by David Waine
CHAPTER 10
Warm autumnal sunshine filtered through the net curtains over the large bay window that admitted soft shafts of light into Marcus Logan's consulting room. It was a studious, quiet place, lined with books and furnished with elderly leather chairs and a vast chaise longue, grouped informally around an ancient, but elegant, coffee table. There was no desk, Marcus Logan not being one for formality. It made for just another barrier to be broken down, so why have it the first place? His clients sat wherever they pleased and he occupied the nearest available seat. Usually they opted for the chaise, subconsciously equating him with a psychiatrist, although he took pains to assure them that he was not a medical man. His visitor sat there now and he occupied a chair facing her. She was a young woman, in her mid-twenties, dusky of skin and businesslike of dress. She regaled the nation night after night with news of the horrors that some of its members inflicted on others. He preferred to watch her when she appeared on Call My Bluff to trade witticisms with other celebrities. Those occasions allowed the sunny side of her nature to shine forth, the side that she had to hide under a bushel when reporting bloodshed and savagery. He remembered her fondly, having recently granted her a couple of interviews when she took the chance to concentrate on the altogether nobler subject of healing. He had expected her to be a skilful, but ruthless, reporter who would extract what she wanted and then ridicule him as a quack afterwards, so he had been guarded in what he had told her. When the programme was broadcast, however, he experienced a pang of conscience at having misjudged her, for she presented him in a respectful light, even adding her personal admiration for his work. Sally Ferguson, he now knew, was a kind-hearted, decent soul whom he genuinely liked. It was even more pleasing to meet her on her own, minus that intrusive, team of technicians.
“It’s good to see you again, Sally,” he smiled. “How have you been keeping?”
“Good to see you, Mr. Logan,” she smiled back at the small, crinkly, balding man opposite. “I’m fine.” She saw the slight shift in expression in his eyes and knew that the traditional return of greeting cut no ice with him. She dropped her own gaze and noticed, with slight embarrassment, that her hands were fidgeting in her lap. “Well, no, I’m not fine actually.” He nodded, understanding. “I’m very troubled. Can you help me?”
He sat back, thinking. To have broached the subject so very early in the conversation, she must really be distressed. “This has affected you deeply, hasn’t it? Judging by what you told me over the phone, however,” he said softly, “it isn’t you who needs my help. Where is this poor, afflicted girl?”
Sally regarded him soberly. “Outside, in a car, complete with her entourage. Shall I ask the others to wait?”
His white eyebrows rose slightly. “Entourage?”
“Parents, boyfriend and armed police minder.”
Logan’s face now betrayed genuine concern. He had been as appalled as any at the recent spate of murders in the East End, but this was the first time that he had come into any sort of contact with it. “Armed police minder? Oh, dear Lord,” he said.
“I wouldn’t like to cross her,” admitted Sally ruefully. “I’ll pay for the consultation, of course,” she added hurriedly.
Logan shook his head slowly “That won’t be necessary,” he replied softly. “I think that this is likely to be one of those occasions when my services are given free. It is one of the great joys of my profession that the power to impose a fee for what I do can also be used to withhold it for the neediest. The poor child, no wonder she’s beside herself. No, let them all come in for the moment.”
It was a nervous group that waited in Mr. Kelly’s ageing Ford Granada outside, parked behind Sally’s gleaming Alfa. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly sat fidgeting in the front while a wan, trembling Marie occupied the centre of the rear bench seat, flanked by a grumpy-looking Joe and a severe Rutter.
“Why can’t we just go in?” asked Joe. “He’s just a sort of doctor, isn’t he?”
“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Kelly patiently, “and this isn’t just his surgery, it’s his home apparently.”
“Sally knows him,” added Mrs. Kelly supportively. “We’re really very lucky that he’ll see us at all. At least I hope he will.” Her voice trailed off.
All heads turned in unison as the polished house door opened and Sally emerged. “It’s fine,” she confirmed with a brief smile, “he’d like you all to come in.”
Marie trembled as she alighted from the car and made her cautious way across the threshold between Joe and Rutter, her parents forming a protective rearguard. She had no real idea of what to expect. Some preening demigod with mystic powers, perhaps, who might condescend to give her a glimpse of his awesome abilities and whom she would hate and fear because she was forced to trust him? She flinched whenever anyone came near her these days and her sleep was still dominated by her personal stalking demon, although the doctor's sedative now limited him to just one terrifying call per night. She had lost faith in everything. Her subconscious was completely obsessed with the secret, stealthy monster that waited to rip her apart on November the 9th.
As ever, the anticipation bore no resemblance at all to the reality. What she had not expected was an unoccupied room full of comfortable armchairs and a vast chaise longue.
“I shan’t be a moment,” came a disembodied voice from further along the passageway, “just make yourselves comfortable wherever you like. I’ll sit on whatever is left over.”
Marie recognised the Irish accent. Northern Irish, with its own cadence, unmistakably Irish but with a lilt quite distinct from the brogue of the Republic. It was an accent that was instantly recognisable, for it was to be heard on every news bulletin as some weeping widow poured out her heart for a loved one murdered by terrorists of one side or the other.
Joe felt slightly ashamed of his grumpy mood. It was the arrival of Rutter that had unsettled him. He had become accustomed to his role as Marie’s devoted bodyguard and had resented being upstaged by the prissy woman police officer who was assigned to protect her after Sally had taken them in. To find that woman replaced by this gun toting cold fish a matter of days later had been a step too far, for she had replaced him utterly. She stuck to Marie like a limpet, always calm, always alert, a coiled spring, poised and ready. She spoke relatively little and almost exclusively to Marie. He had no doubt that she was good at her job, that she would shoot the Ripper dead, without a second thought, to save Marie, which was frightening in itself. At least she kept her weapon out of sight, and he was grateful for that.
“Northern Irish,” he muttered sullenly, “not a terrorist is he?”
He could have bitten his tongue out a moment later, for he knew it was a stupid thing to say. He sat close to Marie on the chaise, with Rutter, almost as close on the other side.
Sally’s smile was warmer. “Don’t worry, Marie,” she smiled, “Mr. Logan is one of the kindest people you are ever likely to meet — and, no, he isn’t a terrorist.”
Marie still wasn’t sure what to expect. She certainly had not anticipated a small, elderly man with a fringe of white hair around a bald pate, a crumpled, kindly face, wearing a dowdy green cardigan and carrying a tray laden with mugs and a steaming pot of coffee.
He beamed when he saw them. “Please forgive me for not greeting you as you entered. I had completely forgotten to put the kettle on. Very remiss of me. I do apologise. Marcus Logan,” he added with a smile.
Sally rose and helped him to place the tray on the coffee table, whereupon she took over the responsibility of supplying everyone with a drink, simultaneously making the necessary introductions.
“Marcus Logan, may I introduce Marie Jeanette Kelly, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly, her friend, Joe Burnett and, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
As the group’s most recent addition, Rutter was still uncomfortable with her position. Although well aware of the vital role that she was playing, she was equally aware of Joe’s simmering resentment and coul
d not help feeling something of an intruder.
She rose formally and extended her hand. “WDC Rutter, assigned to protect Marie, as of last night.”
Logan’s welcoming smile was as warm as it had been for everyone else as he took the proffered grip and shook it. “A fine protection you will be, I am sure. But I can’t call you 'WDC' Have you a more human aspect to your name?”
Rutter’s face finally cracked into a smile at being addressed thus and in the friendly manner in which the address was couched. A glimmer of humanity began to eke through the frozen crust. “Julie.”
Logan’s smile did not waver as he released her hand. “Hello, then, Julie. Welcome. Welcome all.” Looking around, his eyes alighted on a vacant chair. Standing before it, he turned his gentle gaze onto his trembling prime guest. “And especially welcome to you, Marie. Will you not come and sit down here beside me?”
Glancing nervously from side to side, Marie received encouraging nods from her parents, Sally and Rutter before rising slowly to her feet and rounding the coffee table to her host, who handed her courteously into a vacant seat.
Before he could speak, Marie’s father burst in, unable to maintain his silence any longer. “Mister Logan, we don’t know where to turn. This monster has butchered four people already, and now he’s after our daughter.”
“Help us, please help us,” whimpered a tearful Mrs. Kelly on her husband’s arm
Logan nodded kindly. “Of course, of course.” He smiled gently round the gathered assembly, aware that every eye was fixed upon him. Such scrutiny did not daunt him. Turning back to Marie, he pressed her hand. “You already have the entire Metropolitan Police Force, your own family, your friends and the BBC pulling together for you, Marie. Powerful influences are allying themselves on your behalf.”
“She’s her second minder!” burst in Joe, sounding ruder than he intended.
Rutter looked round at him, a slight flicker of annoyance in her eyes. The formality was back. “I must inform you, Mr. Logan, that I am what we call an AFO, an Authorised Firearms Officer, assigned to protect Marie twenty-four hours a day for however long it takes. I was appointed to replace her original protecting officer, who was unarmed, when the increased level of threat surrounding Marie became apparent.”
Logan nodded soberly, taking it all in. “You have your weapon with you now?”
“I do.” There was little outwardly visible sign of it. She was dressed in plain clothes, grey suit with trousers, but no holster was on display, although a careful look revealed a telltale bulge beneath her armpit. “If this character attacks Marie,” she announced grimly, “he’ll have to get past me first.”
“And me!” The words spat from Joe’s mouth before she had finished the word ‘first’.
“And me!” added Mr. Kelly equally fervently.
Marcus Logan raised his hand for quiet and allowed the small hubbub to settle before continuing. “Let’s try to be calm, everyone. We yet have time to consider our options. I know that your colleagues on the Force, Julie, are working with might and main to take this man into custody before he can strike again.” She nodded soberly. “Even so, we have a date. November the 9th. That gives us time to prepare our plans. Let us consider how the odds stack up for a moment. Potent though your gun may be, Julie, it is but a device. Fierce though your love and devotion undoubtedly are, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly and Joe, will they stop this man by themselves?” He shook his head slowly. “To do that, we must discover why he does what he does and why he wants Marie. When we know that, we may be able to break this circle decisively.”
Mrs. Kelly leaned forward slightly, a bemused frown on her face. “Break the circle?”
Logan nodded. “Oh, yes,” he explained. “Marie is caught up in a circle, beyond doubt, a vicious circle, not of her making. Exactly what form it takes I do not yet know, but I will find it out and, when I do, we can break it.”
“What good will that do?” asked Mrs. Kelly, impressed by his use of the word, ‘we’.
The smile, which had lingered on his lips, now faded altogether, replaced by a look of utter solemnity. “Mrs. Kelly, I am not boasting when I say this. In addition to my calling as a hypnotherapist, I am also a lay preacher. I owe allegiance to no particular church, but rather to any church, and to God above all. The powers that I refer to are not my own. They belong to a greater authority than any that rules in this world and I am permitted to request them only in the most sacred need, as Marie’s is. So, if he wants to get to her, he’ll have to get past me first as well.”