Finally, the scream came, bursting up from his lungs, screeching into the frozen air, and the sound helped him to move, to stumble away from that approaching monstrosity, back over the seat, scraping his shins but not caring, moving with all the speed only abject fear could muster. He scrambled over the end of the boat into the reeds, the brownish water reaching high above his waist. He thrashed through the reeds and made his way towards the river-bank, the mud at the bottom of the river sucking at his feet, trying to hold him back, to drag him down. It was like a nightmare in which his legs had turned to lead and he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t run away.
He splashed forward, pulling at the reeds, pulling at anything that would draw him forward. But he could still hear the whispering, and it sounded more frenzied and sinister. By now his lungs were gasping for air, small squealing noises came from his mouth, and tears now of self-pity rolled down his fat cheeks. He clutched wildly at an overhanging branch and, for one frightful second, it bent under his weight, his whole body going beneath the water. But it sprang up again, bringing him with it, and he used two hands to pull himself along its length, his palms bleeding with the effort.
At last he felt the river-bed rise sharply and he knew he had reached the bank. Sobbing thankfully, he let go of the branch and began to drag himself up the steep incline, grasping at roots, tufts of grass, anything he could find that would give him support. But the bank was slippery with mud, and the slime beneath his feet gave him no support for a thrust upwards. He lay full stretched against the bank, soaking wet, his whole body heaving for breath.
Suddenly, he felt cold fingers wrap themselves around his ankle below the water, and begin to tug at his body, trying to draw it back into those chilly and murky depths. He tried to resist by digging his fingers deeply into the soft earth, but they raked out deep grooves as he was slowly and surely dragged back. He screamed and kicked out with his other foot, but the grip only grew more firm, drawing him smoothly down, like an animal drawing its victim into its lair.
And then, his heart did burst. The pressure had been too great. The heart that had worked hard for so many years under the gross weight of the man finally gave up. He was already dead as the muddy water ran into his open mouth and through the channels of his nose, quickly obscuring the wide, sightless eyes as he sank lower . . . and lower . . . into the cold, welcoming river.
5
Keller woke with a start. One moment he was asleep, the next wide awake, with no intermediary stages of regaining consciousness. For an instant, his eyes stared up at the ceiling then moved swiftly towards his watch lying on the bedside cabinet. Seven o’clock exactly. What had wakened him so sharply? Had he dreamed? He’d been a heavy dreamer up until the crash, the dreams always vivid, memorable – almost tiring. But since, there had been nothing, although he knew this was impossible; everybody dreamed to some extent, whether they realized or not. For the past few weeks, though, he had just seemed to fall asleep instantly, then to wake just as quickly, with only emptiness in between, as though he had merely blinked his eyes for a half-second. Perhaps it was his mind’s way of protecting him, keeping the nightmare deep within the folds of his subconscious, erasing any trace before he woke.
But last night had been different. He tried to focus his mind, but the wispy visions evaded him, mocked him. He could only remember voices. Whispers. Had Hobbs been the reason for the dreams? The strange little man had certainly disturbed him. Keller sat up in bed and reached for his cigarettes. He lit one and drew in a deep breath, then leant back against the wall that served as a headboard for his bed. He thought back to the previous night and the arrival of the spiritualist; the unease he had felt at the mere sight of him. And yet – somehow he had been expecting him, or rather he had been expecting something to happen.
‘May I come in?’ the spiritualist had asked, and without speaking, Keller had stepped aside to allow him.
He had closed the door and turned to face the innocuous little man who had walked to the centre of the room and now stood looking around him, not from curiosity, but with genuine interest. His eyes fell on the picture of Cathy and he studied it for a few seconds before turning towards Keller.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Mr Keller.’ His voice was soft, but steady, as steady as his gaze. ‘I tried to call you but I understand you’ve had your telephone disconnected. I had to speak to you so I got your address from the directory.’
The co-pilot was silent for a few moments more, not quite understanding his own sense of dread. He forced himself to speak. ‘What do you want?’
‘It – it’s rather difficult for me to explain, Mr Keller.’ For the first time, the man lowered his gaze. ‘May I sit down?’
Keller nodded towards the armchair. He, himself, remained standing. Hobbs settled into the armchair and looked up at him.
‘First of all, Mr Keller, I am not a crank,’ he began, ‘but you have to take my word for that. I was a practising medium up until a few years ago and, if I may say so, a very successful one. Too successful in fact; I was becoming too involved with the emotions of my sitters . . . and my spirits. It was draining me, you see, taking my strength. I was no longer acting as a true medium – a go-between. I sensed a danger of losing myself in the spirit world, of not being used just as an instrument of communication, but as an instrument for physical contact.’ He smiled apologetically at Keller, seeing the frown of disbelief on the co-pilot’s face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying to convince you I’m not a crank, and there I go rambling on about something I’m sure you have never been familiar with. Suffice to say that, for the past few years, I have consciously tried to avoid dealings with the other world; but, to a true sensitive, it’s almost impossible to close oneself off entirely, no matter how strong one’s reasons are for doing so. And I had a very strong reason for giving up my connections with the other world. Nevertheless, mediums are like radio receivers that cannot be switched off; spirits still approach me and speak through me, but I allow only friendly spirits to do so. The others . . . I try to close my mind to or, at least, try to contain within myself. It isn’t always easy.’
Despite his unease, Keller’s incredulity was now reaching its peak. ‘Look, Mr Hobbs, I don’t really know what the hell you’re talking about.’ He didn’t speak harshly, but his tone of voice implied that he believed Hobbs to be a crank. ‘I don’t know anything about spiritualism and, quite frankly, I don’t think I even believe in it. Now, over the past few weeks, I’ve been bothered by the press, the authorities, relatives of the crash victims, people howling for my blood, well-meaning but tiresome friends, clergy who want to turn me into a walking miracle, men and women with sick minds who want to know all the grisly details, and – ’ he paused, deliberately, ‘idiots with messages from the grave!’
The little man started visibly. ‘Someone else has tried to contact you with a message?’
‘Five, so far,’ said Keller, tiredly. ‘I suppose you’re going to be number six.’
Hobbs moved forward to the edge of his seat, excitement in his eyes. ‘What messages? What did they tell you? Who were these people?’
‘Two said they were Satanists, two said they were messengers of God – and the fifth claimed to be God Himself. Which one are you? Don’t tell me you’re the Devil?’
Hobbs sat back in the armchair, a look of disappointment on his face, yet heedless of Keller’s scathing words. He looked reflective for a few moments, then said quietly, ‘No, Mr Keller. I’m none of those things. I told you – I’m a spiritualist. Please be patient for five minutes, then if you still want me to, I’ll leave.’
Keller wearily slumped on to the sofa, first retrieving his bottle of whisky and a glass. Without offering anything to Hobbs, he poured himself a stiff measure. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Five minutes.’
‘Do you know what spiritualism is?’ Hobbs asked him.
‘It’s talking to ghosts, isn’t it?’
‘Bluntly put, and not quite accurate. It’s
a sensitiveness, being able to register vibrations, radiations, or frequencies that our normal senses cannot capture. A medium is an intermediary – as I said before, a sort of human radio or television set, able to tune in to another world that is invisible and inaudible to the rest of mankind; but, like the radio or television set, every medium is limited in their range of reception. However, by development of their powers, they can increase their capacity for reception, whereas machines cannot. I found that my own development was becoming too . . .’ he looked away from Keller, ‘. . . well, let’s just say, overdeveloped. Dangerously so.’ He ran a hand down his cheek, towards his chin. ‘Do you think I might have a drink?’
Keller almost grinned. A spiritualist with a drink problem? The thought made him feel strangely more tolerant towards the little man, so he said: ‘What would you like?’
‘Same as you, please.’
Keller noticed Hobbs’s eyes on the Scotch as he poured. My God, he thought, he really does have a drink problem. He handed him the glass and was only mildly surprised when half of it immediately disappeared down the little man’s throat.
‘Anything with it?’ he asked mildly.
Hobbs smiled apologetically at him again. ‘Sorry. No, it’s fine.’
Well, at least it makes him more human, the co-pilot thought as he returned to the sofa. ‘Can we get to the point now?’
‘Of course.’ Hobbs took a more moderate sip at his drink, then leant forward in his seat again. ‘As I mentioned, over the past few years I’ve consciously tried to halt any progress in my own development of these special powers, but I cannot prevent the spirits from contacting me if their will is strong enough. I have refused to be the bearer of messages, though, and I believed they had begun to accept this.’
Keller caught himself mentally. Hell, I’m beginning to believe this. He realized it was because the little man spoke so matter-of-factly, without any hint of apology or embarrassment.
‘However, two weeks ago, a new voice – or I should say, voices – began to communicate with me. They were confused, angry, and I think in great torment. There were whispers, frightened whispers, hushed voices which sounded as though, they were in a vast, dark hall, wanting to know where they were, what had happened to them. Oh, they sounded so lonely, so afraid.’
Keller felt the tension building inside him again. The atmosphere between the two men had become electric. Hobbs took another, this time longer, sip from his glass, and Keller noticed his hand was trembling sightly.
‘Gradually,’ he continued, ‘stronger voices began to assert themselves. Their world, you see, Mr Keller, is not so different from ours; in any element, the stronger personalities will always take command. But these voices were not good; they sounded – vindictive. It was the feeling I got from them: hate and deep shock.’
Keller deliberately tried to break the atmosphere, the mesmerizing link, which the medium had created between them. He stood up and walked over to the window, taking his drink with him.
‘Look, er, Mr Hobbs . . .’ he began, but the medium cut him short.
‘Listen, please. I know what you’re going to say: you don’t believe in life after death, or even if you do, you find this too far-fetched. I accept that, and when I’ve finished, I promise I’ll leave and not bother you again if that’s your wish. But I must tell you this, for my own peace of mind, because they won’t leave me alone until I do. You see, after an accident of this nature, the spirits sometimes do not realize what has happened to them; they are in a state of emotional shock. They do not know they are dead! They become what you might call ghosts, and continue to haunt this life, trying to make contact with someone on this earth to let them know they are still alive. Or they may be tied by situations or emotions; they may feel they have to achieve something here, something they’ve neglected in their lives. Or they may feel they have a reason for revenge.’
Keller swung round sharply. Those last words had hit a nerve, touched something deep inside him; they had made him afraid.
‘Sometimes, true sensitives can help them, can pacify these tortured souls, help them to pass on peacefully into the next world. We can do this by promising to clear up whatever is troubling them in this world, whatever is keeping them earthbound. Unfortunately, on this occasion, they’re still too confused for me to communicate properly.’
‘You obviously imagine they’re the souls of the dead passengers from the air crash,’ Keller said, his voice hard and unbelieving.
‘I know they are! So many terrified souls at the same time, gathered in the same place. And there’s something else, Mr Keller.’
The co-pilot felt himself stiffen. He almost knew what was coming.
‘The voices – the whispers. They’re calling for you.’
There was another long silence between the two men. Keller wanted to scoff at the medium’s words, to shrug him off as just another crank, but for some reason he couldn’t. It wasn’t only the man’s obvious sincerity; it had something to do with his own close brush with death. The experience had somehow left him more receptive. Nevertheless, the more down-to-earth side of his nature fought against it.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said.
‘I assure you it’s not,’ Hobbs replied. ‘The voices were totally confused at first, crying out for help, calling for loved ones. I saw faces – so many wretched faces – their images kept fading then coming through again, pleading, piteous. Then, over the days, they became more concerted, more controlled. They were still in a state of panic, but it seemed as if they were being guided. That was when they began calling out your name, over and over again.’
‘Why? Why should they do that?’
‘I – I don’t know, Mr Keller. As I said, they’re confused. Their message isn’t clear yet. But . . .’ he lowered his gaze again, ‘. . . many of the voices are angry.’ His eyes pierced Keller’s again. ‘Do you know someone called Rogan?’
The co-pilot froze for a second, then realized that Hobbs had probably remembered the name from the media. ‘He was the captain of the 747, as I’m sure you read in the newspapers.’
‘Ah, yes, I believe I did. I’d forgotten, although I don’t expect you to believe that.’
‘You’re right, I don’t. And now your five minutes are up. I want you to leave.’ Keller walked towards the medium, who sprung to his feet.
‘You had a fight with Captain Rogan, didn’t you?’
Keller stopped in his tracks. ‘How did you know . . .?’
‘It was something to do with his wife.’ Hobbs’s words were a statement, not a question.
And Keller had another vivid flash of memory. Rogan was shouting at him, his face close, only inches away from his own. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the anger there, the violence in those eyes. Where were they? It wasn’t in the aircraft. No, it was in one of the hangars, there was nobody else around. It was night-time, he was sure of that. Had it been that night, the night of the crash? He couldn’t be sure. There had been a brief struggle and he had pushed Rogan away from him. He could see the captain clearly, looking vehemently up at him from the floor. He had turned and walked away from the older pilot, leaving him lying there hurling abuse after him. And suddenly he knew what the fight had been over. Yes, it had had something to do with Beth Rogan, the skipper’s wife.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Hobbs’s words broke through the vision.
‘How did you know?’
‘Captain Rogan can’t forget it.’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘Yes, Mr Keller.’
The co-pilot sat wearily on the edge of the sofa. ‘How the hell could you know about that?’
‘Everything I’ve told you is true. I don’t expect you to believe it, but at least think it over. You are the key, Mr Keller. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but you hold the answer for those poor wretches and you must help them.’
Keller raised his head from his hands. ‘They want my life, don’t they?’ he asked, not
looking at the medium.
‘I – I don’t know. I can’t be sure,’ Hobbs said.
‘I can feel it. They’re incomplete. I got off scot-free, and now they want to claim me. I should have died.’
‘I don’t think that’s the answer, Mr Keller,’ Hobbs said, but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
Keller got to his feet and walked quickly to the sideboard. He picked up the picture of Cathy and asked, ‘Did you see her face among those others?’
Hobbs stared at it, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally, he said, ‘No, I don’t think so. I saw the picture when I came in, but it struck no chord with me. I don’t think she was among them.’
‘Well if what you say is true, she ought to have been. She was killed in that crash!’ Keller was angry now, disbelieving once again.
Hobbs held up a hand as if to calm him. ‘The images, Mr Keller – sometimes they’re weak, occasionally they’re strong. And there are so many of them. I just can’t tell at this stage whether she is with them or not, and it may be that she – as well as others – has passed over peacefully into the next world, leaving these unfortunates behind.’
Keller looked at Cathy’s face longingly, then replaced it on the sideboard. His mood changed and he turned disgustedly towards the medium. ‘This has gone far enough. I think you’d better go now.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ The question was blunt and uncompromising.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you afraid that in some way you were responsible for the crash? Perhaps because of your conflict with Captain Rogan, you made some error of judgement that led to the disaster. Are you afraid to find out?’
‘Get out.’ Keller’s voice was low and angry.
‘Yes, I will. But please think about it. Neither you nor they will find any peace until the answer is found. And I’m worried, Mr Keller, very worried. You see, there is something else involved with these spirits, something very strange. Something very evil. I’m afraid of what might happen unless they’re released from their torment.’
The Survivor Page 5