Time of the Demon

by Ian Taylor

"I'm getting a view of water," Heather said suddenly.

  "Is it a lake?" Greg asked quietly.

  "No. Not a lake. More like the sea. There are small boats ... drifting dinghies, I think ... and there's a headland, a very big headland. And a bay with a sandy beach."

  As Heather and Greg talked, Jan wrote key points in the notebook.

  "Is it in England?" Greg prodded.

  "In England, definitely, yes."

  "South coast?"

  "It feels like the north. Yes, definitely, the north-east."

  "What can you see?"

  "I'm looking at hotels above the beach. I'm going past them into a town ... I think it's quite a small town. It has the feel of one. I'm going down a street."

  Jan jotted more notes.

  Heather fell silent and the two waited while the silence continued. Eventually, Greg spoke. "Are you still in the town?"

  Heather's voice was strong, emphatic. "Yes. Another street. I'm having a problem with the light ... it's grown very dark and stormy."

  "Can you tell us what you see ?"

  "Small hotels. I'm looking up at one now ... and it's up several steps ... a tall narrow building."

  "Has the hotel got a name?"

  "I think it's above the entrance ... but it's not at all clear. There's very poor light. I'm trying to get closer. Ah yes, it's the Waverley Hotel."

  Jan wrote more notes as a flurry of activity began on Greg's laptop.

  "The Waverley Hotel in a town with a big headland?" he asked, glancing up from the laptop excitedly.

  "Yes. The headland's very big."

  "I think I've found it," Greg announced, sounding pleased with himself. With a quick smile, he turned off the laptop and hopped to his feet.

  Heather smiled in return and requested they sit down to tea and cake before leaving, which they graciously declined.

  "Thanks very much for all your help." Jan was genuinely impressed, marvelling at Heather's ability to allow her perception to leave her physical body and roam freely across the planet. She also felt their hostess was a little self-indulgent in spite of her remote-viewing gift, but she wasn't going to share this with Greg.

  "It's been invaluable," Greg added and passed Heather an embossed white envelope which, Jan supposed, contained her fee.

  "I'm so glad it worked out for you," Heather beamed. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Detective ...?"

  "Hemingway," Greg said with a smile, ignoring Jan's surprise. Nodding to Heather, he led the way outside.

  "Why Hemingway?" she asked as they drove out of the village.

  "It's under-cover business, isn't it? What better than to give the name of a guy who doesn't exist?"

  "He must exist somewhere."

  "Then I hope he has a sense of humour!"

  The Waverley Hotel exuded a superficial impression of old-fashioned comfort, with deep carpets, overstuffed armchairs, and discreet wall lights. “Music from the Movies” played softly in the corridors. But it was a false impression, as the furnishings and decor could lay no claim to real quality.

  Jan and Greg took seats in the barely occupied lounge. But it was November, after all, not the time of year for deckchairs and boat trips.

  He wore a beige baseball cap, pulled down low over the forehead, which cast his features

  in shadow. He sat apart from Jan, as though he didn’t know her, apparently absorbed in the pages of Exchange & Mart. The initial interview would be hers.

  Jess and Gina walked in. They stood for a moment inside the doorway, as if assessing the situation. Their hair styles and make-up appeared slightly altered; otherwise they looked the same as before, except that Jess seemed, in some hard-to-define way, to have aged a year or two.

  With a calming breath, Jan rose to greet them. Greg remained reading, his cap pulled farther down.

  "Hi again." Jan smiled as cheerfully as she could.

  "Hi. I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name." Gina appeared apologetic . "The desk guy's got a terrible accent. Who could understand a word he was saying?"

  He was Polish, the reporter in Jan had already learned. Jakub was managing the place for the hotel's aging owners to gain experience in the English provincial holiday business.

  She smiled at the girls. "Jan Barnes." She didn't believe her name was all that hard to pronounce. Jakub had called her Yann, but by the third attempt had managed the J perfectly.

  "Oh, yes," Jess said with a shrug. "The lady from the paper."

  "That's me."

  "Who's he?" Gina nodded towards Greg.

  "My camera guy," Jan said simply, offering their previously prepared reply. "We're covering a conference further up the coast."

  Her explanation appeared to satisfy them and both ignored Greg completely.

  "How did you find us?" Jess asked, eyeing her curiously.

  Jan shrugged. "I'm a journalist. It wasn't all that difficult."

  The girls sat on a long hard sofa. Jan returned to the armchair and studied them, smiling amiably. "So how come you're here?" She spoke quietly, making a show of respect for the girls' privacy.

  "We were told the inn had closed," Jess said nonchalantly.

  "Who told you that?"

  "The manager," Gina explained with a deep frown. "That bloody Graham. He paid us what we were owed, then told us we were out of a job."

  Jess elaborated. "We were out of work, so we looked on the internet and there were two positions advertised in a bar here in town. We did a Skype interview and got the job, 'cos we've had loads of experience."

  "You're not working in this hotel then?" Jan already had the answer from Jakub, the Polish manager, but she wanted to observe the girls' response.

  Gina laughed dismissively. "In this stuffy dump? We're only booked in for a week."

  "We need to find a flat," Jess added, "just as soon as we start working. This place is for oldies."

  "Why are you here?" Gina asked suspiciously. "What d'you want from us?"

  "Just to make sure you're okay. You seemed a bit upset when we spoke. Your neighbour Bernie was worried about you."

  Gina laughed. "We were just very tired. If you see old Bernie, tell him we're all right."

  Jess waved her hand, as if brushing away a bothersome insect. "It's all in the past now. Time to make a new start."

  "You haven't had any more thoughts about the light you saw in the field?" Jan asked casually, keeping her voice low. A glance at her ‘camera guy’ showed he’d fallen asleep.

  "I think we made a mistake with that," Gina stated emphatically. "It was that tricky time of day–you know, not quite night, but hardly daylight either."

  "It was probably the reflection of plane lights on the low cloud ceiling," Jess put in with a limp shrug.

  Jan pressed again. "Is that what you really think?"

  The girls exchanged an anxious glance.

  "It is," Gina said curtly. "Really."

  Jess nodded in agreement. "Really."

  Jan stood up. "Okay. Thanks for your time. I hope you enjoy your new jobs."

  Jess smiled, Jan thought, with relief. "Thanks. So do we."

  When the two had gone, Greg rose and made for the back entrance. Jan followed. When they were safely heading west in the Audi, he took off the baseball cap and tossed it onto the back seat.

  "You wrapped that up pretty fast. I expected more of a head-on challenge."

  "I couldn't see the point. I already knew it wasn't them."

  "I'd suspected that–but how did you know?"

  "They were good lookalike actresses–and probably well paid–but not quite convincing enough. I can't understand how they thought they could pull it off. They were well prepared, but it was lots of little things. For a start, they didn't quite look the same." She produced the girls' photo and held it before him. "I knew as soon as they came into the room. How, I couldn't tell you; I just did. I thought this new Jess seemed older. And they'd reversed roles. Gina had been the dominant one, whereas it was Jess this time when I spoke
with them. And that reflection of plane lights is straight from Hemingway. That was the lie he’d told me. But what clinched it was the name of the neighbour."

  "Old Bernie?"

  "The neighbour I met never told me his name."

  He chuckled. "Clever-clever. You're way better than they are!"

  "I wish! Who are they anyway?"

  "Some covert unit within the security services. Maybe one that's completely under

  the radar. I can't be more precise than that yet."

  She looked worried. "Have I made myself a target?"

  "They're obviously taking your interest in the case very seriously, or they wouldn't have bothered to set all this up. One or both of the girls probably had hidden mics and cameras. They wouldn't have seen much of me thankfully. Glad I thought of the hat."

  His laidback manner irritated her. "It might be all right for you, but what should I do? I'm the one caught in the crosshairs."

  "You could let them think they've fooled you and cool it for a while. Or you could back out now and return to your normal life. It's probably going to be your last chance."

  For a moment she was tempted, but it was merely a brief lapse of nerve. She couldn't go back to what she'd already outgrown. "I'm not leaving you to take all the credit. I'm in this for the long haul."

  He seemed relieved. "I'm delighted, if for no other reason than I won't be on my own with this. It's quite a load to carry on these male chauvinist shoulders!"

  She laughed. "Poor you. Do we keep looking for the girls?"

  "I'd like to, but I'm stuck for ideas. Any suggestions?"

  Of course. "I know someone." Someone more reliable than precious Heather she felt like saying, but kept mum. Scoring points with Greg wasn’t going to help the real Jess and Gina.

  He beamed. "I knew your local contacts would be helpful."

  She took out her mobile. "Let's hope he's at home."

  6

  Cyril let Jan and Greg into the hallway of his well-maintained suburban bungalow. An enticing aroma of cooking—herbs and meat and bread—drifted from the kitchen-diner. He waved a hand in the direction of the smell.

  "There was a time when my wife cooked just for the family. Since we retired, it seems she's baking for the entire street,” the tall, lean and slightly stooped man explained with a quick smile. “She's making traditional Cornish pasties this afternoon. As much as I enjoy her cooking, I prefer using my free time to engage in more mysterious things."

  "Traditional Cornish pasties?" Greg inhaled deeply and smiled. "Takes me back to my youth."

  Jan shot a quizzical glance, but he didn't elaborate.

  Cyril led them into a sitting room crammed with books of every size and age; they filled glass-fronted cabinets from floor to ceiling on two walls. "I'm busier now than ever," he continued genially, "catching up with all the books I didn't manage to read when I was teaching. I'm under no illusions that I'm in need of more education myself."

  He took a fold-out map of Britain from one of the cabinets. "I start wide and then narrow down," he explained. "It's the quickest way in the long run." Producing a pendulum from his pocket, he laid it on the map. "I've done a lot of this work over the years for the police and private clients." With a sharp glance at his visitors, he added, "But I haven't always been successful."

  "You found those missing Sheldon sisters after everyone else had given up," Jan put in enthusiastically. "I wrote a front-page feature on it. You insisted I called you Mr C!"

  Cyril smiled self-consciously. "Yes, I found them. But it took me quite a few attempts. I was looking in England, because that's where the police thought they were. It wasn't until I dowsed the map of the world that I realised they were in Australia. As you’ll recall, we thought we were looking for living people. But it turned out they were both dead." He turned to Greg. "Their estranged father had abducted them, you see. And he’d shot them and himself four months later in an abandoned mining town in the outback. Tragic case."

  "I'm impressed," Greg said. "That's quite a feat."

  "The trick is never to have any expectations of what you're going to find. A dowser, whether he's looking for water or missing people, must start with a blank canvas." He studied his visitors shrewdly. "It's harder to achieve than you might think. You have to reach a state of self-absence. A kind of trance, if you will. Every dowser has their particular method. I achieve the state of mind I want through auto-suggestion. Now that I have all the information I need, I'd like to be alone to prepare."

  They left him, taking the opportunity to get something to eat, Greg resisting the temptation to follow the delicious smell of Cornish pasties to the kitchen. It had become an unspoken agreement that he supplied transport and paid for the Audi's fuel while she was in charge of food breaks. Jan felt she was on the winning side, but he didn't complain.

  "You know, Cyril never charges for his work," she said as they munched their way through a large and very late all-day breakfast in a little greasy spoon she’d known all her working life. "He feels if money is his motive, he's abusing his gift. Maybe that's why he's so successful." That was a dig at Heather. Then she offered a palliative comment. "But I’ve heard of water diviners who charge by the hour, plus expenses."

  "Maybe it depends on whether you think of your gift as given by some external power, such as a god–and that it can be taken away if you abuse certain imagined rules. Of if you believe it's a talent you've developed through your own efforts."

  "I've heard of families of dowsers. Usually father to son. Like it's in the DNA."

  "Do these dowsers charge?" he asked over his coffee cup.

  "Of the two I know, one does and one doesn't. Neither, as far as I'm aware, are particularly religious."

  He laughed. "Are we any wiser after this conversation, or do the mysteries of life elude us the more we try to pin them down?"

  "You're suggesting we should live in a state of innocent wonder, like young children?"

  "Or like mystics," he countered, "open to visions."

  Cyril worked through his maps, reducing the search area until he had a large-scale Ordnance Survey map spread out in front. The photo of Jess and Gina lay at one side of the map while he quartered the area slowly with the cord of his pendulum held gently between thumb and index finger.

  Eventually, he was certain. He rang Jan's number and asked them to return to the house.

  "I think you'll find them here." He circled an area on the map in pencil. "It seems to be a large building of some kind. I've written down the grid reference so you can find it on your own map."

  Greg looked over Cyril's shoulder. "It's at least a hundred miles away. We'd best get going."

  Cyril placed a restraining hand on Greg's arm. "I've done this for you because I know Jan and I trust her judgement. I've treated it as a missing persons case without possessing any details. But I can tell you that I believe the girls are alive at the present moment. Good luck."

  They shook hands with the kindly dowser.

  Jan smiled. "Thanks, Cyril. I'll keep your name off the record, as usual."

  Jan and Greg hurried into the gathering darkness … and the unknown.

  It was after six o'clock by the time they set off down the motorway, with Greg as usual behind the wheel, and Jan studying a road map with the aid of a penlight. After driving for sixty minutes, he turned into a services area.

  "Another hour to go," he said. "I need a break to gather my wits."

  They sat in silence, drinking indifferent self-service coffee. Finally, he reached into a pocket and passed a folded sheet of paper.

  She scrutinised what seemed to be a list. "What's this?"

  "Titles of the best books on ufology. Read one or two if you can. Could help you stay sane in what often feels like a world of total madness." He grinned. "And don't take yourself too seriously. Remember, laughter's a great liberator."

  "Sounds like you're preparing me for some terrible ordeal."

  "It's more a test of personal equ
ilibrium. This stuff can throw you a bit." He pointed to the list. "That one's a collection of essays, covering most of the subject. Good one to start with."

  They finished the coffee and continued down the motorway.

  "One thing I would emphasize," he advised, "is to be sceptical. In the world of ufology, ninety-nine per cent of the entities you meet will be some kind of tricky customer who’ll mislead you and lay traps. The skill is to know the one per cent who are the good guys, the ones who can help you. But it's not always easy to tell them apart."

  She laughed. "It's not that much different from this world then, is it?"

  "Both worlds are full of takers. Our species rapes the planet and they steal from us. They take blood from our animals and samples from us. It's outrageous."

  "You're talking about animal mutilations?"

  "The examples are endless. And there's another thing. Never look at UFO entities full-face. Some of them are higher-order demons. Their power will overwhelm you. Try to keep them in the corner of your eye if you can. Otherwise, they'll drain your energy like water from a bath."

  They approached a slip road.

  "We turn off here," she said.

  They exited the motorway and headed down the slip road that led to a main A-road which, in turn, took them on to a surprisingly wide and well surfaced minor road. After a couple of miles they passed a sign that read Woodlands Hospital. Under the sign was another: NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT.

  The hospital, in the centre of a sizeable tract of mixed broadleaf woodland, was aptly named. Greg pulled the Audi a little way into the trees and they continued on foot.

  Both wore dark hooded jackets, with hoods raised to hide their features. After threading between tall oaks and beeches, they found themselves approaching a large plain-fronted building of functional glass and concrete that might have been twenty years old. The windows and wide tarmaced approaches were brightly lit. The place was separated from its arboreal surroundings by nothing more menacing than a four-foot-high wall of pale quarried sandstone.

  Reaching the edge of the trees, Jan and Greg peered cautiously through the bare branches. Above the main entrance were the words Woodlands Isolation Hospital.