The Psychonaut_Book 1

by Tom G. H. Adams

  She laughed with her eyes as well as her mouth. Merrick shrugged and opened his hands.

  “Humour—the easy way out,” she said, perching her elbow on the table and propping her chin on it. “But really—I want to know.”

  Merrick looked down. “What would you say if I told you I like being dominated?”

  “I’d say bullshit. You’re what I’d call an extremist.”

  “Ooh, I’m intrigued. Tell me more about myself.”

  She took his hand and opened the palm, rubbing the centre with her thumb. A wave of desire broke on the shore of his libido. “Your emotions run hot and cold. Gentle? sure. But also ruthless.” She spoke almost as if in a trance. “You enjoy your own company and have a touch of mystery about you—this is deliberate.” Her eyes gazed up at him again through long eyelashes. “You’ve been with many women. A serial monogamist. None of these relationships have lasted for long. There is something in your sexual appetite that frightens women. Not violence—something they see in your eyes.”

  Merrick gulped. “Fuck me, you’re not forward at all are you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, I’d like to fuck you.”

  He lost interest in the coffee in an instant and pushed it to one side. “I live about a quarter of a mile up the road. Can you last that long?”

  “No,” she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him towards the ladies restroom.

  They burst through the door into a small cubicle and he reached to secure the bolt.

  “No,” she said. “Leave it unlocked.”

  Merrick, light-headed, brought his hand up to her face and touched her nose. She lifted her face to him.

  “You like?”

  “I … like very much.”

  She covered his mouth with hers, then playfully bit his lower lip. Feeling his arousal, her legs parted and she allowed him to press into her. He found his hands cupping her breasts, savouring the feel of their softness. Gasping, she curled her tongue into his ear.

  “Ah no,” he said with mock surprise. “Not my ear. You hold me in the palm of your hand.”

  “Actually, you’re holding me in yours.”

  He looked down and saw that her blouse was open. The trinket from the shop was caught in her left cup. He reached it out and put it around her neck.

  “That’s better. Now it definitely looks like it’s yours.”

  “All property is theft.”

  “Oh, now you’re going all Marxist on me.”

  “It was Proudhon, actually. But tell me, are you going to lecture me on politics or fuck me?”

  He lifted her skirt. “And here was me thinking I was the fuckee.”

  Lotus laughed aloud.

  “We’re making a lot of noise,” he said.

  “I don’t care.” She pulled down her tights as he fought his way out of his trousers. Grabbing him, she guided him into her as he hoisted her up against the wall. She looked into his eyes and he saw the fear there, like so many times before with other girls. But this time it evaporated and she said, “Take me under, I’m not afraid.”

  ~~~

  “You know, Charlie may never have me back again,” said Merrick.

  They stood, eating ice cream while watching a couple of street performers. Silver paint encased one man, clothes and all. He stood, apparently in thin air, leaning on a spade, hovering in argent nonchalance. The other, a woman, sat cross-legged, levitating in golden splendour. The crowd took pictures, threw them coins and whooped with delight when their faces creased into mock surprise or contempt.

  “I’m filled with remorse,” she said, a slow smile building on her face. “However can I live with myself if you’re denied your daily dose of civet shit?”

  He leaned over to kiss her.

  “You taste of strawberry,” she said.

  “You’re not allergic are you?”

  “Yeah, it brings me out in hives.”

  His eyebrows contorted. “That’s odd, because I’m allergic to bees.”

  “Funny man,” she said.

  They wound their way through Covent Garden, not caring where they were heading or how long it was taking. She was a runaway kite, borne up on the wind, and all he could do was chase her.

  An art gallery caught her attention and she stopped to read the sandwich board outside.

  “Ah, it’s Lapin. He told me he was exhibiting here soon. Let’s go in, I love his work,” she said.

  Merrick’s phone buzzed. He wanted to ignore it, but pulled it out and checked the caller id. It was Mike.

  “You go in, I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, pointing to the phone.

  “Yep?” he said.

  “Hi Merrick. Just returning your call.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got this situation.”

  He gave Mike an overview, including his apprehensions about who might be behind the unusual communication he’d received.

  “Well I can do a bit of digging around. But if you ask me it’s one of your mates pulling your leg. Now Pete would be my prime suspect, he—”

  “Mike. Sorry to cut you off but I need to get going.” He looked through the gallery window at Lotus. “Do the research and get back to me as soon as you can, okay?”

  Mike paused at the other end, then said “Sure thing good buddy, you’re paying the wages. I’ll get back to you in about an hour.”

  He found Lotus inside, talking to a spindly youth who seemed to speak more with his hands than his mouth.

  “They’re marvellous, Lapin,” she said, bouncing up and down on her toes like a schoolgirl. “You didn’t tell me you’d been working so hard.”

  “This isn’t work,” said Lapin. “It’s pure joy.”

  Merrick approached and stood to the side of them. They were in full flow and didn’t notice him until, after a minute, Lotus caught him in the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said. Then, turning to Lapin: “This is my ... friend, Merrick.”

  Lapin nodded and smiled.

  “Pleased to meet you, Merrick. Are you an art lover? You must be. Lotus only consorts with people of taste.” His words rose and fell with a disarming cadence.

  “I don’t have a great knowledge of art,” Merrick said, shaking the man’s hand. “People say I’m a bit of a Philistine.”

  Lapin held Merrick’s arm with his other hand.

  “Then let me introduce you to my work. Art is expression. It either resonates or it doesn’t. Tell me, Merrick, what do you see in this?” He opened both hands in the direction of a piece fashioned out of wrought iron. It festooned out of an alcove, ferrous curled wires descending from an anguished sexless face.

  Merrick glanced at Lotus who stood with her head on one side, arms folded. He stepped forward to take a closer look and ran his hand lightly over the sculpture.

  The artist’s touch is self-evident. There are mixed emotions invested in the work.

  “He or she seems to be pouring out their heart in volumes,” he said after a moment or two. “But the tears are too copious. They come easily, like a sluice gate, well oiled and utilitarian. Some might call them crocodile tears.”

  “Amazing,” said Lapin. “In fact I’ve named it Cry me a heartless torrent.

  “Drawing on personal experience, Lapin?” said Lotus.

  “Alas, yes. A previous partner of mine was unconscionable to an extreme. Always trying to get what he wanted by manipulating my emotions.” Sadness tinged Lapin’s eyes as he stared at the figure. “Still, the experience has provided me with a wealth of material for future projects.”

  “Poor Lapin,” Lotus said. She stepped forward and embraced him. “You expose yourself too much.”

  “You must look at the other exhibits,” Lapin said, turning back to Merrick. “You have a deep empathy and I think you’ll enjoy them. Don’t worry though, unlike this one, many lift the soul rather than plunge it into the
depths of despair.”

  They spent the next half hour walking round the gallery together. She, readily sharing her interpretations; he, more restrained, rationing his opinions as morsels. They had known each other for less than three hours and there was danger in closeness. But, he couldn’t deny she was fascinating—like deep water. He hoped their acquaintance lasted long enough for him to plumb her depths.

  The walk finished too soon. Lotus told him she had things to attend to at home.

  “So, the big question,” he said. “When will I get to see you again?”

  She looked sideways and said “When would you like?”

  “I’m free tomorrow night. Have you any plans?”

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  “That’s decided then. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven. Where is your place by the way?”

  She sent him the address from her mobile, which he added to his contacts under the close friends category.

  She reached up on tip toes to kiss him. “Until tomorrow then.”

  “Just make sure the cops don’t track you down before I arrive.”

  He watched her jaunt along the pavement until she was out of sight.

  ~~~

  “My rival grows bold,” said the Master. “He thinks I will draw back like a shrew, scuttling into my burrow as if overawed by the magnitude of his audacity.”

  “A man can over-reach himsel, especially if he underestimates the strength of his opponent,” said Sarlic.

  “We know this to be true. He has enjoyed many successes. Some of them, admittedly, have been a result of careful strategy. But he’s had the luck of the devil on more than one occasion, and has misinterpreted these as mastery of the politics peculiar to this order.

  Sarlic looked at himself in the gothic-framed mirror on the wall. “So how do you interpret the wooing of Segnal? This is quite a surprise, No?”

  The Master narrowed his eyes. “I saw it as an unlikely event. The Hermetics are an insipid group with little to offer. I fail to see the attraction.”

  “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

  “That is why I’m asking you to press your friend in the Order for information.”

  “That could be ... difficult.”

  “How so?”

  “He thinks the other adepts are growing suspicious of him.”

  “Do they know of the connection with us?”

  “If they do, they haven’t made any moves to excommunicate him.”

  The Master’s lips pursed. “That may not be a good thing. They could be feeding him false information.”

  “No, I think he is simply prone to paranoia. I will meet him tomorrow night and see if he has any more details.”

  “Make it tonight. Events are converging and we may need to act. I trust you can be your usual persuasive self?”

  Sarlic’s nostrils flared as he smiled. “I don’t know whether I delight more in physical suffering or the mental anguish I instill in my gulls.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be inventive as ever,” the Master said, lifting the younger man’s chin and looking into his eyes. “I only wish I could be there to witness your charms. As it is, I have a ritual to attend to.”

  “Is the Great Work nearing completion?”

  “You should know better than to ask.”

  Sarlic’s face fell. He pulled away from the Master, and walked briskly out.

  The Master decided to ignore Sarlic’s petulance.

  He is but a child. I have no time for such trivialities. He will mature in time.

  He opened a tome, stiff leaves of parchment revealing illuminated lettering. It was no good. The lore it contained lacked crucial passages and there was no longer any alternative in his mind. He would take the risk and acquire what he needed—even if it meant a little collateral damage.

  ~~~

  Chapter 6

  Master of the moon

  Merrick pulled his Mercedes Landaulet up at the wrought iron gates of the mansion. Winding his window down, he pressed the intercom button and waited for a response.

  Mike had phoned him back yesterday, as promised, with little information. The address in the text was a stately home owned by a certain Lazlo Karapetian—businessman and philanthropist. Estimated wealth was unknown but he owned several properties, in England and abroad. There was no known criminal record, but many donations to worthy causes.

  Mike was curious how Karapetian could make money from nothing and then give most of it away.

  Merrick had considered his options carefully. While it was unsettling that Karapetian seemed to know Merrick’s every move, he didn’t present any clear danger.

  He decided to go ahead with the meet, confident that Mike knew his whereabouts.

  Merrick’s buddy had also shared one final piece of information with him. Karapetian was high up in an occult group called The Syncretic Order Of The Hierophant. Apart from having one or two whacky beliefs, the order hadn’t been connected with any criminality or other shady practices.

  Except that he somehow seems to have access to my personal diary and contact information.

  “I’ll challenge him about it,” he’d told Mike. “If nothing else, I want to make it clear to him I won’t tolerate invasion of privacy. He’s not the only one with resources at his disposal.”

  The crackle of the intercom brought him back to the present. “Good morning Mr Whyte. Mr Karapetian has been expecting you. After you’ve passed through the gates, park in front of the main door and someone will meet you there.”

  The gravel crunched under his wheels as he proceeded up a long drive. It terminated in a circle with a fountain at its centre. A young man with designer stubble greeted him at the door of the imposing building, and led him through the atrium into a cavernous hallway.

  “Quite a place your boss has here,” Merrick said to the aide while looking up at the sculptured ceiling. The white cornices were overlaid with gold filigree. Merrick could almost smell the opulence.

  “House Paraganet has been handed down through successive Grand-Magi of our order. Mr Karapetian had this main hall refurbished by one of Johann Neuma’s descendents.”

  A bald giant of a man came down the stairs. His girth almost matched his height. “A trifle Baroque, I know,” the man said, but I like the ambience.” He extended a velvet-gloved hand to Merrick.

  A bit pretentious, Merrick thought. But each to his own.

  “Lazlo Karapetian,” the man said, making eye contact with a steely glare.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  Merrick felt nothing from the handshake beyond the expected tactile sensation.

  What is he trying to hide?

  “Most agreeable, Mr Karapetian.”

  “That will be all, Amherst,” his host said to the aide. “Please step this way, Mr Whyte. Or may I call you Merrick?”

  “First names are always more friendly, Lazlo. I take it this is to be a friendly meeting?”

  “That is my wish.” Karapetian had an accent he found difficult to place, Middle-Eastern perhaps.

  He ushered Merrick into a capacious study. The odour of old books and rotten wood filled his nostrils.

  As if reading his thoughts, Karapetian said: “Forgive the fusty atmosphere. This is an ancient room and dry rot is a perpetual problem. Do have a seat.”

  Merrick sat himself down in an armchair and crossed one leg over the other.

  Karapetian pulled on the door of a walnut drinks cabinet. “Can I offer you some refreshment? I have a rather fine Rémy Martin here.”

  ”Don’t mind if I do.”

  Karapetian poured out two balloons of brandy from a crystal decanter and placed one on a small table next to Merrick. “So, you’re a connoisseur of armagnac as well as classic cars?”

  “Connoisseur is pushing it a bit,” Merrick said, swirling the caramel-coloured liquid in the balloon. “I know a lot more about cars than I do about d
rink.”

  Karapetian leaned back on the edge of a large roll-top desk. “You seem to know a lot about all sorts of things.”

  “And you seem to know all about me, Lazlo. You have an interesting way of making someone’s acquaintance. Of course, some might call it trolling.”

  Karapetian’s moisturised face creased with a smile. “The social media generation has such a vulgar way of describing behaviour. You must forgive my unorthodox way of setting up our meeting. I wanted to get your attention.”

  “Well, you did that,” Merrick said. The brandy released its burnt wine vapours at the back of his throat as his words danced a bolero with Karapetian’s. “I don’t wish to appear rude, but how the fuck did you get my address? And how did you learn the outcome of a covert business meeting which only a select few were privy to?”

  Karapetian locked eyes with him. “I’ve aroused your curiosity. My communication accomplished something then, but I suppose some sort of explanation is in order.” He got up and walked into the centre of the room. “You see, I am a man of resources—and resourcefulness. Indeed, our Order has significant assets. Some are material, while others are intangible. We also value our human resources. There probably isn’t a major corporation worldwide that doesn’t have one or more of our members on their boards.”

  “So, let me guess who your mole is. I don’t believe it was one of the Harris-Billinger executive. I’d done extensive research on each of their backgrounds.”

  “Go on,” Karapetian said, rocking on his heels. “I’d like to see how your powers of deduction work.”

  “So, it’s Garento then? Unlikely to be the head honcho, or even his head of finance. They were so riled after the meeting, the last thing on their minds would have been contacting you. No, it had to be one of the other associates.”

  Merrick remembered how Farrago’s aide had used his mobile when the party left the room. He had dismissed the action at the time—some people were always attached to their devices—but he now recalled a breeze of discomfort sweeping over his mind when he had observed the aide speaking on the phone.