by David Waine
CHAPTER 2
A mile or two south of Marie’s Finchley address lies London’s most bohemian quarter, where resides a polyglot mix of cultures that simply does not exist anywhere else, expressing itself with exuberant flamboyance in its Carnival, as England’s capital becomes Rio de Janeiro for two glorious days each spring.
Notting Hill was home to many oddball characters, none more so than Marcus Logan, a confirmed bachelor who had dedicated two-thirds of his sixty-five years to helping tortured souls to exorcise their demons through hypnosis. A modest brass plaque beside his front door read simply, M. Logan, Hypnotherapist. His clients varied from ordinary folk down the road to government ministers, film stars and even royalty — the celebrities being admitted discreetly by the back door — but they paid the same modest tariff and received the same high level of care, apart from those special cases whom he did not charge at all. Marcus Logan was philanthropic in all matters.
An Irishman by birth, from County Antrim, his soft speech still betrayed the unmistakable lilt of his homeland, even though he had not lived there for decades. Smaller than average of stature and bald of pate, with a kindly, crinkly face, he was, first and last, a man of peace, so the daily slaughter being enacted in the Six Counties grieved him almost as much as if the victims had been his own kin.
It was a bemused Marcus Logan who stood in his lounge while a small army of technicians bustled about, erecting lights, topped with huge white umbrellas, microphones on long poles, miles of heavy cabling and a fearsome-looking camera, mounted on a tripod that looked as if it could have held up a truck.
Although he felt a little invaded among all this technology, the young woman before him smiled and did her best to reassure him of their good intent.
“Please excuse us, Mr. Logan,” she said in a gentle voice. “I'm afraid all this is needed to ensure that we get top quality picture and sound.”
Sally Ferguson was to be seen every night on the main news bulletins detailing grisly details of murder and mayhem from around the capital. She wore her trademark smart leather coat and her black, curly hair was tied back behind her head.
He took her outstretched hand graciously. “It's Miss Ferguson, isn't it?”
She smiled warmly, displaying perfect white teeth. “Please call me Sally.”
Logan returned the smile. “Your secretary explained to me that you wished to interview me on what I do. I am happy to help, of course, but,” his brow wrinkled slightly, “this seems a little removed from what you do.”
She laughed softly. “My weekly diversion,” she admitted. “My overlords at the BBC decided that I needed to report on something uplifting for a change. I was beginning to see cut-throats behind every tree and lamppost.”