crisp green eyes he seemed to drown in.
The photo of his wife stood in its familiar place on his desk at home. Each time he looked at it he felt the contradictory feelings which had plagued him ever since her death. To look at her brought back all the agony which he had suffered when she’d been taken from him so suddenly, but he also found comfort in those green eyes — as if a part of her lived on and remained with him. He reached for the photo and studied her finely-shaped features. He, himself had taken the picture three years earlier. It was all that remained of her. That and
the memories.
He replaced the photo and shook his head, trying to dispel the drowsiness which was creeping over him like a blanket. He knew that he must go to bed soon but there was just one more thing left to do.
He picked up his pen, pulled the writing paper towards him and began writing: To the Editor,
You will find enclosed an article which contains details of a discovery as important as it is fascinating. Having worked at the Metapsychic Centre in Paris for the past twelve years I have encountered many strange phenomena but nothing of this nature has ever presented itself to me until now.
I realize that the subject of Astral Travel/Projection etc. is one which has fascinated people for many years but never before have facts been so far reaching in their importance as in the case I have recounted in my article.
I hope that you will see fit to publish this article as I feel it has far-reaching implications for all of us.
Yours sincerely,
Lasalle signed it, re-read it then pushed it into the envelope with the article. He sealed it and left it on the desk, deciding to post it in the morning on his way to the centre.
He wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk, standing at the sink while he drank it.
What they had discovered that afternoon was far too important to withhold.
Besides, Lasalle felt unaccountably ill at ease. The incident with Danielle Bouchard had worried him. Even as he thought about it he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly.
Others had a right to know the truth.
Whether Joubert liked it or not.
New York
Blake picked up a copy of Time then decided to wander across to the paperbacks to see if there was anything to pass the time on the flight home. He ran his eyes swiftly over the magazine shelves once more before turning to the books.
He could have been forgiven for not noticing the slim volume.
The cover bore the title: Journal of Parapsychology.
Blake reached for it, one of the cover stories catching his eye: Astral Projection: The Truth. He flipped open the magazine, found the table of contents and traced the article he sought.
He read the first three paragraphs standing there then he paid for the magazine and left the airport newsstand.
The voice of the flight controller told him that he should go through to the departure gate. Blake hurried to the washroom.
He had flown many times before but he still felt the same twinge of nerves each time. Nerves? Who was he trying to kid? Flying scared him shitless, it was as simple as that. Already his stomach was beginning to turn gentle somersaults. He found that he was alone in the room. He crossed to a sink and filled it with cold water, laying his magazines on one side.
He splashed his face with water, wiping off the excess with his hands when he could find no towel. Blake straightened up and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale, his eyes red-rimmed and as he glanced at his watch he saw that his hand was shaking slightly. He had ten minutes before his flight left. He scooped more water into his hands and onto his face, blinking as it stung his eyes. Blake peered into the mirror again.
The image of Mathias stared back at him.
Blake retreated a step, his eyes fixed on the vision in the mirror. The face of the psychic was immobile, only the eyes moved, those brilliant blue orbs pinning him in that hypnotic stare.
The writer tried to swallow but found that his throat was constricted. He raised both hands to cover his eyes.
He lowered them again slowly, peering into the mirror once more.
The image of Mathias was gone, only his own distraught face was reflected in the glass. Blake let out a relieved gasp and wiped the excess moisture from his face as he moved back to the sink. He peered down into the water.
This time it was his own reflection but the mouth was open in a silent scream, the eyes bulging wide in their sockets. The entire countenance was appallingly bloated and tinged blue.
‘No,’ rasped Blake and plunged his hands into the sink.
The apparition vanished and he stood there, immersed up to his elbows in water.
Indeed, the two men who walked into the washroom looked at him in bewilderment as he stood motionless, gazing into the sink, as if waiting for the screaming vision to re-appear.
‘Hey, fella, are you OK?’ one of the men asked, moving cautiously towards Blake.
He tapped the writer on the shoulder.
‘I said …’
Blake spun round suddenly, his expression blank. He looked like a man who had been woken from a nightmare.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ the man asked him again.
Blake closed his eyes tightly for a moment apd nodded. Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’ Then, fumbling for his dark glasses he put them on, snatched up his magazines and left the washroom.
‘Probably freaked out,’ said the first man.
‘Yeah, he looks like a goddam pot-head.’
‘And would you believe that?’ the first man said, pointing at the mirror above the sink where Blake had been standing.
Five jagged cracks criss-crossed the glass.
Paris
It sounded as if someone were trying to pound a hole in the door.
Lasalle hurried from the kitchen, leaving his dinner on the table. The banging continued, loud and insistent. He turned the handle and opened it.
Joubert barged past him, his features set in an attitude of anger.
For a moment Lasalle was bewildered but he closed the door and followed his colleague through into the sitting room where he stood, splay-legged, in front of the open fireplace. He was gripping something in his right fist. A thin film of perspiration sheathed his face, the veins at his temples throbbing angrily.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lasalle. ‘It must be important for you to come barging into my house like this.’
it is important,’ rasped Joubert.
‘Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’ Lasalle said, a note of irritation in his own voice. He glanced at his watch, it is seven o’clock.’
i know what time it is,’ Joubert snapped.
‘So what do you want?’
i want to talk about this.” Joubert brandished the object in his right hand like a weapon for a moment before slamming it down on the coffee table nearby.
‘What the hell do you mean by it?’
The copy of the Journal of Parapsychology lay before him on the table, bent open at the article written by Lasalle.
‘What the hell did you hope to achieve by writing this … garbage?’ Joubert demanded.
‘I felt that the discovery was too important to be hidden away,’ Lasalle explained.
it was my …’ He quickly qualified his words, it was our discovery. We agreed not to share it with anyone until the research was fully completed.’
‘No we didn’t. You decided that you wanted it kept secret,’ Lasalle reminded him. ‘I felt that other people had a right to know what happened.’
‘So you took it upon yourself to write this article? And your … friend. Does she know about it?’
‘Kelly? No. She didn’t know that I intended writing the article.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And even if she did, I don’t see that any of this is your business. I am not answerable to you, Alain.’