Kelly watched him as he buttered it, finally handing her a slice.
‘I’d still like to know how Vernon managed to get an invitation,* she said.
‘He’s a friend of Sir George Howe, the old boy told us that.’
Kelly nodded slowly.
T still don’t trust him,’ she said.
Blake leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
The kettle began to boil.
It was 2.15 when Blake parked the XJS back in his driveway. The journey back from Oxford had taken longer than he’d expected due to a traffic hold up on the way back into the town. Now he clambered out of the Jag and headed for his front door, waving a greeting to one of his neighbours as she passed by with her two children.
Blake walked in and discovered that the postman had been during his absence. There was a slim envelope which bore a familiar type-face.
He tore it open and unfolded the letter, heading towards the sitting room as he did so. The writer perched on the edge of a chair and read aloud.
‘Dear David, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting but I have only recently managed to read the manuscript of “From Within “. I’m even sorrier to tell you that I do not tee! thai it matches the quality of your earlier work, which was based on solid facts and research. This latest effort seems comprised mostly of speculation and theorising, particularly on the subject of Astral travel and mind control. I realize that these subjects are open to question but the book does not convince me as to the validity of your statements. So how can we expect the public to believe it?
Despite the fact that you are well established and a proven top-seller, I feel that I cannot, as yet offer you a contract based on the manuscript in its present state.’
Blake got to his feet, still glaring angrily at the letter.
It was signed with the sweeping hand of Phillip Campbell, his publisher.
‘I cannot offer you a contract …’ Blake muttered, angrily. He crossed to the phone and picked up the receiver, punching buttons irritably.
‘Good morning …’
He gave the receptionist no time to complete the formalities.
‘Phillip Campbell, please,’ he said, impatiently.
There was a click at the other line then another woman’s voice.
‘Phillip Campbell’s office, good afternoon.’
is Phillip there?’
‘Yes, who’s calling?’
‘David Blake.’
Another click. A hiss of static.
‘Good afternoon, David.’
He recognized Campbell’s Glaswegian accent immediately ‘ “I cannot offer you a contract”, that’s what’s on my mind,’ Blake snapped.
‘What the hell is going on, Phil? What’s wrong with the bloody book?’
i thought I told you that in the letter,’ the Scot said.
‘ “Speculation and theorising” is that it?’
‘Look, Dave, don’t start getting uptight about it. If you can’t stand a bit of criticism from a friend then maybe you’re in the wrong game. What I wrote was meant to help.’
‘You haven’t seen the completed manuscript yet,’ Blake reminded him.
‘Fair enough. Maybe I’ll change my mind once I have but, like I said, you need more concrete facts in it. Especially this business about someone being able to control another person’s Astral Body. You’re going to have trouble making the readers believe that.’
‘Phil, I’m telling you, I know it can be done,’ said Blake.
‘Facts, Dave,’ the publisher reminded him. ‘Once I’ve seen the finished manuscript then maybe we can sort something out.’
There was a moment’s pause then the Scot continued.
‘David, I want this book in print as much as you do. We both stand to make a lot of money out of it but, in its present form, we’ll be laughed out of court if we publish. You realize that.’
Blake sighed.
‘Facts,’ he said. ‘All right, Phil, I’ll get back to you.’ He hung up. The writer stood there for a moment then he balled up the letter and threw it into a nearby waste-basket.
He headed back towards the cellar.
‘Hello, Phil. I’d like a word if you can spare me the time.’ ‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
Oxford
The book fell from his hand and hit the bedroom carpet with a thud.
Dr Stephen Vernon sat up, disturbed from his light sleep. He yawned, retrieved the book and placed it on his bedside table. Then he reached across and flicked off the light. The hands of his watch glowed dully, showing him that it was almost 1.05 a.m. He pulled the sheet up to his neck and closed his eyes but the sleep which had come to him earlier now seemed to desert him. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then the other side but the more he moved the more he seemed to shed any desire to sleep.
He sat up again, reaching for the book.
He read three or four pages without remembering a single word and, with a sigh, replaced the thick tome. He decided that his best strategy was to get out of bed. He’d make himself a hot drink, that usually did the trick. Vernon clambered out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. He left the bedside lamp burning and padded across the landing.
He was at the top of the stairs when he heard the faint knocking.
Almost instinctively he turned and looked at the door of the locked room but it took him but an instant to realize that the sound had originated downstairs.
He hesitated.
The knocking came again.
Vernon swallowed hard and moved cautiously down the first three or four steps.
Outside, in the darkness, he heard the sound of movement, the crunching of grave! beneath heavy feet.
Vernon peered over the bannister, down into the pit of blackness which was his hallway. The light switch was at the
bottom, beside the large window which looked out onto the gravel drive and the front garden.
He glanced down, his heart quickening slightly.
He had neglected to draw the curtain across that window.
The movement seemed to have stopped so Vernon scuttled down the stairs, gripping the bannister with one hand in case he overbalanced in the gloom.
He was level with the window when he saw a dark shape three or four feet from the glass.
It moved rapidly back into the gloom and seemed to disappear.
Vernon felt himself perspiring as he reached the light switch, not sure
whether to turn it on or not. If he did then he would be visible to anyone outside. His hand hovered over the switch but, eventually, he decided against it and moved cautiously into the sitting room, ears ever alert for the slightest sound.
From the brass bucket beside the fireplace he retrieved a poker then he turned and walked back into the hall, pausing at the front door, listening.
There was more movement outside.
Footsteps.
Should he call the police, he wondered? If it was burglars then there might be more than one of them. What if they should attack him?
What if he called the police but they didn’t arrive in time?
What if…
The sound was right outside the front door now.
Vernon, with excruciating care, slipped the bolt then the chain and fastened his hand around the door handle, raising the poker high above his head in readiness to strike. His heart was thudding madly against his ribs, his mouth as dry as parchment.
He pulled open the door.
Nothing.
Only the wind greeted him, a cool breeze which made him shiver. He exhaled almost gratefully and lowered the poker, squinting into the blackness in search of that elusive shape.
He saw nothing.
Vernon waited a moment longer then turned.
He almost screamed as the hand gripped his shoulder.
It appeared as if from nowhere and the older man tried to raise the poker once more but his co-ordination seemed to have deserted him. It fell from his grasp with a dull clang.