‘And I’m so glad you brought Ashley,’ she continued. ‘I came to see if you’d care to come for a ride? We could go along the coast towards El Saad. There’s a lovely little oasis where we could have a picnic lunch.’
I could see Ashley was longing to go, but she glanced at me before she replied.
‘Do go,’ I said. ‘I’ll be sitting over a hot typewriter all day and I’d feel guilty at neglecting you if you stayed here.’
‘In that case …’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Jo, standing up and dipping her fingers into a bowl of water and floating petals proffered by the maid. ‘Jonathan, have a good day. I’ll look forward to seeing you at the palace tonight. Meanwhile, I hope the words come well.’ She turned to the maid and said, ‘Fi aman Illah.’
I watched the two girls walk to the horses and felt a sense of approval as Ashley swung into the saddle as easily as Jo; then they cantered off, their laughter borne back to me by the salty breeze.
The hot empty day stretched ahead of me like a colonnade in an abandoned city, and to counteract the sense of loneliness created by the sight of the dwindling riders I hurried to begin work. A few minutes later my body may have been sweltering on the littoral of the Red Sea but my mind was back at Whispering Corner.
*
I found what I hoped would be the coolest place in the bungalow, a small room with a large window which looked out over the sea and should catch the cool breeze which came off it to replace the heated airs rising above the land. On a table in front of the window I placed my Olympia, with a folder containing what I had written so far on its left. In my fancy I saw the folder as the past, the typewriter being the present while the packet of virgin paper on its right represented the future.
So on with the future! I thought. At least I’ve got some first-hand material to use in Whispering Corner now.
I glanced over the last few pages I had written and deleted the beginning of a manifestation episode. Lorna and Falco would experience exactly what Ashley and I had experienced, and all I had to do was write it the way it was.
I began to type quickly and enjoyed one of those rare moments of exhilaration when the words seem to tumble over each other in their hurry to be put down. There was no question of writer’s block or any of the doubts about my work which had beset me; now I was in command, and I was Falco as he went down the stairs …
And even as I described the re-run of the murder my mind was racing ahead to what would be the climax of the chapter — the terrible figure composed of bed clothes crouched over Lorna. That would be one of my best scenes.
The typewriter clattered steadily. I never wrote as fluently or as fast as I did that day by the Red Sea, even though the breeze took on the breath of a furnace at noon when the palms stood in puddles of shadow cast by the merciless sun blazing directly overhead.
Of course I did much more than merely recreate my experience; I sought to describe it in words that would arrest the reader’s attention, make him or her feel that like Falco they were on the brink of something unspeakable. And I knew that I was succeeding. That was the joy of it as the shadows lengthened again and the breeze lost its heat, and when the red disc of the sun finally balanced on the rim of the sea I typed the last word and slumped back in my chair.
If anyone deserved a drink it was I, and I was just about to go in search of the duty-free when I saw Ashley cantering along the shore. I went out on the terrace to welcome her and when she saw me she finished her ride with a spectacular gallop.
‘Jo has lent Houri to me for the duration,’ she said breathlessly as she slid from the saddle and handed the reins to the watchman. ‘We’ve had a super day. I’m sure I’m going to get my tan back. We must hurry now and get ready. The royal Rolls will be calling for us at sundown. What sort of a day have you had?’
‘Productive and hot,’ I said as we went inside.
‘Isn’t the heat wonderful! I’m starting to feel my old self again after the accident. How many pages?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Aren’t you good? You see, you needed the change of scene. Now let’s get dressed for the banquet. If we hurry we might have time for a drink to steady our nerves.
15
I never thought I’d write the words ‘It was a scene from the Arabian Nights’, but in this case the cliche is a perfect description of the entertainment provided for us by King Syed. After the Rolls had glided into the palace courtyard a court official ushered us through a maze of passages and halls to the banqueting chamber. Here one wall was composed of arched casements, some screened by delicate fretwork of carved marble, which were open to allow the breeze to enter from the dark sea. The other walls were covered with azure leather embossed with geometric designs in silver leaf.
A small fountain splashed musically into a sunken basin in which swam golden carp, and antique lamps of chased silver burning scented oil cast a soft rose light over the low tables on which delicacies were already piled. The rugs scattered so profusely over the floor would have been worth a fortune in a London oriental carpet dealer’s emporium.
Syed, having abandoned the casual military uniform he often wore for a white silken robe worked with gold thread, came forward to greet us, Jo following the regulation step behind. Like her husband, she was in traditional dress and wore a transparent veil over the lower part of her face. Behind the couple loomed a tall Arab with a drawn sword, the traditional defender of the kings of Abu Sabbah, and besides the symbolic scimitar he had an Uzi machine gun hanging from a shoulder strap.
The king welcomed us with his usual warmth and charm and began a round of introductions, mostly to Abu Sabbah dignitaries but also to a couple of laconic American geologists engaged on a vain hunt for oil, and a worried-looking Danish architect who was responsible for designing Syed’s college. Apart from Ashley and the queen there were no other women present.
As we were the guests of honour we took our place on the cushions at the king’s right hand.
‘Do not be afraid that you will find a sheep’s eyeball staring at you from the couscous,’ Syed told us. ‘My late brother took his chef from the Tour d’Argent and he remained to cook for me. And I trust you will agree that this Chateau Mouton Rothschild has survived its journey.’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol,’ said Ashley.
‘Most of the men here will drink only tea or sherbet,’ said Syed. ‘Some of the younger ones will put a tiny amount of salt in their wine.’
Ashley looked puzzled.
‘Technically it turns the wine into vinegar.’
‘But you can’t fool God with a pinch of salt,’ Ashley protested.
‘Exactly,’ said the king and he smiled enigmatically.
After the excellent meal — a mixture of French and Arabic cuisine, Syed said, ‘And now we shall be entertained by my rawi. A rawi is a traditional court storyteller, and it is a tradition that I like to keep going. My rawi Zahir Khaled could be described as my poet laureate. He is an expert on Islamic literature, which he will teach in my college.’
An elderly man with a white beard, wearing a robe of Damascus silk and a blue turban, entered. After bowing to Syed and Jo, and then the assembled company, he began to recite a story. In perfect English — I was told later that he had a Cambridge degree — he related how the high-born wife of a merchant drugged her husband every night in order to visit the necropolis outside Bagdad where she made love with a fearsome ghoul which dwelt among the tombs …
‘I thought this would be your cup of tea,’ Syed whispered. ‘When Zahir has concluded I would be honoured if you would regale us with one of your tales. This is not a royal command but a request from one of your fans — you know how much I have enjoyed your horror stories.’
‘It is I who will be honoured,’ I replied.
Listening to the delightful rising and falling cadences of Zahir’s voice I had little doubt as to how I would compare with him. The guests hung on his words as he invoked
the horrors of the ghoul’s lair in a ruined mausoleum, the colourful life in old Bagdad and the splendours of the Caliph’s palace. I became fascinated by the man. Here was true story-telling, in the tradition of the Greek poets who recited over their lyres and the skalds of Iceland who wove their word pictures in smoky Viking halls. Finally he resolved the story with the ghoul held for eternity by the Seal of Solomon in an underground vault, the wicked wife forced to live as a beggar in the refuse mounds without the city and the young merchant being restored to health and fortune.
After Zahir had modestly acknowledged the compliments of the guests, Syed turned to me with a smile.
‘We have heard an old Arabian horror story,’ he said. ‘Tonight we have with us the master of the modern variety. Please,’ he added to me with a gesture to indicate the floor was mine.
I decided to risk entertaining the company by extemporizing in its traditional genre. I felt nervous, but I was buoyed by a new-found enthusiasm for story-telling. Stepping into the centre of the floor, I bowed to the king and the guests and then, holding up my right hand in the traditional gesture for attention, I began, ‘In the name of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.’
The guests looked at me with curiosity and old Zahir smiled in acknowledgement. Dropping my hand, I continued, ‘Know, O King, that it was the custom of your illustrious ancestor Haroun Al-Rashid, the Caliph of Bagdad, to put aside his princely raiment in favour of the garb of a private citizen and — with his faithful wazxr Jaafar — to wander in the streets of his city to observe the welfare of his subjects and to enjoy what adventures might befall him …’
*
It was my own cry that wrenched me from my nightmare. My heart was beating alarmingly fast and the sheet which covered me was soaking with my sweat. Still in the grip of terror I gazed about me in incomprehension at the room decorated by parallel strips of moonlight admitted by the Venetian blinds, and for several long seconds I wondered where the hell I was.
‘Darling!’ Ashley sat bolt upright beside me, her breasts and stomach caught in the bands of light.
‘Bad dream,’ I muttered, still half in its grip, still descending those hellish steps. ‘It’s something that’s recurred from time to time. Sometimes I’ve gone for several years without experiencing it.’
‘Well tell me — what happens?’
‘In the dream I’m going down a flight of steps … knowing there’s something at the bottom.’ Childlike, I felt a great desire to bury my face in the pillow and cry and cry until all the badness was gone.
She put her arms round me and rocked me. ‘Tell me. Get it out of your system.’
‘There was something that happened when I was a boy,’ I said. ‘It was to do with the death of my mother. I was eight or nine at the time. It made a big impression.’ Ashley said nothing, just sat like a tiger-striped statue beside me in the bed. Her silence encouraged me to continue, to speak the unspeakable, to confess what I had confessed only once before, to my wife in the early days of our marriage.
‘I was an only child, and my mother was quite a few years younger than my father. They were in great contrast to each other,’ I said. ‘I never felt as close to my father as I did to my mother. Her I could love without restraint. She was as extroverted as he was introverted. Perhaps it was because she was a staunch Roman Catholic. She did not need to question her universe. She took me to mass, and I became an altar boy. How I loved it. I believed everything. I believed I had a guardian angel — in fact I used to talk to him. Life was wonderful at that point. I adored my mother in return for her unstinted love. I loved the attention my father gave me and I felt secure in the arms of Jesus. Then it all went wrong.’
‘Your mother died?’
‘Yes. One night she fell from the top storey window on to the stone steps in front of French windows. Rather like those at Whispering Corner, actually. There was even a stone urn on each side of them. Anyway, something woke me up. I can’t remember what it was, a cry perhaps, or the thud of her body. Something told me I had to go downstairs, and down I went in the dark … and that’s all I can remember. I gather the child psychologist who saw me later said that seeing my mother’s broken body on the steps was so traumatic that I refused to acknowledge those few minutes of my life. I understand that I was found trying to put her shoe back on her foot. That’s the obvious background to the nightmare … going downstairs knowing that the ultimate horror awaits me there but not aware, in the dream, of its nature.’
‘You mean, you don’t expect to find your mother lying there?’
‘No. You see, I have no conscious memory of that. Everything around that time remains pretty vague, in fact, though the funeral does stand out in my memory. It was so hard to believe that my mother — my pretty, singing mother — was in that box in the church where I had been an altar boy. That day the incense made me feel sick and the faces of the saints seemed to mock …
‘The conscious effect of the … tragedy … was that I realized the futility of my faith. Where was my guardian angel on that night? Where was my mother’s? How could gentle Jesu allow this dreadful, dreadful thing to happen? I knew the whole religious thing was a con. From then on I have had no metaphysical belief. Life is a product of patterns of electrons. I believe that we are nothing more than a dance of atoms with the ability to recognize our existence, and fool ourselves that there is something more to it than that.’
‘Jon, is that why you were so adamant there was nothing in the paranormal?’
‘Of course. Superstition is the other side of the religious coin. It is belief in forces that cannot be explained. To me the supernatural, both religious and occult, was a compact between the conning and the conned.’
‘Now I understand what upset you so much over the haunting. It wasn’t the manifestations so much as what they meant.’
‘Yes,’ I said wearily. ‘The séance was my road to Damascus. Of course I’d been deluding myself almost from my first days at Whispering Corner. I should have recognized that there was something odd going on when I began hearing those voices in my head, but they were too easy to dismiss at the time as natural hypnagogsis. But there were other things. I heard breathing beside me one morning though there was no one there. And I had a frightening experience in the cellar.’
‘And the books,’ said Ashley. ‘Remember how they were strewn on the floor? And we thought it was Hoddy,’
‘I’m still not sure about Hoddy,’ I said.
‘So when did you admit to yourself that there were ghosts in the house?’
‘When I went downstairs and found the house had changed — that I was in the Whispering Corner of Sir Richard Elphick’s time.’
Ashley said nothing for a minute, then asked, ‘How did your mother come to fall that night?’
‘I was told that she was leaning out of the window, trying to rescue Mia, our cat, who had got herself in difficulties on the ledge, and that she must have leaned too far and lost her balance.’
‘What a horribly stupid accident.’
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ I said. ‘At that moment, for some reason I have never been able to discover, she had no wish to live.’
16
I must admit that I had probably been more disturbed by the events at Whispering Corner — and even more by the fact that such events were possible — than I cared to acknowledge. But I pushed on with my novel, and though I felt a certain repugnance I capitalized on my own recent experiences.
In contrast to the glare outside the house my workplace was full of shade, and the scene of shore and shimmering sea through the window was like a bright television picture in an unlit room. When I started work in the morning such a brilliant view made it difficult to focus my inward eye on vistas of gentle Dorset landscape, but once I began typing I ignored the harsh light and almost forgot the heat. Falco and Lorna returned from the wings of my imagination and with them came the menace that threatened Whispering Corner. The séance scene was a natural one to bring into my
story, but although an exploding glass is dramatic enough in real life I felt that the printed page needed something more powerful to cause a sense of shock. And I believed I had the answer to that.
When I described Falco going down the stairs and finding the house changed it was like a re-run of my own experience, and then with a sort of sick excitement I wrote how he saw the figure on the bed attacking Lorna.
The girl lay asleep, unaware of the lint-white figure bending over her, of the thin bandage arms reaching for her.
Without a thought as to what it was, Falco lunged across the room and flung himself on the intruder. For a moment he — or whatever it was — turned his head and Falco heard his own cry of terror as he saw that the shadowed face was his. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing his reflection with every trace of colour bled off, or seeing his own effigy fashioned from linen.
Under Falco’s onslaught the figure collapsed. He was left grasping a tangle of white bedding no longer animated by the mimicking spirit of evil.
Any revulsion I felt in recalling the incident was changed to enthusiasm by this extra twist. An elemental force that took on the shapes of those it was persecuting — nice! I thought. It opened up storyline possibilities as well as introducing an extra dimension of horror.
I decided that what I had just written deserved more thoughtful writing, and I set to work on it.
By the middle of the afternoon I had typed over a couple of thousand words, and suddenly I was exhausted. I went through into the bedroom, darkened it as much as possible by tilting the slats of the blind, and threw myself on the bed like every other sensible inhabitant of Abu Sabbah.
*
‘Sorry, darling. I tried not to disturb you.’
I opened my eyes at the sound of Ashley’s voice. Wearing only white briefs, which emphasised the new tan she was acquiring from her sunbathing sessions with Jo, she lay beside me.
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