Jim O’Neil was on his feet, ready to intervene. Toni looked ready to keel
over. She sat down on a bar stool, her gaze still on the psychic.
‘How did you find me?’ he asked, moving towards her.
i knew you were coming to England. I’ve been waiting for you. I found out which hotel you were staying in. They told me where you’d be tonight,’ she admitted.
‘She’s bloody mad,’ snapped Roger Carr, dismissively. ‘Get her out of here.’
‘Shut up,’ Mathias rasped. ‘Leave her.’
The doorman took a step away from Toni.
is this one of your theatrical tricks, Mathias?’ Carr demanded.
Blake turned on him.
‘Just for once, keep your bloody mouth shut,’ he snapped. He motioned to the barman. ‘Give her a brandy.’
The man hesitated, looking at Sir George.
‘Come on, man, for Christ’s sake,’ Blake insisted.
‘Give her the fucking drink. You heard him,’ snarled Jim O’Neil, watching as the barman poured a large measure and
handed it to Toni. She downed most of it, coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way to her stomach.
Toni, what do you want?’ Mathias asked her, quietly.
“I need your help, Jonathan,’ she told him, tears glistening in her eyes.
‘You’re the only one who can help me now.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me before? What were you afraid of?’
She swallowed what was left in the glass.
‘That you’d turn me away.’
He shook his head.
‘Jonathan, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Rick. Every time I see a child I think about him.’ The tears were coursing down her cheeks now. ‘Please help me.’ Her self-control finally dissolved in a paroxysm of sobs.
Mathias supported her and she clung to him’, her body trembling violently.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Reach him,’ she said, flatly. ‘Now.’
Mathias didn’t speak.
‘Please, do I have to beg you?’ Some of the despair in her voice had turned to anger. ‘Contact my son.’
‘This is a London club, not a fairground tent,’ protested Sir George Ward as the massive oak table was dragged into the centre of the room by Blake, O’Neil and a third man.
‘What I intend to do is no fairground trick,’ Mathias told him, watching as a number of chairs were placed around the table.
The other guests looked on in stunned, anticipatory silence, Kelly amongst them. Every so often she cast a glance in Dr Vernon’s direction, noticing that he was smiling thinly as he observed the proceedings.
Gerald Braddock plucked at the folds of fat beneath his jaw and shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
Toni Landers sat at the bar, the glass of brandy cradled in her shaking hand.
‘What are you trying to prove by doing this, Mathias?’ Roger Carr wanted to know.
‘I don’t have to prove anything, Mr Carr,’ the psychic said, turning away from him. He held out a hand for Toni Landers to join him. She downed what was left in her glass and wandered across the room. ‘Sit there,’ the psychic told her, motioning to the chair on his right.
Blake watched with interest, aware that Kelly was gripping his arm tightly. He took her hand and held it, reassuringly.
‘I cannot do this alone,’ Mathias said, addressing the other guests. ‘I must ask for the help of some of you. Not for my own sake but for this lady.’ He motioned towards Toni. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing can hurt you.’
Jim O’Neil was the first to step forward.
‘What the hell,’ he said, sitting beside Toni then turning in his seat to look at the others.
Roger Carr joined him, sitting on the other side of the table.
Blake looked at Kelly and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They both stepped forward, the writer seating himself directly opposite where Mathias would be.
‘Thank you, David,’ said the psychic.
As if prompted by Kelly’s action, Dr Vernon pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment then looked at Blake who had his eyes closed slightly.
“Sir George”?’ Mathias said, looking at the head of the BBC.
‘No, I want no part of this,’ said the bald man, defiantly.
Gerald Braddock, who had been rubbing his hands together nervously finally moved towards the table.
‘What are you doing, Gerald?’ Sir George asked him.
it can’t do any harm,’ Braddock said, wiping his palms on his trousers. He looked at the others seated around the table and swallowed hard.
No one else in the room moved. Mathias walked to his seat between Toni Landers and Roger Carr. Opposite him was Blake. To his right, Kelly. At the writer’s left hand sat Braddock then O’Neil.
‘Could we have the lights turned off please?’ Mathias asked. ‘All but the one over the table.’
Sir George surveyed the group seated before him for a moment then with a sigh he nodded to the club’s doorman who flicked off the lights one by one until the table was illuminated by a solitary lamp. Shadows were thick all around it, the other guests swallowed up by them.
‘Could you all place your hands, palms down, on the table,’ Mathias asked. ‘So that your fingertips are touching the hands of the person on either side of you.’
‘I thought we were supposed to hold hands,’ muttered Carr, sarcastically.
‘Just do as I ask, please,’ Mathias said.
Kelly looked up. In the half light, the psychic’s face looked milk-white, his eyes standing out in stark contrast. She felt a strange tingle flow through her, a feeling not unlike a small electric shock. She glanced at Blake, who was looking at the psychic, then at Vernon, who had his head lowered.
‘Empty your minds,’ said Mathias. ‘Think of nothing. Hear nothing but my voice. Be aware of nothing but the touch of the people beside you.’ His voice had fallen to a low whisper.
The room was silent, only the low, guttural breathing of the psychic audible in the stillness.
Kelly shivered involuntarily and turned her head slightly looking at the others seated with her. All of them had their heads bowed as if in prayer. She too dropped her gaze, noticing as she did that Blake’s fingers were shaking slightly. But then so were her own. Indeed, everyone around the table seemed to be undergoing minute, reflexive muscular contractions which jerked their bodies almost imperceptibly every few seconds.
Mathias grunted something inaudible then coughed. His eyes closed and his head began to tilt backward. His chest was heaving as if he were finding it difficult to breathe.
‘Don’t break the circle,’ he muttered, throatily. ‘Don’t … break …’
He clenched his teeth together, as if in pain and a long, wheezing sound escaped him. It was as if someone had punctured a set of bellows. His body began to shake more violently, perspiration beading on his forehead, glistening in
the dull light. His eyes suddenly shot open, bulging wide in ihe sockets, his head still tilted backward.
He groaned again, more loudly this time.
The light above the table flickered, went out then glowed with unnatural brilliance once more.
“The child,’ croaked Mathias. ‘The … child …’
His groans became shouts.
Kelly tried to raise her head but it was as if there was a heavy weight secured to her chin. Only by monumental effort did she manage to raise it an
inch or so.
Somewhere behind her one of the swords fell from the wall with a loud clatter but none of those seated at the table could move to find the source of the noise. They were all held as if by some invisible hand, aware only of the increasing warmth in the room. A warmth which seemed to be radiating from the very centre of the table itself.