The Healing Place

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 41

  Franz, in his official white suit, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the seekers on the Introduction to Clairvoyance course and told them how privileged they were to be there.

  ‘I’m Franz Kane, director of The Healing Place, and this is an exciting moment for me as well,’ he said. ‘I feel privileged to be leading you in this first step into a fascinating area of the mind.’

  ‘What happened to the man who signed us up?’ a young man asked.

  ‘Sharma will join us to lead the more advanced sessions,’ Franz said.

  ‘He told me he would be taking the course personally,’ said a young woman with an intense expression, leaning forward and passing a string of beads rapidly through her hands.

  ‘Sharma has been temporarily delayed in taking up his teaching commitments here,’ Franz said. ‘He’s helping the police with their enquiries in a very serious crime.’

  Too late, seeing the scandalized looks on their faces, he realized he had made it sound as if Sharma had been detained as a suspect.

  ‘As a respected psychic, he is sometimes consulted by the police to help them with difficult cases,’ he explained hurriedly. The faces looked relieved.

  ‘How long will it take us to learn to do that kind of thing?’ asked the same young man. ‘I’d love to be consulted in crime cases!’

  Several others nodded.

  Franz thought of Sharma’s haggard face and obvious weight loss since the kidnap of the children, of his long night vigils on deserted streets and of his inability to spend time enjoying the return of his own family.

  He pushed down anger and said, ‘That level of insight arises from empathy with the victims of crime – actually feeling their terror and pain. It can take a serious toll on the one who does “see” the unseen, because it means feeling it. The anguish involved can destroy a person’s serenity and even endanger their sanity. It’s not something that anyone who has this gift naturally would actually choose or want.’

  The facial feedback from his audience now told him that he had gone too far.

  ‘I don’t want to get into anything dangerous!’ said the intense girl. ‘I just want to be able to tell what’s going to happen to me in my life, and to help a few people by predicting their future.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So we’ll leave police enquiries to Sharma and we’ll now concentrate on some simple visualization exercises designed to enhance the natural gift for insight which all of you already possess.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked a thick-set middle-aged lady at the back of the room.

  This room had been used for a Feng Shui demonstration previously, Franz noted, and the guide responsible had forgotten to clear away some of the items used.

  A string of crystals suspended from the ceiling hung just above the lady's left ear. A clump of feathers and beads – the Chinese equivalent of a North American dreamcatcher, perhaps? – had cut loose from its moorings and floated down to land on the foot of a bald man wearing open-toed sandals revealing blackened toenails. The effect was slightly surreal.

  ‘The faculty of insight is inherent in everybody,’ Franz said, 'and you are all here because you want to take it seriously and use it positively. Sharma is rigorous in his selection process. You will have noticed that he spoke to each one of you in detail and listened intently to your questions and responses.’

  'Does that mean we're special?' The middle-aged lady raised her hand, like a child in class asking permission to be excused. Franz didn't want to get drawn into further discussion.

  ‘Close your eyes!’ he said commandingly, and the class, thrown back into schooldays habits, simultaneously dropped their eyelids like shutters.

  ‘I want you to imagine,’ Franz said, dropping his voice, ‘that you are on a walk in dense forest.’

  He squinted at Sharma’s notes to make sure this was right. The seekers’ faces, with tightly closed eyes, bore rapt expressions. This is easy enough, thought Franz. Ireland seemed far away now, as if he had never left home or stopped being Franz Kane, director of The Healing Place, the man who could deal with any situation and encourage anyone to believe whatever they chose.

  ‘You are alone,’ he told the assembled group. ‘You have been walking for many hours now, under dark overhanging trees that block most of the light. Suddenly – suddenly! – when you are growing tired, you emerge into a clearing in the forest. At first the shade is dappled, with patches of sunlight filtering through the leaves, which are dancing in a soft breeze.

  ‘Then, the light becomes bright – dazzlingly bright. The colours of the trees are intensified. See the light! See the colours of the leaves, the intricate details. Immerse yourself in this natural beauty, becoming one with it. Feel your oneness with the brightness of the light, the solidity of the earth beneath your feet, the colours, the breeze, the open space. Feel the freedom!’

  This is a doddle, thought Franz. Anyone could do this; you don’t need to pay some psychic to tell people to imagine they’re a leaf. He hadn’t realized how easy Sharma’s job was.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you see in the distance a beautiful lake. Walk towards it slowly, experiencing that feeling of solid ground beneath your feet with every step. Feel the light around you. Feel the light within you. See the colours. Be the colours. Glide towards the lake, supported by the whole of nature around you.’

  They were all gliding all right, he thought with some relief, looking at the entranced faces. Only the middle-aged woman opened her eyes briefly and scanned the faces around her. Before she could focus on Franz, he closed his eyes firmly, to set an example.

  It meant he couldn’t consult the notes but he was confident that he could remember the rest of it. Only a few more lines and he would leave them to lapse into silence, anyway. Then his contribution would finish and he could simply wait, keeping an eye on his watch which he had laid on the floor in front of his feet, for the allotted time to go by, leaving ten minutes at the end for the seekers to report what they had seen or experienced.

  ‘As you reach the edge of the lake,’ Franz said, ‘notice the plants growing around the edge – tall reeds, waving grasses. See their reflection in the cool water, clear as glass. Move nearer. Look at the deeper reflections – the trees around the lake. The blue sky. The clouds. Gaze deep into the water.

  ‘See your own reflection now. Look – really look – at your face. Note the features; see the expression. A breeze blows over the lake, ruffling the surface of the water. Your reflection ripples and blurs. Keep looking into it as it wavers. The outline blends into the wide expanse of the lake. Keep looking, deeper. Deeper. Look through the reflections. Look beyond them, deeper into the lake. Cool water. Glass-clear. Black in its deepest depths. Look into the clear blackness.’

  I’m really getting into this, Franz thought. Sharma was right to say he could do it himself. He knew he had departed from the notes but he thought his version was near enough. He could almost see it himself, the deep lake brooding over hidden secrets, his own vision piercing its surface. He saw a face emerge, through the distorted image of his own face – a dark face with an inscrutable expression, eyes closed, like a death mask. The eyes shot open suddenly, with immense power – frightening, intense eyes with a ferocious gaze.

  The face rose above the water’s surface, followed by an immense displacement of water as a powerful body, long-limbed, lithe, loomed over Franz as he crouched at the water’s edge – shadowy yet threatening in its solid forcefulness.

  He saw cruel hands emerge from the shadowy form, cruel eyes, a cruel smile. He saw a flash of something shiny – a belt buckle. Dazzled by the glare of it, he tried to look away but could not escape its hypnotic effect. The creature bent over him. He could see the gash of a mouth, red and wet. The buckle was closer now, hanging loose from the belt, no longer so shiny. There was a pattern on it – a metal snake enclosed in a square.

  Franz tried desperately to see beyond the man – if something so horrifying was actually a
human being – to pick out context, details. He saw steps leading up to a tall, bleak-looking house with bars on the downstairs windows. He saw a street sign with a name on it that he couldn’t read clearly but which looked familiar.

  Then the creature bore down on him, showing pointed teeth, and he felt the world around him lurch and shift. Again, he strained to see beyond the creature. He saw another house. It was friendlier-looking but it lied. The upper storeys had red window boxes with miniature fir trees but the basement, like the first house, had bars, dank rooms and fearful sights and smells and sounds, and the only red to be found was the painfully leaking trail of blood.

  Franz forced himself to look upwards, into the creature’s face. It was the face of Leroy Watson. The house was the one Franz had seen on the internet site. And he had been kidnapped, tortured and terrorized and would never escape alive.

  Somebody coughed. Someone else coughed more loudly, meaningfully. Franz jumped, startled awake by the sound. Accusing faces looked at him. He glanced at his watch on the floor in front of him. There was something wrong with it. That couldn’t be the time!

  ‘Ah – let me just check the time,’ Franz said, clearing his throat. ‘What do you make it?’

  It was right. An hour and a half had gone by. Franz glanced at Sharma’s notes. Feedback time, it said at the end. Discussion of the images people have seen, and feelings associated with them. Franz did not want to go there, even if there had been time.

  ‘We’ll round off this session now,’ he said confidently, ‘as some of you have probably found the silence of the last part of it quite prolonged. Would I be right in saying that?’

  Glum nods affirmed that he was.

  ‘You'll find it much easier, next time,’ he assured them. 'The first session has been a bit long this time. So, to avoid overtaxing you, we’ll leave now. Hold those impressions and experiences until next time and we’ll have a feedback session then.'

  The middle-aged lady waved her hand, not tentatively this time but with determination.

  ‘We won’t speak,’ said Franz, in a resolutely hushed voice. ‘Go quietly out, respecting each other’s space and staying with what you've experienced. As soon as you get home, without discussing it with any other person, commit those images and impressions to paper. Review them during the week and bring them with you to the next session.’

  ‘Will you be taking the next session or will Sharma?’ asked the bald man. The bead and feather assemblage stayed between his toes as he struggled to his feet.

  ‘That will depend on your progress,’ said Franz. 'For now, just focus on understanding your images, during the course of the week.’ He stayed seated on the floor, cross-legged, and closed his eyes again.

  Cowed by the prospect of failing to advance from Franz’s marathon trance session to Sharma’s gentle encouragement and patient explanations, the seekers tiptoed from the room and made their way out of the building, avoiding comparing notes with each other in case it hindered their enlightenment.

  When they had gone, Franz rubbed his face, stood up slowly and made his way to his office. Dialling Sharma’s mobile number with one hand, with the other he sifted through a pile of files on his desk till he found the folder of information given him by Leroy Watson. He checked the administrative address of the main office of the Luciferians. It was a W11 postcode, in the area of Ladbroke Grove.

  Leaning across to the bookshelf, he took down the copy of the London A-Z street directory and found the local street Ella had mentioned that Sharma was watching, the one where a flat was for sale.

  Sharma’s phone was unobtainable. Franz hesitated, then rang St Mark’s vicarage.

  Phil answered, sounding sleepy, reminding Franz that it was late. ‘Phil, it’s Franz. I’m sorry – I need to speak to Sharma and I can’t get a dialling tone on his phone.’

  ‘It’s stopped working,’ Phil said. ‘I’ve lent him mine while he’s out: do you want the number?’

  Franz took down the number he dictated. ‘Thanks. Sorry again to disturb you.’

  ‘That’s okay. Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, no,’ he said, suddenly honest. ‘I’ve had this odd experience, possibly something like Sharma goes through. I'm wondering if it might be some kind of a lead on the missing boys. Or it could be a complete delusion.’

  ‘You contact him; I’ll pray,’ said Phil, sounding awake. ‘Don’t act on anything, will you? Get the police in. And will you let me know what happens?’

  ‘Sure.’ Franz cut him off and dialled the mobile.

  Sharma answered immediately.

  ‘Sharma? It’s Franz. That address you traced the boys to before, in Ladbroke Grove. Was it a tall house with steps up to the front door and bars on the ground floor windows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the road you’re watching now is Arcade Street?’

  ‘Yes, I’m there now.’

  ‘Sharma, is there a gabled three-storey Victorian terrace house with red window boxes with fir trees in them, and a basement with bars on the windows?’

  ‘That’s the house I’ve been watching.’

  ‘I had this odd kind of picture while we were doing the visualization exercise this evening. I think the boys might be in the basement.’

  ‘Flat 1A,’ Sharma confirmed.

  He didn’t question how or why Franz believed this . This way of knowing things is normal to him, Franz thought.

  ‘Sharma, the face I saw was Leroy Watson – the man you told me to throw out of my office. The headquarters of his organization is at that Ladbroke Grove address. And I’m pretty sure he was wearing a square metal buckle on his belt with a snake pattern on it.’

  ‘Okay.’ The voice was calm. ‘Franz, the police have matched the DNA found in the air ducts of The Healing Place with one of the missing children. They think the person who took the boys also caused the bomb scare in the building.’

  ‘Will the police go in, if you tell them you’re sure of the details?’ Franz asked. ‘Or do they need hard evidence?’

  ‘They can get a search warrant and go in to look for evidence. There is already a sergeant here in an unmarked car at the end of the road. They don’t want to alert the occupants, though. They’re afraid they may turn destructive if the police turn up on the doorstep.’

  ‘Kill the boys?’ Franz felt his blood run cold.

  ‘Yes. Franz, is there some way we can persuade this Leroy to leave the house?’

  ‘At this time of night? It’s gone ten.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait till morning, then.’

  The image of Leroy as the monstrous figure perceived by the kidnapped boys, with cruel eyes and hands and teeth, returned to Franz forcibly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s think of a way to do this. Let’s get them out of there now.’