She slipped the file back into its drawer, then she herself left the room, walking briskly towards the stairs which would take her down to the laboratories.
Stephen Vernon slumped into the leather chair behind his oak desk and closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. In the outer office he could hear the clacking of his secretary’s typewriter. An accompaniment to the tattoo which the rain was beating on his window.
His office was large, as befitted a man of his seniority. It was one of the few rooms in the building which acknowledged a debt to the past. The wood panelling of the wall smelt as if it had been newly waxed, as did his desk.
Opposite him, above the empty fireplace, was a very passable copy of Gericault’s ‘Brigadier Gerard’. Vernon regarded the painting blankly, his mind occupied with other thoughts.
Could the EEG of Grant’s brain truly have exposed an area of the mind previously hidden? The key to the subconscious. After all these years, could he dare to hope for a breakthrough?
He sat forward in his chair and glanced at the phone.
The call might come in five minutes. Five hours. Five weeks.
But he knew it would come and he had been waiting a long time for it.
Paris
‘Keep your eye on the watch.’
Jean Decard focused on the gently twisting gold object, watching as it spun gently around. His breathing had slowed to low rasping inhalations punctuated by small gasps as the air escaped his lungs once more. His right arm was propped up on the arm of the chair, his left lay across his lap.
‘Clear your mind of all other thoughts,’ the voice told him. ‘See nothing but the watch. Think about nothing other than what I tell you.’
The voice seemed to be coming from a hundred miles away.
It was, in fact, coming from Alain Joubert who was kneeling less than a foot or two from him. It was he who was holding the watch, allowing it to turn gently back and forth at the end of its chain.
Beside him, Michel Lasalle watched the proceedings with a pen gripped firmly in his hand, prepared to write down whatever might happen. At thirty-eight, Lasalle was two years older than Joubert but his full features and ruddied complex-ion did not testify to that fact. They had worked together for the past two years and, during that time, had become close friends. Now Lasalle watched intently as Joubert leaned closer to Decard whose eyelids were beginning to sag.
‘You are asleep but you will still hear my voice, you will still answer my questions,’ said Joubert. ‘Do you understand?’
Decard nodded slowly.
‘Do you understand? Say so.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Jean Decard.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Sixteen Rue St Germain.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Forty-one.’
Lasalle scribbled something on his pad then watched as Joubert pulled a pen light from his breast pocket and shone it into Decard’s eyes.
‘He’s well under,’ Joubert said, noting the vastly dilated pupils of his subject. ‘But, let’s just make sure.’ He reached back to the table nearby and retrieved two long, thick needles each one about six inches in length. Then, he pinched the skin together on the back of Decard’s right hand and, slowly, pushed the first needle through.
There was no reaction from the subject.
‘Can you feel any pain, Jean?’ asked Joubert.
‘No.’
He took the second needle and, opening the loose fist which Decard had made, Joubert pushed the second needle under the nail of the man’s index finger until only the eye showed. There was no blood.
‘Do you feel anything?’
‘No.’
Joubert nodded to his companion then hastily tugged the wicked points free.
Lasalle pulled a pack of playing cards from his pocket and handed them to Joubert, standing behind his friend so that he himself could see the slim plastic sheets. The first one was the seven of spades.
‘Which card am I holding, Jean?’ Joubert wanted to know.
Decard told him.
‘And this one?’
‘Queen of Diamonds.’
Correct.
‘Next?’
‘Ten of Clubs.’
Correct.
They went through thirty cards and Decard was accurate every time.
‘Amazing,’ said Lasalle. ‘Are you going to bring him out of it now?’
‘In a moment,’ Joubert assured him. Then to Decard; ‘Jean, I am going to think of some words, I want you to tell me what they are.
Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
Joubert scribbled them down on a piece of paper and showed it to his companion. Decard recited the words almost rhythmically.
Joubert smiled. Lasalle could only shake his head in amazement.
‘There will be a bus crash in the Rue De Bologne.’ The words came from Decard with the same monosyllabic drone as before. Both Joubert and Lasalle looked at him aghast.
‘Repeat what you said,’ Joubert urged.
Decard obliged.
‘When? How do you know?’
‘I can see the … the dead.’ He was staring blankly ahead as if looking beyond the walls to something which neither of the other men could see.
‘When is this crash going to happen?’ Joubert asked.
‘At 3.49 today.’
Lasalle shot an anxious glance at his watch.
it’s 3.46,’ he told Joubert.
‘How do you know this is going to happen?’ demanded Joubert.
i can see it now.’
‘How many will die?’
‘Four.’
is it possible?’ Lasalle said, his brow furrowed. ‘Can he really be seeing it?’
Joubert didn’t answer, he merely looked at his own watch and saw that it was
3.48.
Jean Decard was silent for a moment then his mouth opened wide in a soundless scream, his fa^e contorted into an attitude of fear and pain so profound that Lasalle took a step back. Then, with a low grunt, Decard blacked out.
It took the two men ten minutes to revive him and, when he finally regained consciousness, he still seemed to be in a trance. He tried to rise but fell, knocking a table over in his wake. After another thirty minutes he was coherent. His face was ashen with dark smudges beneath his eyes.
Joubert gripped his arm.
‘Jean, can you remember anything of what you said earlier?’
Decard shook his head.
‘I feel sick,’ was all he could say.
Lasalle fetched him a glass of water.
As the three men sat in the room there was a loud knock on the door and, a moment later, a thick-set man in the uniform of a gendarme entered.
‘Which one of you is Jean Decard?’ the uniformed man asked.
i am,’ Decard told him.
‘And you two?’ the gendarme wanted to know.
‘We both work here at the Metapsychic Centre,’ said Lasalle.
‘Step outside, please,’ the gendarme said.
‘No,’ said Decard. ‘It’s all right, what have 1 done wrong?’
‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ said the gendarme almost apologetically, i must tell you that I have some bad news.’
Lasalle and Joubert exchanged glances then directed their gaze back at the uniformed man. He had lowered his voice slightly, an air of expectant solemnity having fallen over the room.
At approximately 3.49 that afternoon, Jean Decard’s twelve-year-old daughter had been killed when a lorry smashed into the bus which was carrying her and her schoolfriends home. There had been three other deaths besides hers.
‘Where did it happen?’ Decard wanted to know, tears filling his eyes.
The gendarme cleared his throat.
‘The Rue De Bologne.’
Michel Lasalle scooped some cool water into his hand and then swallowed it. He felt the tranquilizer stick in his throat for a moment so he swallowed more water, finally wiping his hands on the towel beneath the sink. He exhaled deeply and replaced the bottle of pills in his trouser pocket. He probably didn’t need them any longer but, over the past eighteen months since the death of his wife, the pills had become more than a mere psychological crutch for him. Lasalle was dependent on them, not daring to see what life was like without the temporary relief whichthey brought him. He did not look like a man who had suffered a nervous breakdown, but then again his wife had not looked like the kind of woman who would die suddenly of heart failure aged thirty-five. Lasalle had retreated within himself after her death. Like a snail inside its shell he refused to be coaxed out again by work or friends.