Death Trance

by Graham Masterton

  Waverley slowly smoothed his hands together as if he were rolling out a thin sliver of clay between his palms. ‘I hope merely to tidy up a business that has turned out to be rather messy and complicated. It’s all your fault, really. You know, Randolph, you’re a stubborn man. When your factory out at Raleigh caught fire, you should have taken the hint right then and there. Orbus did warn you, didn’t he? Of course Orbus is not always as persuasive as he might be, but just the same, you’re an intelligent man. You should have seen the writing on the wall. Especially after that very unpleasant business with your family.’

  ‘What did you expect me to do? Retire? Abandon my life’s work? Commit suicide?’

  Waverley shrugged. ‘All three of those options were viable, at least from the Cottonseed Association’s point of view. Unfortunately, very unfortunately, you decided not to take any of them, and so here we are, in a messy and complicated situation, you just as stubborn as ever and me wondering what on earth we can possibly do about it.’

  Randolph said, ‘You’ve got Michael here. I want to see him.’

  ‘He’s perfectly well,’ Waverley assured him.

  ‘I would still like to see him.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Randolph, that’s exactly what we intended to do now in any case. You see, my dear fellow, Michael has proved almost as uncooperative as you have, and it’s quite clear that he’s going to need a little persuasion.’

  ‘A little persuasion to do what?’

  ‘To take me into a death trance, of course.’

  To take you into a death trance?’ Randolph asked in perplexity. ‘What do you want to go into a death trance for?’

  Waverley Graceworthy looked at Randolph for a long time over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes could have been pale blue stones lying at the bottom of an ice-cold stream.

  Eventually he said, ‘I wish to talk to Ilona, my wife.’

  ‘Ilona? But Ilona died almost -‘

  ‘Thirty-one years ago, yes. An overdose of sleeping pills. One of the greatest tragedies the Graceworthy family has ever had to endure.’

  ‘But why on earth do you want to see her? Surely you’ve gotten over her death by now. And, Waverley, I have to tell you, those death trances can be highly dangerous.

  I almost got myself killed. I’m still covered with bites and bruises. Look at me.’ He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater. ‘Look at my arms. Did you ever see bites like that?’

  Waverley looked away. ‘I am quite aware of the risks, Randolph.’

  Then why do you want to do it?’ Randolph demanded.

  ‘I want to do it because something happened in a nursing home in Little Rock, Arkansas, in February of nineteen thirty-seven and I want to know what it was.’

  Randolph stared at him and then lifted his arms as if he were invoking the judgement of Moses. ‘Are you crazy?’ he asked. ‘What the hell are you trying to say?’

  Waverley’s voice was lifeless. ‘I am not trying to say anything. I want to know what happened, that’s all. I want to know if the rumours were really true.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  Waverley pointed a sharp finger at him. ‘My bride of only three years went to the Cardinal Nursing Home in Little Rock, Arkansas, in February of nineteen thirty-seven, in secret, without my knowledge, and when she came out of that nursing home, she had a letter from the doctor saying she could never have children. I have no heirs, Randolph. I have nobody to whom I can pass on this house; I have nobody to whom I can pass on my money, or my pride, or my family name. I was robbed of that by a bride who secretly took herself off to a nursing home in Little Rock, Arkansas, and only God and the devil know what went on there. An abortion?

  Maybe. But was it my child who was aborted? An operation on her fallopian tubes?

  An ectopic pregnancy? Who knows? She never explained it. She never would. And after that she would disappear sometimes for weeks on end and then just as suddenly turn up again, always expecting me to love her just as I did before.’

  He paused, breathing hard as if he had been running.

  ‘I asked her again and again, “What’s happened? Where have you been? Do you love me? What happened in Arkansas?” And she would never answer me, not directly. All I got was hints, strange looks and offhand suggestions. And rumours, yes, plenty of rumours. Friends at the Cotton Exchange, always ready with a sympathetic frown, the offer of a drink and, “I hate to mention this, old buddy, but wasn’t that Ilona I saw the other day out at Lucy with you-know-who?”’

  Randolph and Wanda exchanged glances but remained silent. Waverley seemed to be talking more to himself than to them, a bitter soliloquy that he must have repeated over and over again.

  ‘The last years were terrible,’ he said. ‘I knew she didn’t love me; I knew she had given her heart to some other man. But I tried so hard to keep her. I tried so hard to make her understand how much I adored her. But then she started taking the pills and the drinks, and she fell apart in front of my eyes.’

  He hesitated and then said, Tn the end she was so ill that I told her to go back to the man she really wanted because I couldn’t stand to see her die. But she wouldn’t - she refused - knowing that if she did, I would find out who it was.’

  Another pause and then with grief as abrasive as fragments of broken glass, Waverley said, ‘She died. She took her own life. It was April sixteenth, nineteen fifty-three. A Thursday afternoon. I came home from the office late and there she was, lying on the bed just like one of those medieval effigies, pale, her hands crossed over her breasts. And I came into the room and everything went slow, very slow, so that it seemed to take me hours and hours to reach her. She was cold. Cold! You never felt anything like it. I kissed her and her lips were like marble. And it was all because of this other man and all because of what she had been through at the nursing home in Little Rock, Arkansas.’

  Randolph said in a measured voice, ‘You have suspicions then of who Ilona’s lover might have been? And you think you know what might have happened out at the clinic?’

  Waverley appeared to recover himself; a certain sharpness returned to his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and whacked his cane on the floor. Randolph was reminded of the Bob Dylan song about the negress, Hattie Carrol, who was killed by a blow from the cane her employer ‘habitually carried’ and for which crime he was given a six-month sentence.

  ‘I suspect that my wife’s lover was your father, and I suspect that what happened at the Cardinal Nursing Home at Little Rock was that my wife gave birth to you. I further suspect that your father and his wife then adopted you and brought you up as a Clare in spite of the fact that your mother was a Graceworthy.’

  Waverley’s voice was trembling now, and he kept rapping his cane against the floor.

  ‘I suspect that when you were born, there were complications and that because of those complications, you sterilized my wife and denied me the sons and the heirs that should have been mine. That’s what I suspect and that’s what I’ve been suspecting for over forty years, and this is the first chance I’m going to have to prove it … in a death trance. I’m going to ask that woman, I’m going to ask her straight to her face, and if she tries to deny it, then by God, I’m going to know that she’s lying.

  And you, Randolph, you! You couldn’t stay peaceful, could you? You couldn’t make your living quiet and cooperative, oh no, you had to show the Cottonseed Association that Clares were the best and screw you, Charlie. And all the time I used to look at you and think to myself, That’s llona’s only son; that’s the only son of the only woman I ever got to love. You look like her and you talk like her, and sometimes when I see you make that gesture with your hand, that kind of sideways gesture, I know that’s her, that’s Ilona, and when you do that, I don’t want to hurt you for anything. But then you duck your head a little and talk all serious, and that’s your father, and I could kill you for that. You think it’s painful, do you, to lose your family, to lose your wife and to lo
se your children? Well, I can tell you all about pain. I never had that wife, I never had those children. Your father killed all of that before it could ever exist, and the weapon he killed it with was you.’

  Waverley shook his head as if time and history were amazing, as if love were inexplicable. ‘He used you to sterilize my wife, and he used you to taunt me with after he was dead. “Lookit, here’s the son you should have had, Waverley, except that he’s mine!” And I hate to say this, Randolph, but I watched your progress through school and through college, and I felt some kind of real bond with you, some genuine understanding. That is, until your father’s personality started coming out in you, that overbearing spirit, and you built up your cottonseed plants and you built up your production capacity; and you know as well as I know, Randolph, that if Clare Cottonseed continues to grow at its present rate, the Cottonseed Association is going to be looking at bankruptcy within four years and more than four and a half thousand people are going to be out of a job.’

  Randolph was shocked through and through but he looked Waverley straight in the eye and said, ‘This is insane, Waverley. This is really insane. Why don’t you call off these dogs and let Michael free? Then let’s you and I sit down at a table and talk this thing through. These -rumours - they’re just ridiculous. I don’t know where they came from but how could you possibly believe them? How could you possibly want to believe them?’

  Waverley lowered his eyes. ‘When I talk to Ilona, I’ll find out for sure.’

  ‘And what if Michael refuses to take you to see her?’ ‘He won’t,’ Waverley said bluntly. He raised his head, snapped his fingers at Reece and pointed to Wanda. ‘If he wants this young lady of yours to stay alive, believe me, he won’t.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  They brought Michael down to the living room just as the gilded clock on the mantelpiece was striking one. Waverley was infected with an extraordinary euphoria.

  He marched up and down the room like a marionette, rapping the floor with his cane, rapping the tables with his knuckles. Randolph stood in the corner by the fireplace, apprehensive and quiet. Reece was over by the French doors, admiring the exhibition he had set up on the patio outside.

  ‘Ah,’ Waverley said as Frank Louv brought Michael into the room. ‘You know Mr Clare, don’t you?’

  Michael and Randolph looked at each other, each trying to convey what had happened by something approaching telepathy, but it was scarcely necessary. The consequences of Michael’s kidnapping and Randolph’s break-in were glaringly obvious.

  ‘Mr Clare came to rescue you,’ Waverley said as if he were talking to a five-year-old child. ‘He climbed over the wall and broke into the house, but unfortunately for him -

  ah, unfortunately for him! - we always have plenty of people on watch and he was observed, from the very moment he climbed over the wall, and he was caught! And here he is. Well, he doesn’t look pleased, does he? But then, would you if the same thing had happened to you?’

  Michael said, ‘I was asleep. Is this what you woke me up for?’

  Waverley laughed and slapped Michael vigorously on the back two or three times.

  ‘You must come to the patio door; then you might understand.’

  Tugging Michael’s sleeve, Waverley led him over to the French doors, which had been opened wide. The floodlights that surrounded the house had been switched on and the lawns looked as bright and artificial as a Hollywood movie set. There were three marble statues arranged around the patio: a muscular Adonis; a voluptuous Diana, complete with dogs; and a bad copy of Michelangelo’s ‘Dying Slave.’ In the centre of the brick-paved patio, tied with cord to a folding chair, sat Wanda. At her feet, their tongues hanging out like scarlet rags, lay Recce’s dogs.

  ‘You’d better explain this to me,’ Michael said guardedly.

  ‘My dear fellow, there’s nothing to explain,’ Waverley smiled. He was almost jolly. I want you to take me into a death trance, and the persuasive part about it is that if you continue to refuse, Mr Reece or his friend here will whistle to the dogs and Miss Burford will have to suffer the consequences. Those dogs are Dobermans, in case you don’t recognize them, and they’re trained to attack. They are capable of savaging Miss Burford to death in a matter of minutes, I assure you. And it will all be your fault.’

  Michael turned to Randolph, who told him apprehensively, ‘He means it, Michael. If you don’t take him into the death trance, he’ll have her killed.’

  Michael ran his hand through his hair. Randolph thought that he looked exhausted.

  He wanted to ask Michael about Dr Ambara but Waverley and Reece were hovering too close, anxious to hear Michael capitulate.

  ‘Well?’ Waverley asked. ‘Let’s give it three minutes, shall we? And then let’s set those dogs loose. Your choice, Michael.’

  Michael lifted his eyes as if the answer to everything was written on Waverley’s ceiling. Then he looked down again and sideways at Waverley. ‘I need my mask. I need my incense too,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘Your mask?’

  ‘I brought it with me from Indonesia. It’s in a large grey polyethylene sack back at Days Inn. You’ll find it in the closet. The incense is in a purple box, top left-hand drawer of the bureau. You won’t mistake the mask. It’s very big, about as big as this - ‘ he stretched out his hands. ‘It’s red and white and gold, a kind of papier-mache with artificial hair glued to it.’ He looked at Reece and said, ‘The teeth are artificial too, except when they choose not to be.’

  Reece looked away. He had tried to persuade himself night after night that he had been suffering from hallucinations that morning in Denpasar when Jimmy Heacox had put his head into the mask. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been and that - magically, impossibly - Jimmy’s head had been bitten off and digested by something that did not even exist, not in the real world anyway, while what was left of him had been spat out onto the temple floor like so much offal.

  Jimmy’s grisly, protruding tongue had been left hanging out as a warning to others: Never mock the Witch Widow Rangda; never speak her name disrespectfully; never betray her or fail to do her bidding.

  The next hour passed as slowly as if the mechanism of Waverley’s clocks had been lubricated with treacle. Waverley obliged his captives to sit side by side on a small colonial sofa from which they could look through the French doors at Wanda.

  Michael smoked eight cigarettes; Randolph remained motionless and silent, trying to preserve his energy; Reece made an enthusiastic job of flossing his teeth, sawing the floss back and forth between his molars.

  It was well past two o’clock when the mad-looking Louv returned from Days Inn carrying a huge bundle wrapped in one of the hotel blankets. He set it down in the middle of the living-room floor and then delved into his pocket and took out two boxes of incense sticks. ‘I had trouble getting that stuff. The night clerk wanted fifty just to open the fucking door. In the end I told him to open it for free or I was going to open him. Back to belly. The stupid bastard.’

  Waverley had been out of the room for most of the time, but now he was sitting in the corner on a small Queen Anne chair, his legs neatly crossed. He stood up and approached the mask with undisguised fascination.

  ‘Stay away,’ Michael warned.

  Waverley stepped back. ‘Whatever you say, my dear fellow. Are we ready to enter the death trance almost at once?’

  Michael said tiredly, ‘Let me prepare. Do you have any dishes, anything I can use for burning incense?’

  ‘My butler will bring them.’

  Michael asked for Randolph’s help in dragging aside the sofas and the coffee table so the centre of the room was clear. As they moved about, he leaned close to Randolph’s ear and murmured, ‘When we’re gone, follow us.’

  ‘What?’ whispered Randolph.

  ‘Follow us into the death trance. You know how to do it.’

  ‘But what can I do even if I manage it?’

  Michael gave Randolph
a weary smile. ‘I’ll show you once we’re there. Don’t be afraid. And remember, you might get to see Marmie and the children. This might be your last chance.’

  Randolph nodded his agreement. The butler had come back into the living room with four Spode dishes that Michael set down ritually at each corner of the room and then filled with sticks of incense. He lit the incense with great concentration and the smell of sandalwood and jasmine began to drift across the floor. Louv sniffed and went into a fit of sneezing. ‘Smells like a Saigon flophouse,’ he protested.

  Michael took no notice of him. Instead, he approached the mask and cautiously tugged aside the blanket. Then he tore open the polyethylene to reveal the mask itself, still draped in scarlet silk but with one eye glaring out at them like the eye of hell itself.

  ‘So this is the notorious mask,’ Waverley said in fascination as Michael carefully laid it down in the centre of the floor. ‘Is this the same mask that -‘ he mimicked with a twist of his hands the removal of a man’s head.

  ‘This is the same mask,’ Michael acknowledged without taking his eyes off Reece.

  Reece grimaced in disgust and looked the other way.

  The mask of Rangda was arranged according to custom: her face covered with silk, her curving teeth invisible. To cover her face was a mark of respect for the most terrible of all the goddesses. O Rangda, we shield our eyes from your ferocity. O

  Rangda, we drape thee and dress thee; thou art the bride of death; the widow of darkness; we lay flowers for thee; we worship thee; we light incense for thee at the four corners of the world.

  Michael sat down on the floor, his legs crossed, his palms lifted upward. He indicated with a nod that Waverley should do the same. Reece came forward and helped Waverley to struggle into position; they could hear Waverley’s knee joints click.

  Michael was about to begin his recitation of the sacred mantras when Waverley tapped Reece on the side of the leg with his cane and said, ‘You too. You’re coming.

  You don’t think I’m going to enter any death trance without protection, do you? And where are those cameras? Did Williams get back with those Polaroid cameras?’