if news of this spreads we’ll have the press swarming all over the Centre. Is that what you want?’
‘Our discoveries on Astral projection are some of the most important ever made. Not just for our own profession but for others too. Many will benefit from our work. Hospitals, psychiatric institutions …’
Joubert cut him short.
‘And who will be credited with the discovery?’ he asked, eyeing his colleague malevolently.
‘Both of us of course. We …”
Joubert interrupted again.
‘No. Not both of us. You.’ He pointed at Lasalle. ‘You wrote the article.’
‘But I mentioned your name, how we worked together.’
‘That doesn’t matter, it’s you who will take the credit.’ He picked up the magazine. ‘What did they pay you for this?’ he asked, scornfully.
‘Ten thousand francs. Why?’
Joubert shook his head.
‘They bought weeks of work for ten thousand francs!’
‘The money isn’t important,’ said Lasalle.
‘And the recognition?’ Joubert wanted to know. ‘Will you want that? Will you be able to cope with that?’ His voice took on a sneering, superior tone.
‘Still, you have your little tablets to help you.’
‘Get out of here, Alain,’ Lasalle snapped. ‘Get out of my house.’
Joubert stuffed the magazine into his pocket and, with one last scornful glance at his colleague, he headed for the front door. Lasalle heard it slam behind him as he left.
Joubert brought the Fiat to a halt outside his house and switched off the engine. He closed his eyes for a moment, sitting in the shell-like confines of the vehicle, almost reluctant to leave it. He let out a long, almost painful breath and banged the steering wheel angrily. Damn Lasalle, he thought. He glanced down at the magazine which was on the passenger seat. It lay there as if taunting him and he snatched it up and pushed open the car door, locking it behind him.
As he reached the bottom of his path he heard the phone ringing inside his house. The Frenchman didn’t hurry himself. He found his front door key and unlocked the door, glancing down at the phone on the hall table as he entered.
It continued to ring but he hung up his jacket before finally lifting the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said, wearily.
‘Joubert? About time.’
He recognised the voice immediately.
‘Dr Vernon, what do you want?’ he asked.
i want to know what’s going on.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Let me read you something then.’ There was a slight pause and Joubert heard the rustling of paper at the other end of the phone: ‘ “The discovery of this form of Astral projection is the culmination of many weeks of work and many years of study,” ‘ Vernon quoted.
‘Lasalle’s article,’ said Joubert.
‘You were supposed to report any findings directly to me and now I read this plastered all over the magazine. What do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Don’t lecture me, Vernon. That article was nothing to do with me. Perhaps you
should ask the girl who works for you what she knows about it,’ the Frenchman hissed.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Vernon wanted to know.
‘Kelly Hunt. She’s here. She’s been with us for a week or more.’
There was a shocked silence, interrupted only by the occasional hiss of static.
‘Vernon.’
‘Yes.’
i said she’s been with us for more than a week,’ Joubert hissed.
i had no idea where she was,’ Vernon said, irritably. ‘I gave her some time off while the enquiry took place here. I didn’t know she was going to work with you.’
‘Well, she knows everything. You won’t be able to hide anything from her any longer, Vernon.’
The Institute Director sighed.
‘Anyway, that’s your problem. I have my own with Lasalle,’ Joubert continued.
‘We cannot afford any more disclosures similar to the one in this magazine,’
Vernon said, cryptically. ‘As it is, this might alter our plans slightly.’
‘You take care of the girl. I’ll handle Lasalle. And I tell you this, Vernon, there will be no more disclosures. I will see to that.’ He hung up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘No more.’
There was a malevolent determination in his voice.
London
As the 747 touched down, Blake breathed his customary sigh of relief. The plane slowed down and he allowed himself a glance out of the window. Heathrow was covered.by a film of drizzle which undulated and writhed like a living thing. The writer had tried to sleep on the flight back but had been constantly interrupted by the woman next to him who insisted that he should ‘look at the wonderful view’. Blake had made the fatal error of telling her that he wrote books about the paranormal and had been regaled by her tales of tea-leaf reading and contacts with the spirit world. She had, she assured him, been blessed with this gift of second sight as compensation for the death of her smallest child five years
earlier and the subsequent departure of her husband with another woman. Blake had nodded politely and smiled a lot during the verbal barrage, as was his habit. She had apologised for not having read any of his books but promised she would. Blake had smiled even more broadly at that point. He wondered if it was a general thing with writers, that anyone they spoke to immediately swore they would rush out and buy every book that writer had written.
Despite the distractions he had managed to snatch an hour or so of sleep but it had been troubled and he had woken, it seemed, every ten minutes.
At one point he had jerked bolt .upright in his seat, his body bathed in sweat, the last vestiges of a nightmare fading from his mind. The plane had crashed into the sea but he had survived the impact only to be drowned in the wreckage.
Now, as the plane came to a halt he got to his feet and stretched, trying to banish some of the stiffness from his joints. He checked his watch and noticed that he’d forgotten to adjust it according to the time difference. The clock on the plane showed 6.07 p.m.
After Blake had recovered his baggage he made his way through the terminal to the waiting taxis outside.
The drive took longer than he’d expected but, as the vehicle drew closer to his home he shook off some of his tiredness.
‘Where do you want to get out?’ the driver asked.
Blake directed him.
‘Nice gaff,’ said the driver, admiring Blake’s house. ‘Must have cost a fair old screw, eh?’
The man was obviously fishing for a tip and Blake didn’t disappoint him. He gave him fifteen pounds and told him to keep the change.
‘A reasonable screw,’ he said as he walked away from the cab, suitcase in
hand.
His house was set back from the road and was surrounded by a sufficient expanse of garden to protect him from the neighbours on either side. A privet hedge, which needed trimming, fronted the property and waist-high wooden fencing formed a perimeter elsewhere. There was also a garage built onto one side of the building. It housed a second-hand Jaguar XJS which he’d bought from a friend
three years earlier.
As Blake made his way up the short path he fumbled for his front door key and inserted it in the lock. The door opened, and the familiar cloying scent of paint greeted him. He’d had the place redecorated prior to leaving for the States and the aroma hung thickly in the air. Biake flicked on the hall light and the porch light. He smiled to himself. When his porch light was on it always reminded him of running up the Standard at Buckingham Palace. It was his mark that he was now in residence.
He stepped over two weeks worth of mail which lay on the mat, closed the front door behind him then scooped it up. There were circulars, four or five letters (most of which he could identify by their postmarks) and a couple of bills.