, and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it.
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Barbara Erskine
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Фольклор
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: A story spanning centuries. A long awaited revenge.In London, journalist Jo Clifford plans to debunk the belief in past-lives in a hard-hitting magazine piece. But her scepticism is shaken when a hypnotist forces her to relive the experiences of Matilda, Lady of Hay, a noblewoman during the reign of King John.She learns of Matilda′s unhappy marriage, her love for the handsome Richard de Clare, and the brutal death threats handed out by King John, before it becomes clear that Jo’s past and present are inevitably entwined. She realises that eight hundred years on, Matilda’s story of secret passion and unspeakable treachery is about to repeat itself…Barbara Erskine’s iconic debut novel still delights generations of readers thirty years after its first publication.