Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  At Eyestorm he had slammed rides far more gruesome in the traditional sense of the word. He had even been inside the mind of a killer and a rapist. But those rides, disturbing though they were, did not measure up to the peculiar horror he had experienced during his ride through Robert Whittington’s thoughts. It had felt as though the structure of his mind was disintegrating a strand at a time, as though the grooves of his nervous system were melting together like overheated wires before the final spectacular blow-out.

  Therefore, when he felt himself easing into the ride once more, losing contact with his immediate environment—his apartment, the balcony, the red-striped deckchair on which he was sitting, Minnaloushe’s mask smiling on the other side of the glass door—his conscious mind hesitated for one split second. At this point of the ride he would still be able to clamp down on the impulse.

  But then he let go, sliding into Robert Whittington’s mind as easily, as effortlessly, as walking through an open door. A door made of dark heavy timber, the sigil of the Monas mounted on the outside…

  • • •

  He was retracing his steps: walking through the library with its mildewed books, the hall with the butterflies, the endless rooms with their enigmatic occupants and mysterious objects.

  The monk was still there, still sandpapering his eyes. The clocks were still ticking with restless asynchronicity. The fantail doves still died in a bloodied frenzy. The order of places, the order of things. The ride was a carbon copy of the first one. Identical. He was walking through the house of a million doors, opening and closing the doors with great discipline. And above and behind him the crow, gliding on silent wings.

  Staircases, corridors, dizzying perspectives. He started to navigate a narrow suspension bridge, placing one foot gingerly in front of the other. He remembered this vertiginous walk from the previous ride as well. On the other side of the bridge was the hall in which he had first encountered the masked woman. He wondered if she was there already, waiting for him…

  He traversed the bridge carefully, felt it sway. Careful, he told himself. Keep your balance—

  And then it happened.

  The bridge underneath his feet fell away soundlessly. Black space rushed up to meet him.

  Even as adrenaline flooded his body, his mind registered with absolute clarity that he was no longer inside the house of a million doors. He did not know where he was, except that he was somewhere outside: free-floating like an eye in the sky.

  The transition was totally unexpected. The ride had changed completely. The entire feel of it was different. It took him no more than a second to register why.

  He was no longer looking through Robert Whittington’s eyes.

  He had entered a different mind.

  Even as his own mind registered this fact with surprise, he was already experiencing his environment through the template of another consciousness.

  Where was he? Whose eyes had become his own?

  He was obviously close to the river: he could smell its dankness. Lights floating on the embankment. Tower Bridge. A giant pair of neon glasses flickering on and off, the neon a sputtering green against the black sky.

  He was looking down on a figure sitting in a deckchair on a balcony. The deckchair had red stripes. The balcony was in shadow but there was light spilling through the sliding glass door. On the wall inside hung a wooden mask.

  The figure in the deckchair had the boneless look of someone asleep but his eyes were open. On his lap was a book, the breeze riffling the pages. The book seemed old, the pages having a yellowy, parchment-like look to them. He was curious to know what the book was about. If he moved in closer, he might be able to read the type on the page.

  Closer he came, ever closer to the figure in the chair. And now he was looking directly into the face of the man in front of him. He was staring deeply, searchingly, into his own wide-open eyes.

  He screamed. The scream unravelled shrilly inside his head: wave upon wave of terrified echoes. With an almost physical jolt, he closed his inner eye, terminating the ride. Cutting the link between virtual and physical reality was painful; it felt as though his head was tearing to pieces. He shuddered with nausea.

  Leaning forward, he gripped his knees, willing the sickness away.

  OK. Calm down. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment. The ride is finished. You’re safe. Now get a grip. You’re safe. But his skin was clammy and cold with sweat. He was spooked out of his skull. He shuddered again.

  What had happened? One moment he was still slamming the ride, looking through the eyes of the boy. The next moment the perspective had shifted and all of a sudden he was looking through a different pair of eyes. Whose?

  What was more, the ride had jumped from past to immediate present. Robert Whittington was dead. During the first part of the ride, he had relived an experience that had already taken place in the past. The person whose eyes he had appropriated towards the end of the ride was very much alive. And what shocked him was the fact that the new pair of eyes had been focused on him: Gabriel Blackstone. Someone was trying to spy on him. The shock of the realisation made his blood run cold.

  With whose mind had he interfaced?

  But he knew the answer to that question, didn’t he? No mistaking the arrogance, the cold calculation, the all-consuming curiosity. He had sensed those qualities once before, when he was drowning in a pool, looking into the eyes of a woman with murder in her heart.

  So how had he ended up inside her mind tonight?

  Only one answer to that particular question.

  And it scared the crap out of him.

  Bloody hell, he thought. Bloody hell.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Frankie was looking harassed. An open suitcase was on the bed in front of her and the bed was covered with clothes. Blouses, jackets, underwear. She kept glancing at the clock on the bedside table. When Gabriel called her at the crack of dawn, she had at first told him that she wouldn’t be able to see him.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m running late,’ she said, sounding frazzled. ‘Why can’t you just tell me on the phone?’

  ‘No, I’d like to discuss it with you face-to-face. Damn it, Frankie. I slammed another ride last night. Aren’t you at least curious?’

  ‘Of course I am. But I’m meeting William in Switzerland and I still have to pack…’ He heard her sigh. ‘OK. Why don’t you come over now? But Gabriel, keep in mind I have to be at the airport by ten.’

  ‘Where are you flying from? Heathrow?’

  ‘Stansted. Private plane,’ she explained briefly.

  Private plane. Of course. He wondered what it must be like to travel the world in your own private jet.

  ‘So get them to hold it for you. I thought that was one of the perks.’

  ‘I can’t. I have to be in Berne at noon. The thing is…’ He could hear cautious excitement in her voice. ‘The reason I’m going is because William is seeing this specialist at a medical clinic who might be able to help. Apparently, the man is a genius. He’s going to suggest a new course of treatment. I want to be there for the consultation and I can’t be late. So get here fast, all right?’

  He had arrived at her Holland Park house—all white-and-cream stucco pillars and black lace fencing—in record time, but he was beginning to think he shouldn’t have bothered. It was impossible to get her to concentrate on what he was saying. They kept being interrupted by phone calls and the sour-faced butler, who was clearly unhappy about a strange man joining the lady of the house in her bedroom. Especially, Gabriel supposed, as the lady wasn’t dressed yet and was wearing only a nightgown. A very becoming nightgown, it had to be said. Blue had always been Frankie’s colour.

  ‘Hand me that belt over there, will you?’ She pointed at a tan belt with an intricately shaped buckle. ‘Thanks. Damn it, what did I do with my loafers? I had them right here. Do you remember? I had them in my hand just a moment ago, didn’t I?’

  He sighed. ‘Frankie, I need you to focus. Just listen, OK?�
��

  ‘I’ve been listening.’ She opened the drawer in her dressing table and started gathering up lipsticks, powder brushes, toiletries. The dressing table’s mirrors were enormous, reflecting the opulent splendour of the room more than adequately. It was a far cry from the dusty little apartment they had shared in Oxford, he thought.

  Frankie picked up an eyebrow pencil and dropped it into her toiletry bag. ‘I have been listening,’ she repeated. ‘You’re saying that last night you managed to jump from Robbie’s thoughts to his killer’s. That’s great. That’s progress. What’s the problem? You’ve managed to switch from victim to perpetrator before. Remember the Rushkoff case?’

  Of course he remembered the Rushkoff case. It had been one of his earliest successes at Eyestorm. He had managed to scan not only the thoughts of Oliver Rushkoff—a wealthy stockbroker—but also the mind of his kidnapper. For days he had been frustrated in his search. All he got from Rushkoff when he scanned him was darkness and a feeling of claustrophobia: the man had been blindfolded throughout his captivity, which meant there were no visual clues for Gabriel to access. But he had managed to make the jump from Rushkoff’s thoughts to his kidnapper’s and that had cracked the case wide open.

  ‘Frankie, you don’t understand. It’s not that I switched perspectives.’

  She shook her head with annoyance, the shiny hair bobbing. ‘But you just said—’

  ‘No. Stop. Listen.’

  Something in his voice got through to her. She stopped sorting through her make-up, then turned to face him.

  ‘OK. I’m listening.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? It wasn’t merely a case of switching perspectives. I was not the one scanning the killer. The killer was the one scanning me.’

  She made a startled movement with her hand. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘I tell you that’s what happened.’

  ‘You’re saying Robbie’s killer is a remote viewer.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘One of those women can slam a ride.’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a long, long moment it was quiet between them. He saw in her face the shock he had felt the night before.

  ‘Why was she scanning you?’

  ‘Well, that is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?’

  Frankie sat down heavily on the dressing-table stool. ‘She must know you’ve been trying to find out what happened to Robbie.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but somehow I don’t think so. She probably doesn’t know that she accessed me while I was in the process of slamming a ride myself. When she started to scan me, I dropped out of Robbie’s psi space immediately. She was never in that house with me. No, I don’t think her scanning me has anything to do with the boy. I’m the one she’s interested in. I don’t know how to explain this to you without sounding incredibly conceited, but both those women find me fascinating.’

  Frankie lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know. But you should have seen the way Minnaloushe zoomed in on me when I met her at the drawing class. And Morrighan invited me back to the house again. As a matter of fact, I’m having dinner there tomorrow evening. The sisters aim to get to know me better, I tell you. Much better. Don’t ask me why.’

  Frankie smiled suddenly. ‘Well, you’re pretty cute.’

  ‘Not that cute.’

  ‘I agree. And quite frankly, those sisters can have any guy they want.’ She frowned, and ran her fingers through her short hair, making it stand up like a halo round her face. It made her look like a bewildered pixie and it was a mannerism he remembered well. When they were still together, he would always reach over and smooth her hair back into order. But it probably wouldn’t go down well if he tried it now.

  Frankie was still looking shocked. ‘I can’t get over the fact that one of them is an RV. What are the chances?’

  ‘I know. It’s bloody surreal.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘You know what this means. She probably now realises that you’re an RV as well. Just the fact that you managed to block her scan would have told her that.’

  ‘I know. But remember, she thinks she’s incognito. She’ll simply assume I sensed a scan and blocked it instinctively.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, you don’t know who it was. Minnaloushe or Morrighan.’

  ‘Well, at least I know it was one of them. What I did sense was curiosity. And… arrogance.’

  ‘Meeting of minds, then.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s face it: you’re not the most modest guy on the block. You always assumed that no one could beat you at the game. You were Mr Super Remote Viewer, who considered himself too good to be part of the team. I don’t know if you were even aware of it, but some of the other people at Eyestorm did not take kindly to that kind of swaggering.’

  ‘Then I’m sure they were cheered considerably when I crashed and burned.’

  The silence between them this time was tense.

  Frankie made a dismissive gesture. ‘All right, let’s not go there. It serves no purpose.’ Her eye fell on the ormolu clock once more. ‘Oh, damn. I need to shower and get out of here. I’m sorry.’

  He stood up. ‘How long are you going to be away for?’

  ‘Four days. William and I are going on to Paris after his appointment. Business. I could come home but I don’t want to leave him right now. You’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But keep in touch, you hear? You have my mobile number. Let me know what happens at that dinner tomorrow night.’

  ‘I will.’

  She turned to walk away but he placed his hand on her arm, holding her back. ‘Have you told your husband that I’ve decided to try to solve Robbie’s disappearance after all?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not? That’s what he wanted.’

  ‘I know. But I didn’t want to tell him you’ve agreed to investigate until I was sure you were committed. No use getting his hopes up just to disappoint him again. You weren’t that keen at first and I was worried that after a bit you might decide to walk away from it all.’

  ‘You think I’m that unreliable?’ Gabriel couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  She sighed. ‘I’ll tell him today.’

  ‘Good. You do that.’

  ‘And you? What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m off to see Isidore. I think the key to what happened to the boy might be locked up inside those two computers in their house. Remember the two password-protected files I told you about?’

  She nodded. ‘The diary and The Promethean Key.’

  ‘Right. We need to find out what’s inside them. The fact that they’re the only protected files I found must be significant. Isidore has been writing a virus to get into their system. We’ll set it loose today.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  She smiled but it was such a sad smile, he felt it tug at his heart. What must it be like to live with someone who is dying, he wondered. Not to be able to plan for a future. Frankie was handling it with grace. But then, he wouldn’t have expected anything else.

  She spoke wearily. ‘Even if this new doctor comes through, it won’t mean William will be cured. He’ll just have more time.’

  ‘More time is good.’ He placed his arm round her. ‘Hang in there, Frankie.’

  For a moment she relaxed against him. The feeling of her head against his shoulder was startlingly familiar. He used to hold her exactly like this. They had always been a good fit. She was so much shorter than he that her head only came up to his chin.

  His arm tightened round her waist, and for just a second he thought he could feel her respond, pressing closer against him.

  She stepped back abruptly. ‘Thanks. I’m OK.’

  ‘Frankie…’

  ‘You have to go now.’ Her face was rigid. A pulse was beat
ing visibly in the hollow of her throat.

  He felt suddenly depressed. What the hell was he thinking? Was he actually trying to hit on the wife of a dying man? Very classy, Blackstone. But he couldn’t help it. She had felt so warm and soft in his arm. And over the past few days he had caught himself thinking about her far more than he wanted to. He had even found himself doodling on a piece of paper, not really concentrating, but when he finally focused on the page he discovered he had covered it with hearts and arrows and intertwined initials. Pathetic.

  ‘Gabriel…’

  He looked at her warily. But her next words surprised him.

  ‘Be careful. Please promise me you’ll be careful.’

  She was worried about him? He grinned, suddenly immensely cheered. ‘I’ll be fine. Remember I’m Mr Super Remote Viewer.’

  ‘Don’t get too complacent. And please don’t get seduced by the sisters. They’re dangerous. Be on your guard. Promise?’

  He blew her a kiss. ‘Promise.’

  • • •

  Isidore was watching an old episode of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation when Gabriel turned up at his house.

  ‘Man, that Catherine Willows is hot.’ Isidore bobbed his head at the television set. ‘I love a strong, sexy, mature woman.’

  ‘I’m sure strong, sexy, mature women everywhere are rejoicing.’

  Isidore threw up his hands in mock dismay. ‘Oh no—we’re feeling frisky today.’

  ‘Not to worry. I’ll be back to my dour self in no time.’ Gabriel looked around him. Several empty Chinese food cartons had joined the anarchy of Isidore’s desk since his last visit, the greasy little boxes stained red and orange. A dog-eared copy of Philip K. Dick’s slim volume Tractates Cryptica Scriptura served as a coaster for a mug half-filled with cold black coffee and a stale swirl of yellow cream. How Isidore managed to function in an environment like this defied understanding.

  He looked at the man himself, who was still staring at the TV screen with an infatuated expression. ‘I hope you’ve been doing more than watching reruns. I’m not paying you to wallow in sexual fantasies. I need to get into those computers at Monk House. Pronto.’