Under a Watchful Eye(86)
‘We’re delighted to have you with us,’ Joyce said to Seb, while vigorously nodding her head, coming close enough for him to smell the damp and the sweat clinging to her old clothes. ‘Your presence here is just perfect. Nothing could make us happier. Though I hope you brought something to eat. I’m afraid we can’t possibly cater for you. We no longer have that facility at the Tor. But one day we’d like to open our doors again, and wider than ever before.’
24
Thousands of Invisible Cords
‘If you have company tonight, I’d advise against using your torch. Some of our alumni are better formed than others. Or so we find. Most of the time they remain still, though, and quiet. They wait in the darkness. They wait for the light.’
Seb closed his eyes to let that information settle. It seemed easier to endure with his eyes shut. At Joyce’s mention of ‘company’ Seb’s scalp had been ready to rise from his skull. And within the frantic din of his thoughts he knew that these minutes alone with Joyce were crucial. Within this brief window before she left him alone, because that is what she planned to do, he must learn as much as he could about his current plight. ‘For years. They’ve been here for years, haven’t they?’
‘They have no way of knowing how long they have waited for ascent. There is no time over there. What may feel like a few minutes might amount to decades, or even longer. But we all wait for ascent, do we not, in different ways? And all change inside the passage. The longer one remains, the more one transforms in readiness for the higher spheres. And transcendence is all that he has ever sought. Do you know your way? You’ve been up here, with Mark, haven’t you?’
He no longer found Joyce as sinister when apart from Veronica. Unkempt, clearly unwashed if he ever stood too close to her, and a woman stricken with bad nerves, but she was as sad and as desperate a figure as he had ever encountered in his life. Alive maybe, but as trapped as those other things, and somehow bound to serve the mad schemes of a long-dead sociopath. Hazzard had been right: Seb recalled something he’d read in the second collection about there being first deaths and second deaths, but neither being conclusive. These women were guided by whatever lingered here. And what he would not doubt was their capacity to end his life, and then to maroon him here in the darkness, forever. The idea brought into his mind an image of thin limbs struggling through the black waters of a misted culvert.
Wendy had also mentioned a discussion that would take place the following morning, about ‘terms’, so they would not want him to die tonight. Nor had the return of the files been their primary concern. He could only assume from their disingenuous spiel, that the purpose of his stay at the Tor was to remove the last of his resistance to what they had planned for his future. A fate that had been set in motion after Ewan had unwittingly seconded him as some kind of ghost-writer for M. L. Hazzard.
Seb looked at the ceiling. What choice did he have? ‘Are there others like you . . . in the SPR? Others still alive?’
‘SPR! I haven’t heard us called that in a long time. But only Veronica and I have residential appointments now. We keep things going.’ Joyce giggled again, near-coquettishly, though Seb failed to detect anything amorous or humorous in their exchange. ‘But we’ve members all over the world. Not so many these days, alas, but our work continues.’
‘You live in this building?’
Joyce continued to lead him deeper into the main corridor of the first-floor passage. ‘Oh no, the Tor is solely for the use of the alumni. Their work is far from finished.’
‘Finished? It’s an empty building, falling apart.’
Joyce smiled at Seb, over her shoulder, the lined face and watery eyes alive with a cherished delusion. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s seen better days in this sphere, but better days will come again, with your help. The earthbound and celestial will mingle again. Have no doubt.’
When she stopped walking, Joyce spread her arms within Seb’s torchlight, as if she were offering him access to palatial accommodation of a five-star hotel. ‘Take your pick. Bit dusty, but I’m sure you can make yourself comfortable.’
‘I’m not sleeping here. I’m not staying here, Joyce.’
‘Oh, but you must.’ Shocked, she threw her hands to her cheeks. The woman was half-crazed. Veronica threatened him and this one coerced him with her instability. A double-act of lunacy.
Joyce then peered at the locked white door before the stairwell that led to the top storey, and with an expression of fearful expectation that made the lining of Seb’s stomach prickle. She’d deliberately drawn his attention to that door.
‘Who are you? You and Veronica?’
‘I’m not permitted to go into that.’
‘You cannot just terrorize and force a person to do something against their will.’
‘Oh, but it’s not like that. If you only open your mind and your heart, you’ll see—’
‘I’ll see horror and pain and confusion. I’ve seen enough of it already. There is nothing healthy or sane about this place. And there never was. It’s wrong. It’s very wrong. And you bloody know it. Hazzard was a criminal. A fraud. His entire enterprise was based upon deception and extortion. And it’s over. Long over. Surely you can see that? No good has ever come of what he started, for anyone, least of all for him. He got lucky with something. Something extraordinary but terrible. Something ghastly that should never have been attempted. You cannot possibly expect that anyone sane would want anything to do with it. There is no light. There is no ascent. Not any more, Joyce. What little I know has made me sure of that. And the two of you are maintaining a madman’s final scam. So what is the point of carrying on? You are wasting your lives.’