The house of Jonathan Mathias stood before him, a large forbidding three storey building fronted by well-kept lawn and ringed by a high stone wall.
Blake noticed as he approached the wrought iron gates that there were closed-circuit television cameras mounted on each side of the gates. They watched him with their Cyclopean eyes as he walked up the short driveway towards the house itself.
The building was a curious mixture of the old and new. The main structure looked as if it had been built in mock Edwardian style whilst an extension made up of glass and concrete seemed to have been grafted on to the wrong house.
The windows were unlit and the glass reflected the lightning back at Blake, they lowered over him like some kind of malevolent spectre.
There were more closed-circuit cameras above the front door. He rang the bell, pressing it twice and, a moment later,
the door was opened by a man who Blake immediately recognised as Mathias’
chauffeur.
‘Mr Blake isn’t it?’ said the man, eyeing the writer who looked a sorry state with his brown hair dripping and his clothes soaked.
‘I’d like to see Mr Mathias if that’s possible,’ the writer said.
‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at home,’ the chauffeur began.
‘I’ll …’
‘Let him in, Harvey.’
Blake recognised the voice immediately and, a moment later, Mathias himself stepped into view.
‘Come in, David,’ he said, smiling. ‘You look as if you swam here.’
Blake stepped into the hallway.
‘Come through into the study,’ said the psychic.
Once inside the room, he poured himself a brandy and offered one to Blake who gratefully accepted, his eyes roving around the spacious room. He noted with bewilderment that there were no windows. The only light came from a desk lamp and two floor-standing spotlamps near the drink cabinet. On one wall there was a framed original sketch by Aleister Crowley depicting the Whore of Babylon.
Biake looked closely at it.
‘You knew Crowley?’ he, asked.
‘We met once or twice,’ said Mathias.
‘The Great Beast himself eh?’ murmured Blake, sipping his brandy. ‘A
self-confessed Black Magician.’
Mathias didn’t answer.
Blake allowed his gaze to shift to a photograph. It showed Mathias and another man who looked familiar to him.
‘Anton Le Vey,’ said the psychic.
‘Another friend?’ asked Blake.
Mathias nodded.
‘Another Black Magician,’ the writer commented.
The psychic seated himself behind his desk and cradled his brandy glass in one hand, warming the dark fluid.
‘What can I do for you, David?’ he wanted to know. ‘It must be important to bring you out in weather like this.’ He downed most of his brandy in one swallow.
Blake seated himself on the closest chair.
‘It is,’ he informed Mathias. ‘Have you seen a newspaper today, or watched television?’
‘No, why?’
Mathias finished his brandy and got to his feet, walking past the writer who turned until he was gazing at the psychic’s back.
Toni Landers’ son was killed earlier today,’ he said.
Mathias filled his glass once again then turned round, the bottle still in his hand.
‘JHe was killed in an accident,’ the writer persisted.
‘Do you want another drink?’ Mathias asked, apparently uninterested in what Blake had to say.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ the writer asked, irritably. ‘Toni Landers’ son is dead. Haven’t you got anything to say?’
Mathias regarded him indifferently then shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, softly. ‘He was only a young boy.’
‘You knew he was going to die,’ Blake said, flatly. ‘You told me at the party the other night, after the Tarot reading. Only you didn’t learn of his death through the cards did you?’
‘The cards act as a guide,’ said Mathias, sipping his drink. ‘They point me toward the truth.’
‘Come on, Jonathan,’ Blake muttered, exasperatedly. ‘You’re not talking to one of your bloody “flock” now.’
The two men regarded one another coolly for a moment, a. heavy silence descending upon them. It was broken by Mathias.
‘I told you that the Astral body can be controlled,’ he said. ‘Well, it can also be projected forward in time. I “saw” that Toni Landers’ son was going to die because I felt no Astral presence from him.’ He sipped at his brandy once again. ‘The Astral body is like the life-line on a hand, someone with the knowledge can “see” it.’
‘Tell my future,’ said Blake, reaching for a pack of Tarot cards which lay on the desk near to Mathias. ‘Do it now.’
He had already begun shuffling the cards.
‘No,’ said Mathias.
Blake divided the cards into ten packs and laid them out in the correct pattern.
‘Do it, Jonathan,’ he urged.
‘I told you, I’m not a fairground showman,’ muttered the psychic, irritably.
He regarded the cards without emotion, his gaze slowly rising until his brilliant blue eyes were fixed on Blake. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would leave now, David,’ he said, quietly.
The two men locked stares for a moment then Blake took a step backward, brushing one strand of hair from his face.
‘Are you afraid of what you might see?’ he asked.
Mathias didn’t answer. His face was impassive, registering no emotion at all.
Finally, he exhaled, his features softening slightly.
‘You asked me about my power,’ he said. ‘This force inside me, it’s the power
of the shadow.’
Blake looked puzzled.
‘Not the shadow cast by sunlight or reflected in a mirror,’ Mathias continued.
“The shadow of the inner self. The alter ego if you like. The Ancients called it the shadow because it represented the darker side of man, the side which only appeared in times of anger or fear. The side which could drive a man to commit acts of which he was not normally capable. Acts which went against his nature. Human nature.’
‘Like a split personality?’ said Blake.
‘No,’ Mathias corrected him. ‘In cases of split personality the victim retains some traces of good within himself. The shadow is wholly evil.’
‘Then your power is evil,’ Blake said.
‘Who is to say what is good and what is evil, David?’
There was another long pause then Blake turned and headed towards the door.
‘I’ve told you as much as I can,’ Mathias said. ‘What more do you need to know?’
‘A lot more,’ he said, opening the door. Then, he was gone.
The psychic sat alone in his study, the Tarot cards still laid out in their cabbalistic pattern before him. He paused for a moment then reached towards the seventh pack. To Love. He turned the card slowly.
Thirteen.
La Mort.
Death. Mathias stared at the sythe-carrying skeleton depicted on the card for a moment then he reached for the top card on the ninth pack. To Health.
Fifteen.
Le Diable.
The Devil.
But he knew that the cards carried much more than their face value. The card marked XV also meant The Great Secret. Mathias smiled to himself. It seemed most appropriate in Blake’s case.
He turned the card on the final pack, the breath catching in his throat as he did so.
Twelve.