Preternatural: Carter Bailey Book 1

by Matt Hilton

  Watching him flutter round the kitchen like a moth round a bug-zapper, I asked, “All talk of the supernatural aside, how do you go about explaining this ability of mine to sense evil?”

  He paused, raising a butter-loaded knife like an exclamation mark. “Do I detect a certain amount of acceptance in my wayward student?”

  Pursed lips don’t look too good on me. Apparently Broom decided otherwise.

  “At last,” he said. He layered locally churned butter and clots of jam onto a round of toast and pushed it in front of me. Despite my earlier protestation, I lifted the toast and took a hearty mouthful. The jam was sweet with an underlying bitterness. Excellent. He said, “You don’t know how happy that makes me, Carter. Kind of validates everything I’ve ever done for you.”

  “I’m still trying to get things straight in my head,” I told him. “You know that I’m not a church going man, so I have this problem accepting things like spirits and devils and stuff like that. Maybe if you can put it in layman’s terms for me, I’d be more prepared to accept it.”

  He sat down at the opposite side of the table. “That’s fine by me, Carter. Sometimes I do get a little carried away with myself. I blame the writer in me. I do get a tad verbose with everything ghoulish and macabre. But, lest you forget, as well as a fiction writer, I am also a doctor of psychology and of paranormal studies. By their very nature, I am a walking contradiction. I have offered you the horror author’s version. Now…in my parapsychologist’s role, are you ready for the scientist’s take on the subject?”

  I smiled. “As long as you don’t use too many long words.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, sighing theatrically.

  And so he began.

  “Discounting individual theories and ideas, within the mainstream field of science, there have only been three major schools of thought since the seventeenth century. Other than a couple of tweaks here and there these theories about the machinations of our world, our universe, have altered little up to the present day.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Isaac Newton, father of modern physics who gave us cause and effect; Charles Darwin and his theory of evolution; Albert Einstein and his theory on relativity. These paradigms have been set in the minds of modern man, and by sticking so rigidly to these ‘proven’ sciences, we have become disassociated from the real truth.”

  “That being?”

  “That through this indoctrination of the scientific community, we lost sight of ourselves. We came to accept that the universe, the earth we stand on, are governed by certain laws of motion with predictable conclusions. Our world is a machine, man is a survival machine whose only intention is to copulate, eat or be eaten. Don’t get me wrong; due to this thinking we have attained technological mastery of our environment, which can’t be a bad thing in itself. The problem is, we have lost sight of what we are. The essence of the human on a spiritual or metaphysical level.”

  “And now we are back to the ghosts and ghouls,” I sighed. “Already?”

  Broom slapped a palm on the table. Crumbs from my toast vibrated with Newtonian predictability. “No, damn it! We’re back to a profound understanding that religious scholars and theologians have espoused for centuries. Think on it, Carter. We are far more astounding than a simple assemblage of blood and bones. We are far more than a chain of genetic changes weeding out the weaker elements, where life is only about winning and getting to the top of the evolutionary ladder. We are more than a simple chemical reaction, for heaven’s sake!” He sat back shaking his heavy head. He sucked in a shuddering breath. Finally he swivelled side on and laid a forearm on the table. “For decades now a number of respected scientists from all over the world, experts in a variety of disciplines, have been conducting controlled and documented experiments that prove what the ancient scholars already knew; we, as humans, are not a chemical reaction but an energetic charge. Human beings, in fact all living things, are a coalescence of energy interconnected to every other thing, be it a rock, a tree, whatever. Call it a leap in quantum physics if you wish, but it was discovered that there exists an ocean of microscopic vibration between all things - the Zero Point Field. An unimaginable force of quantum energy that holds the key to life itself: cell communication, DNA, even ESP and spiritual healing, are all now thought to be powered by this energy.

  “This in itself isn’t a new school of thought. For one the Druids espoused this notion thousands of years ago. Certain Native American tribes, too. Thing is…these scientific experiments have re-discovered this truth. It flies in the face of current biology and physics, but it can’t be refuted. This energy exists.”

  “Like ‘The Force’ in Star Wars?” I offered, trying hard not to sound as if I was taking the piss.

  “If you like,” he said. “But it is more commonly referred to as The Field.

  “Have you ever paused to wonder, Carter? How does life begin? What is the spark that ignites the chemical reaction and turns a single cell into a fully formed person? How do we think? Where does our consciousness reside?” He lifted a finger. “The brain? But is not the brain powered by a series of electrical or ‘energy’ impulses? At our essence, we are energy. This energy is our soul or spirit. Energy - think of it as an electrical charge - can be changed. This has been fundamentally proven. But it can never be destroyed. Agreed?”

  “So I’ve heard.” I perked up then. Something grounded in science that I was familiar with.

  “Okay. So if we are governed by energy, that the energy is our soul, or if you prefer, our consciousness, what happens to our consciousness after we die?”

  He sat and looked at me and I looked right back. The ticking of the cooling toaster was a metronome timing our blinks.

  I never could win a staring contest.

  “Sounds really ‘New Age’ and hippy to me,” I mumbled.

  “So what? Those are only names used in derogatory terms these days. Forget about the images you have of pot-smoking-tree-huggers as layabouts and wasters for a moment. Okay, maybe their lifestyle doesn’t suit everyone, but does this mean their beliefs are wrong? This new age thinking is based upon the Druidic wisdom, after all. And in its most intrinsic form, the Druids of Celtic times were saying much the same as science has now come to accept. This field of energy surrounds everything, impregnates everything living and otherwise.”

  “So what is it that you’re saying exactly?” I asked. “That I am some sort of conduit for this energy?”

  He seesawed his hand. “Sort of. But more specifically, you are a conduit for the dark side of this energy.”

  “Uh-oh. Darth Vader territory.”

  “Scoff all you want.” He stood up, began pacing. On a roll now. “Are you familiar with homeopathy or some of the eastern medicines? Acupuncture? Acupressure?”

  “Yeah, and I see where you’re going. Holistic healing. The laying on of hands. Needles in energy meridians. That kind of stuff.”

  “Yes, in your intellectually challenged manner, that kind of stuff.” Broom sat down again with a scraping of chair legs. “In the eastern disciplines of medicine, the energy - the same energy we’ve been talking about - is seen to be the alpha and omega of our existence, a constant flow and fluctuation of good and negative energy. Too much of the negative and we get sick. Their medical practice is based upon restoring the flow of good energy, dissipating the negative, restoring our well-being.”

  “Paul Broom, the Yin-Yang Man,” I said, my thought process and mouth working co-dependently but way out of synch. Broom didn’t appear offended. In fact he looked quite pleased.

  “Yin and Yang. Exactly,” he said, a gleam in his eyes. “Most aptly demonstrated when you view practitioners of certain martial arts performing outstanding feats. Tai Chi and Aikido for example are based upon harnessing and using this energy, termed Chi or Ki respectively, to blend with and defeat the negative energy of an attacker by neutralising it and restoring the balance or the Yin-Yang.”

  I was nodding along with him now. I was not to
tally unaware of eastern martial philosophy and had myself taken a few classes in Aikido as a youth. At the time, I was unable to ‘blend’ as my Sensei continually extolled, but I did witness some amazing results performed by the black belt students and the Sensei himself. In my western mind, I thought Sensei’s almost superhuman feats were solely down to years of practice to a point his movements had become perfect and balletic, but he had explained that, no, for the art to work he had to be ‘in Ki’ with his attacker. At first I thought his reference was to being keyed up, full of vigour and enthusiasm, but I soon came to understand that he was referring to something subtler: the blending of mind, body and spirit of both attacker and defender. Like many youths I was too impatient to achieve results, and found that more often than not I was relying on my physical strength to power on a lock or throw. I of course thought I was The Man, but in reality I achieved nothing more than clumsy attempts at control, and gained a few pissed off training partners along the way. I gave up Aikido shortly afterwards and took up boxing instead. Putting my fist in someone’s face I understood. Problem was, I received more than I gave, bringing me to understand that maybe there was more to fighting than the physical game. Dejected, I gave up on the boxing, too.

  The next time I witnessed anything like ‘the blend’ my Aikido sensei spoke of was when I watched James Pender, my ex-business partner, on the tennis court. His movements appeared to almost predict where the ball would be next. His skill went beyond mere mechanical perfection and positioning. He was at one with his opponent. In Ki, I suppose. I didn’t realise it at the time, but by definition, any competition is a battle. A banging of heads, a conflict of styles, an imbalance of the Yin-Yang.

  “What you’re saying is that I’ve become some sort of Yin and the evil is the Yang? As we cannot exist without the other we are intrinsically drawn together?” I said it without the least trace of incredulity.

  Unbelievably, Broom gasped. “Bloody hell, Carter! I thought this was going to take more of an argument on my part.”

  “Didn’t say I believed it,” I said. “Just that I understand what you’re implying.”

  “Theoretically it’s a sound assumption, no?”

  “Okay, and say I accept the theory, how does this explain how both Cash and I wound up in the same body?”

  “All I can come up with is this: You recall how we determined that if energy can’t be destroyed, then something must become of the consciousness after physical death?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, all I can assume is that at point of death, just as your spirit - for want of a better term - was about to undergo whatever metaphysical transformation is ordained, it was snatched back from the brink by the intervention of the paramedics’ defibrillation of your heart. You were called back to your body, the physical receptacle of said energy. Cash died at the same instant. Maybe, due to his proximity, or by the very power of his hatred, or negativity, he leapt into the closest receptacle he could find. Perhaps because his consciousness was still active, he wanted to continue the battle and clung to your essence in order to do so.” He paused. “I once read of a Tibetan belief that the life essence of one person can be installed within the body of another by following certain rituals. It is a practice utilised where the flesh of a body is unhealthy, but the consciousness, the wisdom, of the dying person is worth salvaging until a time that the injured body can be restored. At that point the spirit is liberated and then returned to the original body.”

  “Yeah, I saw a movie about that once.” I said. “Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin in All of Me.”

  Broom gave me a jaded look that said he doubted my sanity. “Steve Martin? You mean the comedian?”

  “Yeah. It was a good movie.” I said. “Very funny.” And it also reflected much more of my own possession by Cash than I hated to admit.

  “Steve Martin?” Broom said again, almost a whisper, like he couldn’t believe a comedian could have hit on something all Broom’s much-vaunted scientists had striven to prove for decades.

  “Thing is,” I went on, before his mind had a total collapse, “in the movie, Steve Martin had control of only one half of his body, whilst Lily Tomlin had control of the other. Why isn’t that the case with me and Cash?”

  Broom waved the notion aside. “Comic license, I suppose. Probably set up a few funny walks and urinal jokes, no?”

  “You’ve seen the movie, then?”

  “Ha! I wouldn’t give it the benefit of my attention.” He plucked at the front of his wool sweater like he’d suddenly noticed an annoying itch. “There is nothing mentioned in the Tibetan practice that the second spirit has any influence over the first’s physical actions.”

  “Unless said second spirit happens to be the Dali Lama,” I pointed out, informing Broom that I wasn’t totally ignorant about the subject of transference. “Doesn’t he supposedly have full control of the new body he inhabits?”

  Broom shook his head. “In the Buddhist faith, Lama is the title for those people who are believed to be the reincarnations of a bodhisattva or god. It is different than in your case. The bodhisattva inhabits the body of an unborn foetus at point of inception, at the spark that initiates life. This foetus does not have a singular spirit of its own. In effect the bodhisattva, or lama, is an avatar, a god made in flesh.”

  I shrugged. I reached for a few spilled crumbs on the tabletop and began pushing them around in random patterns. I had no recollection of finishing off the toast Broom had placed before me. But just because I could no longer see the toast, or in fact taste its lingering flavour in my mouth, it didn’t mean that the toast didn’t exist in my stomach. Crap metaphor for Cash’s energy installed wherever it was my conscious-self resided. Call me Carter Bailey: Existential thinker for the New Age.

  Broom said, “It has to be down to the relative balance of each of your energies. Because you were the original inhabitant of your body, when you returned, it was as a full balance of good and negative energy. Your field was restored so to speak. But with Cash, his negative energy won out. But as an incomplete essence, he has been weakened to a point that your energy holds him in check.”

  “When I go inside myself,” I said, “I imagine scenarios, just as you said I should. I see Cash chained or locked behind bars. Is this really necessary? If he is weakened and I’m in full control…can he harm me?”

  “Not physically, Carter. At least, I don’t believe so. Whilst it is an untested scenario, best we err on the side of caution and leave things as they are. You must beware; his negative essence is at full strength. He could hurt you at a spiritual level if you allow him to do so. Keep the chains in place; they are your talismans against him. They ensure that you remain separate and distinct individuals. I’d hate to see the outcome if ever he found a way to tap into your negative energy. The imbalance then would be exponential. I don’t know what you would become.”

  “Darth Vader territory all over again,” I said. But this time I wasn’t being sarcastic.

  FIFTEEN

  Trowhaem, Connor’s Island

  The overnight rain had made the archeological dig a quagmire. It would be hours before further excavation could commence, hours of shifting collapsed dirt and pumping out a few feet of accumulated water. The sputter and cough of generator-fed pumps were already in evidence, but the university archeological team was fighting a losing battle. There was too much seepage from the surrounding cliffs overwhelming the site for the pumps to contend with.

  Harry Bishop, ever the enthusiast had formed a human chain of bucket wielders, but his extortions of faster! faster! went unheard by his grumbling charges. Slogging in knee deep, viscous soup wasn’t conducive to either speed or enthusiasm.

  Janet watched Bishop from the vantage of the cliffs above. He moved amongst the other archaeologists like a dreadlocked, bearded, stripey-pullovered titan. Spattered with mud and bellowing ill-received praise he did not portray the image of the professor of anthropological study he was. He was more like one of the Vikings
of lore whose bones they now strove to excavate. All that was required was to replace his shovel with a sturdy battle-axe, his bucket with a shield, and he could be Odin come to Earth. Ironically, Bishop was blind in one eye, though he had lost his sight due to a cancerous tumour rather than pledging it in return for a knowledge giving drink at the Well of Mimir as had the Norse god.

  Bishop was lead archaeologist on this dig, so it was important that he be seen to marshal his troops into activity. Results were expected of him by his financial backers as well as by the university directors back in Edinburgh. If anyone could motivate the team to action, Bishop was the man for to the task. And, rally them he would. The students working under him would give their eyeteeth for Harry Bishop. Not only was he their professor, their teacher, he was also their inspiration. Students flocked to him, and he was willing to give them back the same level of attention they lavished on him. They loved him, and he loved them right back. Especially the young doe-eyed girls who sought out extra-tuition after hours. Bishop was a good man in all respects…except that of a faithful husband.

  Bishop was laughing, flicking mud speckles at Kiera McCann. Flirty Kiera, giggling way beyond the joke, allowed herself to fall up against Bishop’s chest, her fingers lingering too long on his biceps than modest propriety allows. Janet shook her head and turned away.

  She fingered her wedding ring. Bishop - in certain respects - reminded her of her own husband, Jonathon Connery. Watching Bishop worm his way into Kiera’s pants wasn’t something she cared to do. Brought back too many bad memories. Like the time she’d come home at the mercy of a virulent twenty-four hour bug, looking for hugs and sympathy from Jonathon, only to find him in bed with some slut from his office. The smarmy bastard had actually laid the blame for his infidelity on the amount of time she spent away from home! It was all her fault for not showing him the attention he required. Was it his fault that he had to look elsewhere to assuage his basic human needs? Those had been his actual words: ‘assuage his basic human needs’.