Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  “When are you seeing him again?”

  “Tomorrow at three.”

  “Can I make out a list of questions tonight, and let you have them in the morning at the hospital?”

  “OK.”

  “Just one more question. Have you any idea as to who might have hypnotized him before, and why they would have done it?”

  Ansell raised his eyebrows. “Have you any ideas yourself?”

  “Half an idea.”

  “Can I hear it?”

  “The likely person could be someone in the army. But I don’t see how they would do it. Or why.”

  Ansell nodded. “I won’t add to that.” He stood up. “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m staying with friends. I’ve got a car outside. Can I see you about four tomorrow?”

  “Make it six and I’ll have finished my clinic.”

  Boyd hesitated. “Would it be possible to have your session taped?”

  “They’re all taped anyway. But I wouldn’t be keen to let you hear them. Not at this stage anyway.”

  “We could talk about that, maybe?”

  Ansell smiled. “Maybe.”

  Ansell glanced at Boyd’s typed list of questions and went over the last two again.

  “Tell me again, George, what Ames looked like.”

  “Quite tall … nearly six foot … well-built, strong … red face and light brown eyes … black hair smarmed down … a Brylcreem type … spots on the back of his hands … pug nose and he’d always got a five o’clock shadow … a smooth bastard.”

  “Did you ever see him apart from this one place?”

  Ansell suddenly noticed the sweat on Walker’s face. An instant response to his last question. And Walker was panting. There was something odd about this reaction. Why should he be so disturbed?

  “Was he an officer at your depot?”

  Walker shook his head slowly. “No more. No more to say.”

  Ansell took a risk he knew he shouldn’t take and he said softly, “It’s not only Dickens, is it? There’s the other one. What do they say to Dickens to find the other man?” And as he saw Walker’s body stiffen as if he were having a fit Ansell said quickly, “That’s fine … you’re coming back … four, five … nice and easy … six, seven … your eyes are opening … eight, nine … ten … good … good.”

  As Walker struggled to sit up he shook his head, smiling. “You don’t like the Kennedys, do you?”

  Ansell held his breath and then quietly exhaled. “What makes you think that, George?”

  “Think what?”

  “That I don’t like the Kennedys.”

  Walker frowned and Ansell saw his pupils contracting. “I don’t know what you mean, doc. Are we finished?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “OK. But my neck feels kind of stiff.”

  “Move it gently, from left to right and then up and down.”

  He watched Walker moving his head, his right hand massaging his neck muscles.

  “Is that better?”

  “A bit.”

  “Could you come again tomorrow?”

  “I’m playing football tomorrow. It’s Saturday tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. How about Monday after work?”

  “OK. But I’m feeling much better. You’re doing me good, doc.”

  “I’m glad. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Ansell sat for a long time at his desk before he looked at his watch. It was ten to six. The man Boyd would be pleased, but for himself he felt ashamed. For a second or two he had been on the wrong side. Maybe it had done no harm. Only time would tell. And if it had, no one would be any the wiser. Only he himself, and the man who might start having a brand new nightmare.

  When his phone rang it was the reception office to say that his visitor had arrived. He asked for one of the porters to bring him over.

  He waved Boyd to the chair on the other side of his desk.

  “I’ve got a problem, Mr. Boyd. I’m not sure I can co-operate with you any more.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “If I get satisfactory answers to a couple of questions I’ll tell you why I might have to withdraw.”

  Boyd shrugged. “Ask away then.”

  “I don’t know which order to put them in so I’ll ask them both together. Who the hell are you? And why are you interested now when you weren’t when I originally reported it?”

  “I’m an intelligence officer, Dr. Ansell.”

  “That can mean anything or nothing. It’s not an answer.”

  “It’s all I can tell you, doctor, so let me answer the other question. You sent a report which made its slow progress through the usual channels to my section of the intelligence services. We think you were right to do so. You’re obviously concerned as to what has been happening to this man. Whether he’s hallucinating, or malingering, or is genuinely disturbed. It would help you, and maybe him too, to know the truth. I’ve been ordered to find out the truth. If I can. I need all the help you can give me.”

  “Have you got any kind of identity card I could see?”

  Boyd fished in his pocket and pulled out the identity card that was used for the general public. Ansell looked at it carefully and handed it back. For a few moments he looked down at his empty desk top and then he lifted his head and looked across at Boyd.

  “I hope I’m not making a terrible mistake, Mr. Boyd.” And he turned in his chair, reached out and switched on the Technics tape-recorder. It was almost twenty minutes later when he turned to switch it off.

  “It’s not much help to you, Mr. Boyd, but maybe what I’m going to tell you can help. That man has not only been hypnotized before, but he’s been hypnotized many, many times, by a professional. He has no realization that he’s been hypnotized.” He paused. “And what is more he has been hypnotized at two levels. The second, deeper level showed up briefly in that session. And he’s also … and it’s significant … been given a post-hypnotic block. Do you understand what that is?”

  “No.”

  “It means that nobody except the original hypnotist can get into the second level. He has been hypnotized to forget that he’s been hypnotized. No normal psychiatrist would have any need to do that. It’s highly dangerous. It also explains why the poor fellow never got any of the decent jobs he applied for. He has been hypnotized to forget a whole year of his life in the army, so when he has to fill in an application form covering what he had been doing in that twelve months he can’t do it. Literally can’t do it. This man has been grossly abused. And abused by a highly competent psychiatrist.”

  “Have you any idea as to why this should be done?”

  “There’s the obvious suggestion that he was hypnotized by someone during his army service.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “God knows. Maybe you could hazard a guess better than I can.”

  “Is there any way for you to get to the second level of hypnosis?”

  “Only by luck. Skill can’t do it. The key to that level will be some code-word. Without that it’s locked in his brain.”

  “What about a pentathol injection?”

  “It would make no difference. He doesn’t even know that he was hypnotized at all. I doubt if he would believe it if I told him.”

  “How can you find the code-word?”

  “He gave a clue.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said, ‘You don’t like the Kennedys,’ or words to that effect. He was fully conscious when he said that. When I asked him what he meant he didn’t know what I was talking about. It had already gone. I suspect that the code-word is in that sentence or is something to do with it.”

  “You’d be guessing?”

  “Exactly. So is it worth it? Wouldn’t it be better to let sleeping dogs lie?”

  “From my point of view it has to be done.”

  “Even if it could end by doing this man even more damage than has been done already?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “Don’t underestimate even his present condition. He is a deeply disturbed man. There’s little I can do for him now that I know about the second level. I could just be opening Pandora’s box.”

  “My answer still has to be—go ahead and try.”

  “That means you feel you have a very good reason to want to pursue this?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “I wouldn’t be prepared to discuss it. I wouldn’t be allowed to anyway.”

  “It seems to me that we both suspect the same scenario.”

  “I’m sure we do.”

  “If what we both suspect is true, would this man be able to claim some disability pension?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wouldn’t be able to prove anything.”

  “You mean your evidence would be withheld?”

  “It wouldn’t exist. It would be highly classified.”

  “What makes you think it’s that important?”

  “My training and my experience,” Boyd said softly.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I couldn’t discuss what would happen if you refuse. We should have to make other arrangements.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  Boyd didn’t reply.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want enough information to find out who hypnotized him and why.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Boyd?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any children?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “To see how much of a stake you’ve got in humanity.”

  “What about you?”

  Ansell smiled. “No wife. No children. But a soft spot for the wounded. Especially the mentally wounded.”

  Boyd said softly, “Maybe Walker isn’t the only one with this problem.”

  “I’ve already thought of that. Let me take you for a drink in our bar and it will give me time to think.”

  “OK.”

  They had their drinks, and as they walked back to Ansell’s consulting room he said, “It’s going to take a lot of sessions you know, and the odds are against me being successful.”

  “Somebody’s going to have to try to do it. I’d rather it was you.”

  “Why?”

  “You care about him, so he’s as protected as he can be, and I think you understand my problems too.”

  “Would you like to come in tomorrow and you can hear all the tapes?”

  “I would.” Boyd sighed. “Would you be prepared to sign the Official Secrets Act if it were considered necessary by my people in London?”

  “Under no circumstances. I’m a doctor not a civil servant. They take it as it is or they can forget the whole thing.”

  Boyd smiled. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  17

  Stephen Randall had always hated his name being abbreviated to Steve but, as his agent had pointed out, Randall alone took up a lot of space on the posters outside theatres. Put in Stephen as well and all the other acts and their agents would raise hell. He had never been top of the bill but he was always second principal, the last act before the interval.

  For years he had done the magic act. Doves, rabbits, cards, and disappearing girl assistants in coffins and sedan chairs, but he had gradually realized that he couldn’t compete any longer. There were the world’s top magicians on TV. Men whose equipment cost thousands of pounds. New tricks, new hardware and a slicker style. Steve Randall hated the need for change. For one thing it meant he would no longer have the pretty girl assistants. They earned good money but all they had to do was clear away the ribbons and livestock and lie in the coffin, so they took it for granted that part of their duties was to spend an hour or two each day in their boss’s bed. Most show-girls were subject to what the trade refers to as “management privileges” and Steve Randall was both good-looking and charming. They all liked him, and several had quite genuinely fallen in love with him. He gave them a good time and was easy-going, and it was all too easy to end up having to open your legs for some skinflint comedian who was all smiles on stage and a foul-mouthed lout when the lights went out.

  Steve Randall’s main problem was what to do as an alternative, and it was his agent who suggested a mind-reading act. But not an old-fashioned act. Something slick and modern and involving the audience. Randall had protested that he knew nothing about mind-reading and his agent sent him to a man in Pimlico who could teach him.

  The old man taught him the basics of stage hypnotism and memorizing and how to assess quickly people who would be easy subjects, and then he taught him the memory act of names and numbers and all the rest of it. His agent hired a professional script-writer to put together an act and Steve Randall’s name was back on the posters. The memory part was absolutely genuine, so was the hypnotism, but it was elementary and superficial. Show-biz rather than serious hypnotism. But it was a good act. Good enough to get him twice on TV.

  Stephen Randall met Debbie Shaw when he was looking for a girl to join him in his act and he had gone to her agency. But although she was aware that the charm was natural and genuine she was experienced enough to surmise that “management privileges” were going to be the assistant’s principal contribution. She told him so, tactfully but firmly; and, smiling, he hadn’t denied it. She also advised him not to have an assistant, not even a man. It could look like collusion and rob his act of its authenticity. He recognized the shrewd mind behind the pretty face and invited her out to dinner that night. And to his surprise, and hers, she accepted.

  He took her to the Savoy after she had watched his performance at The Talk of the Town and she enjoyed the meal and was amused by the man. It had been a long time since anyone had made her laugh. She invited him back to her flat for coffee and made quite clear that the only thing beyond the coffee would be a whisky or a brandy, and he would have to be very good to get either.

  He had been very good and she realized that he had probably never needed to persuade very hard to get the girls into his bed. And as they were sipping their whiskies she made the point.

  “You shouldn’t need to take advantage of your pretty girl assistants, Steve. Just a few words and your charm should be enough.”

  He smiled. “You don’t understand, sweetie. If they’re in the act the taxman pays. All of it. Clothes, flowers, meals—the lot.”

  She laughed for long minutes as she realized that behind that elegant debonair façade there was a sort of innocent shrewdness that she found tolerable and amusing. And, as if to prove their mutual points, she let him stay the night.

  Of the several men she went out with the only one she really cared for was Steve Randall. The others were intelligent and amusing but she was well aware that what they really wanted was her lithe young body. She let them make love to her from time to time but Steve Randall was the only man she let stay the night.

  He seldom bought her presents or flowers as the others did regularly. But he gave her something that she valued far more. A feeling of security and being cared for. He remembered things that she told him. Little things. Her likes and dislikes, and her modest pleasures. When the others took her out for the day it was to well-known out-of-town hotels and restaurants. The Compleat Angler at Marlow, Skindles at Maidenhead. But Randall took her to the Zoo and the museums. Children’s places. But children’s places that had not been part of her grim childhood. He was twelve years older than she, and in some ways he seemed older still, but when she was happy they seemed much the same age. When they made love he was as avid for her body as the others, and no more exciting or arousing than the others, but somehow the sex was more in perspective. It mattered, it was enjoyed, but it wasn’t the crown jewels of their relationship. After almost a year she came to realize where the difference lay. Stephen Randall was the only real friend she had ever had. Man or woman. They took each other for granted. Not in a negative way. It was t
heir mutual liking and reliability that they took for granted. Nothing had to be excused or explained. Sometimes, after he had left, she thought about him and wished that she had had a brother like him, or a father.

  He had taken her that particular day to see My Fair Lady at the local cinema. They ate after the show and went back to her flat. It was a Saturday and he was staying with her for the weekend. She went to her bedroom to change and came back in his bath-robe. A well-worn white towelling bath-robe that hung on her like a shroud, and she smiled as she sat down beside him. He poured them both a whisky and reached forward to switch on the TV.

  On the screen a man and a woman were walking slowly together across a ramshackle courtyard. Randall leaned forward, turned up the sound and leaned back.

  “I came here to find my husband. The one who was reported killed,” the woman said.

  “Strelnikov. I met him.”

  “Met him.” She looked disbelieving.

  “Yes.”

  The woman looked away from the man and they walked slowly forward together. And then came the gentle loving music. Strings and balalaikas, and “Lara’s Theme” from Zhivago. He watched as they sat on a bench under a tree, and leaves scattered before the wind across the pathway. He reached out to find Debbie’s hand, still looking at the screen. His hand touched her leg, and he felt its coldness before he turned to look at her.

  She was trembling as if she had an ague, her mouth gasping for breath, her eyes wide with fear.

  “What is it, Debbie? What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let me call a doctor.”

  And then she screamed. “No. No. No.”

  And the scream seemed to release the tension. She bowed her head, her hands to her face, his arm around her. Then slowly she lifted her head and said, “Switch it off. Please.”

  “Switch what off?”

  “The TV.”

  He leaned forward and switched off the set and moved back beside her on the settee. He took her hand, holding it gently in both of his. For a long time he just sat there, holding her hand without speaking, until she eventually turned her face to look at him. “I’m sorry, Steve. I was stupid.”

  “Tell me. What was the matter?”