‘That’s good,’ she said, nodding quickly. A darting of the head towards the window, then a slow, self-conscious turning of her face so that she stared at him apologetically.
‘Let’s start with that night, shall we?’
‘Yes, if we must.’
‘Can you remember that night? The night you went missing in November?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Some of it. I left the house about 5.15 in the evening. It was just about dark already.’
‘Where were you going in the dark?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you taking a walk? Or were you going somewhere for a reason?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I think I was going to meet someone.’
‘You think?’
She thought about it. ‘I was going to meet someone. You know, at first, I couldn’t remember any of this. But over the years some of it has come back to me…’
‘Who were you meeting?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ She appeared to get agitated with her lack of memory. ‘I said some of it had come back, but I’m afraid it’s only tiny bits – I’m sorry.’
Forde held up a calming hand. ‘It’s OK, Sylvia. Take it easy. So you can’t remember, that’s fine. Where were you headed?’
‘The other side of Langland’s Wood.’
‘The one that borders Flinder’s Field?’ He’d done his research, asked around, studied the newspaper reports of five years ago, talked to the local historian Brendan Mollett. He knew all about Flinder’s Field and he’d even visited the place with Mollett long before meeting with Sylvia Tredwin. But he knew he mustn’t be swayed by what information already existed. Her story had already been adulterated, sensationalised, despoiled. He needed to approach this afresh, with a fresh and rational scientific mind.
‘Yes, the wood borders Flinder’s Field,’ she replied.
The wood in which Brendan Mollett’s father had been discovered dead, thought Forde.
‘Why were you going to meet this person on the other side of Langland’s Wood?’
She struggled with it. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘What were you wearing?’
‘A T-shirt and long skirt, I think.’
‘You didn’t have anything else with you?’
‘Like what?’
He’d read some people speculated that she was about to run off with someone. Maybe she had a suitcase.
‘Anything at all?’
‘Nothing. I can’t remember having anything with me.’
Dressed in a skimpy T-shirt and skirt, she wasn’t planning on going far, he thought, or for very long.
‘Which route did you take?’
She blinked. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Can you remember going through the wood?’
‘Yes. It was dark.’
‘Weren’t you scared?’
‘I’ve never been afraid of the dark,’ she said. ‘Not until…’ She shuddered. ‘I remember it being dark, but I don’t remember being afraid.’
‘And then what? You went through Langland’s Wood and into the neighbouring fields?’
‘That’s right. The Moon was high in the sky. Yellow because of the clouds that were drifting in front of it. Every now and again the clouds would hide it altogether and it would be almost pitch-black.’
‘And still you were not afraid?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember being afraid,’ she reiterated. But she froze, her eyes staring onto a faraway scene, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. ‘Then I remember seeing the lights…’
He waited, but she didn’t offer more. ‘The lights. Describe the lights.’
‘Bright, dazzling…’
‘Which direction did these lights come from?’
‘Everywhere, all directions.’
‘From above?’
She hesitated. ‘From everywhere. Yes a bright light from above. They were high up, I remember that. I was glued to the spot. I couldn’t move. It was as if the lights held me there, like they were metal bands around me. Then I began to feel afraid, very afraid, and I remember wanting to turn and run, but it was impossible. I heard voices in the dark…’
‘Can you describe the voices?’
Her cheek muscle twitched. ‘Gentle. Almost kind, but not kind.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Difficult to tell. I think they were male.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘I couldn’t tell. It’s vague now. I seem to think there were two or three, maybe more, because the voices became muddled, rolled up into one. I tried to run. I remember that much. I tried to run, but I was drawn against my will…’
‘Drawn in what way?’
‘How do you mean?’ she asked vacantly.
‘Did you move, or were there other forces at work? Did they take you?’
‘I was taken. I don’t remember much, but I remember my head spinning and my body floating upwards. I could see the ground beneath me, as if I’d died and was going up to heaven. I saw a massive dark thing above my head – huge, terrifying, waiting to swallow me up.’
‘Describe this dark thing.’
‘I can’t. I closed my eyes against it. But by now I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was as if I was welcoming it, accepting it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I remember feeling drowsy. So tired, so relaxed, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep.’
‘What then?’
‘I woke up.’
‘And where did you wake up?’ Forde leant closer to her.
‘I remember – though my eyes were blurred and my head foggy – I remember seeing metal walls. Bright metal walls. And hearing voices, like they were far, far away. I knew they were discussing me. I couldn’t hear what was said exactly, because it didn’t seem to make any sense, but I could almost feel they were discussing what to do with me.’
‘Did you see who these people were?’
She gave a laboured nod. ‘Tall, grey, formless. One of them bent over me. He had a kind face, had large black eyes and a beard, like you see in idealised pictures of Jesus, that kind of thing. I felt a great wave of love spread out from him.’
‘You weren’t afraid of him?’
‘No. Not at that point. I was lying on some kind of metal table. I couldn’t move my hands or legs, but that didn’t matter, because I really didn’t want to. I felt quite peaceful and relaxed. Like I’d actually gone to Heaven. Then they started to examine me.’
Examine you – in what way? Can you describe the examination?’
Sylvia Tredwin swallowed. Her mouth was dry and she looked at Forde’s cup of lukewarm coffee. Forde offered her the cup but she declined.
‘My clothes…’ she said. ‘They’d been removed. I was naked.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘You mean did it make me feel vulnerable, dirty?’
He shrugged. ‘How did it make you feel?’
‘I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t ashamed or anything like that. I felt them part my legs and push something inside me…’
‘Inside you?’
She looked at him, glanced down to her groin. ‘In there.’
‘In your vagina?’
‘Yes. In there.’
‘What was it they put in there?’
‘Something long and metallic, I think. I remember feeling that something had been implanted inside me.’
‘Such as?’
‘An egg. An alien’s egg. A bad egg. Into my womb.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because it’s what I believe to be true,’ she said, getting a little heated. ‘I’m telling you what I believe to be true. Don’t you believe me?’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘How long did the examinations last?’
She took in a steadying breath. ‘I don’t know. It became frequent, or seemed to be. I had a number of different things done to me. Things pushed in my mouth, my ea
rs, up my nose.’
‘What happened after the examinations?’
‘The next thing I know I’m being cuddled by my husband Bruce. I’m naked in the middle of Flinder’s Field. At first I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s as if a veil or something had been lifted from my mind, and suddenly I see the storm, feel the rain and the wind, and I see Bruce. Then I feel terrified. So horribly afraid I want to be sick. I remember I could not stand upright, my legs being so weak, and I collapsed against Bruce and he had to hold me upright and all but carry me home.’
‘What then?’
‘Then, some time later, I found out I was pregnant with Adam.’ Her voice was cold.
‘Did that bother you?’
‘He’s not my son, Mr Forde. He’s the result of something that was put inside me.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I was there! I know what happened, Mr Forde! I know what happened!’ she yelled, looking anxiously at the curtains again. ‘They’ll come back for me, you know. I can’t escape. They’re already on their way back for me!’
16
Connections
‘That something had happened to her was without doubt,’ said D. B. Forde. ‘She was deeply disturbed by her experiences. She was very emotional, very genuine.’
‘But yet she did not quite convince you,’ said George.
‘All the familiar archetypes were there, with other elements present that veered from the usual run-of-the-mill that I’ve heard over the years. She was far more convincing that most, I have to say. It was almost frightening to hear her recount the experience, I can tell you, and I have heard many similar tales in compiling my book. Either she was a very good liar or what she recounted actually happened. That was my conclusion. She was no liar, had no reason to lie. And yet…’
‘And yet?’ said George, leaning forward.
He shifted a shoulder. ‘I was utterly convinced at one point, and then on the final day, I interviewed her in the living room. That’s when I saw the paperbacks.’
George angled his head. ‘I don’t follow you. What paperbacks?’
‘Science fiction. Lots of cheap dog-eared science fiction thrillers. The sort with green, many-tentacled monsters from silver flying saucers, and racy blondes in plunging necklines running scared. You get the picture.’
George remembered Adam handing him the paperback from his father’s shelf. The time Sylvia Tredwin went crazy and locked them both under the stairs.
Forde continued. ‘I mentioned them to her. She said they belonged to her husband. When prompted as to whether she’d read any of them, she said no, she hated science fiction. But who takes them down and dusts them, I asked? Why I do, she said.’
‘So you think she saw one of the covers and made up a story based on that?’
‘It’s not that simple. In such cases, the person is not aware of the fact that they are creating an imaginary world based on nothing more than the memory of a picture, or a movie. To the subject it is terrifyingly real. Take the case of the Hills, which I’ve spoken about. Some researchers believed their abduction was based on a film they’d seen called ‘Invaders from Mars’, or some such thing. It was highly possible that Sylvia Tredwin had been subjected to a similar subconscious prompting. Which is why I had to be certain, and so I arranged for her to undergo hypnosis.’
‘She was hypnotised?’ said George, intrigued. ‘So what was the result?’
‘Nothing conclusive, according to the man I regularly employed, a respected psychologist and hypnotist called Arthur Talbot. Like me he was born in the South West and we shared a keen interest in the paranormal. But his sessions with her were inconclusive. They revealed nothing more than that on the notes I prepared for him. She did not admit to her experience as being subconscious imaginings, but nor did she admit that her abduction was real. In fact, he drew a blank on all fronts. Arthur told me he had never had a subject so resistant to hypnosis. It did not help her, I’m afraid, for both she and her husband had pinned their hopes on finding answers on the sessions. She came away more dispirited than ever.’
D. B. Forde shrugged heavily and released a tired sigh.
‘I take it other subjects have been more forthcoming under hypnosis.’
He nodded. ‘It usually gets to the bottom of things, one way or another. It is the one tool at my disposal that provides a modicum of evidence that these abductions actually happened. It is hard to lie under hypnosis, though it is not without fallibility. With Sylvia Tredwin I could not provide that last shred of evidence, and therefore I could not stick my neck on the line to say yes, she was abducted. I referred to her in my book, but I do not say one way or the other that she was the subject of an extraterrestrial abduction.’
‘So, off the record, what do you really believe?’ pressed George.
Forde studied the man’s eager eyes. ‘In all the cases I have ever come across, I have never found one so honest, the experiences so vivid and so brutally real to the subject as that of Sylvia Tredwin. Mr Lee, I believe she was taken by extraterrestrials.’ He edged forward in his seat, locked George in a steely gaze. ‘We are being stalked by something malicious and malignant, Mr Lee, make no mistake about that. We are the animal specimens, they are the vivisectionists. We are decidedly uncomfortable with that arrangement, so we seek to denounce the abductions as myth, as the bleating of sick or sensationalist minds, and we relegate the stories to the stagnant and unimportant backwater of scientific research. But they are real. They do indeed come, Mr Lee, and have been coming for a long time. And I believe Sylvia Tredwin found that out to her cost.’ He sat back, flexing his shoulders as if he’d freed them of heavy clothing.
It came as a shock to hear the man come down so firmly on that side of the fence. ‘And the paperbacks?’
‘Coincidence. Science fiction was, and is, hard to ignore. There was a lot of it on TV and in cinemas at the time, the popularity of Star Wars proved that there was a huge appetite for it, and there were the almost continuous missions to the moon keeping space exploration in everyone’s mind. Every abductee I interviewed would have had plenty of access to science fiction narratives, in one form or another. It is an occupational hazard,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘She could quite easily have included other common elements of alien abduction, like Men in Black, but she didn’t.’
George smirked. ‘I’ve seen the movies…’
Forde’s face remained serious. ‘Yes, Hollywood provides another example of the trivialisation of the abduction narrative. And yet in many cases, particularly the earlier American ones, the interviewees spoke of men dressed in black and driving old-fashioned black cars, who visited the abductees and either threatened them to keep quiet or were somehow instrumental in getting the abductees to forget their experiences altogether, until hypnosis revealed all. They’ve been explained as government agents and the aliens themselves, but I wouldn’t dismiss them so readily, Mr Lee. Sylvia Tredwin’s story didn’t contain anything like that, but there again big black American cars in the UK were rather rarer back then and would have stood out a mile, eh?’ He allowed himself a thin smile.
George Lee’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘So would I be able to speak to this hypnotist Arthur Talbot?’
‘To discuss Sylvia’s sessions?’
‘I was hoping to.’
Forde smiled wryly. ‘Rather naïve of you, Mr Lee. For one thing there’s such a thing as patient confidentiality. For another it was so long ago that all records of the case – either tape or written – will have been destroyed. And lastly, Arthur Talbot is dead. He died three months or so after his interviews with Sylvia Tredwin, as it happens. So I’m afraid you cannot meet with Arthur unless you are adept at contacting the dead. If you are then please let me know, as that is another area of the paranormal that sparks my interest.’ He grinned and rose from his seat. ‘What I can do, however, is put you in contact with his son William.’ He went to a bureau and pulled down the lid, rummaging through a veritable
snowstorm of paper that wanted to take the opportunity to escape confinement. He pushed it roughly back inside and came back to George, holding out an envelope. ‘Here you are. Two tickets to see his show.’
‘Show?’
‘William Talbot didn’t exactly follow in his father’s doctor footsteps, but instead took the less palatable vaudeville route. He is a stage hypnotist. His father would have been mortified, turning the profession into mere entertainment, but, as I said earlier, we all have to make a living. I’ve known William since he was a little boy, and every now and again he sends me a letter, or nowadays a text or an email, and very occasionally he sends me tickets to performances that I have yet to attend. You are more than welcome to have these tickets – he’s playing at some small-time venue in Weston-Super-Mare according to the ticket. I don’t know what good it will do you. You’re hardly likely to find out more about Sylvia Tredwin’s case than what I have already told you. The trip and the fresh seaside air might do you good, looking at your pasty complexion, Mr Lee.’
On that personal note, D. B. Forde brought the meeting to a swift end, and George was left standing outside Forde’s house staring at the tickets in his hand. Well, he thought, it was worth a punt. And it had been ages since he’d been to Weston-Super-Mare in North Somerset.
That night, George Lee sat on the edge of the bed in his old bedroom and looked over the pieces of paper he had laid out before him. A collection of his father’s bank statements detailing monthly outgoings into a mysterious account, including the large payment from his matured insurance policy; a curious Birmingham address found with the statements, which, George thought, by their very proximity to the statements had to be linked to the payments in some way; a receipt for a nearly-new Ford Fiesta his father bought from his brother-in-laws, and a receipt for the replacement of the car’s wing around the time Bruce Tredwin had been killed by a hit-and-run driver.
Not only did he have the mystery surrounding his father’s secrets, but the gradual unfolding – or deepening, depending on which way you looked at it – of the Sylvia Tredwin case. The two, he felt, linked by Bruce Tredwin’s death.
FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) Page 13