Thirteen

‘We’ve got to do it now.’

‘Mark, do you have any idea what time it is? It’s three o’clock in the morning. Now listen, I want you to . . .’

‘You gave me your private number. You said I could ring you any time. We’ve got to do it now, Dr Aynsley! I can’t take any more of this.’

‘I’m not sufficiently prepared, Mark. For the kind of hypnosis I have in mind we need special supervision, special equipment.’

‘Screw all that and screw what time in the morning it is! We’ve got to do it now or I’m going to lose my mind.’

‘All right, all right. Calm down, Mark . . .’

‘I’m coming over to your place. Now!’

‘Not here, Mark. Listen, can you get to the clinic or do you want me to pick you up?’

‘I can get there.’

‘All right . . . take it easy . . . I’ll meet you at the main entrance. I have my own central key but, to be honest, I can’t see how this is going . . .’

‘Now, Dr Aynsley.’

Click.

Aynsley turned from the couch where Mark lay to check on the tape recorder he had taken from the top drawer of his bureau and placed on a small table beside them. It was less than two minutes since he had turned on the machine and Mark now lay in a deep hypnotic state. He had obviously been deeply distressed when he had telephoned earlier this morning. So distressed that the doctor had feared that Mark’s anxiety about schizophrenia might have been realised after all. Incredibly, Mark had succumbed easily to hypnosis. It was almost as if he had willed himself into this state. Aynsley had met with varying degrees of success when it came to hypnotherapy sessions and some of his subjects were extremely receptive; but Mark had been induced into a hypnotic state almost immediately. There had been none of the violent reactions which had accompanied Aynsley’s attempts to hypnotise him in the past.

The tape was still running. ‘The subject is now in a receptive state,’ said Aynsley quietly, resolving to end the trance the moment that Mark showed any signs of distress. ‘Mark? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’ Mark’s voice sounded slurred and far away, his breathing heavy and regular.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes. Dr Aynsley.’

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to listen to my voice very carefully. You are very relaxed. You feel very peaceful and there is nothing at all to be worried about. We are going to have a little talk . . .’

‘Azimuth.’

‘What? What did you say, Mark?’ Mark had mumbled something under his breath and Aynsley could not quite make it out. He decided to disregard it and continued: ‘We are going to have a talk, Mark. And I am going to ask you questions about the accident on the train.’ Mark was frowning now, shifting uneasily on the couch. ‘And when I ask you these questions, Mark, you will take the role of an outside observer. Watching yourself. And whatever you see, whatever you remember, it cannot harm you and you will not be afraid of it. Do you understand me, Mark?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘I want you to say that you will not be afraid.’

‘I will not be afraid.’

‘Good. Now, we’re going back to the day of the accident. It’s Wednesday morning, September 25th. You’ve just had breakfast. Can you remember what you had to eat?’

‘Coffee. Toast. Can’t take too long. I don’t want to miss my train.’

‘You’re moving forward quickly now, Mark. You’re at the station. You’ve just walked in through the main entrance.’

‘Yes. It’s cold today. Much colder than usual. Must have been the shortest summer we’ve ever had.’

‘Where are you going, Mark?’

‘I’ve got a meeting in Doncaster at 11.30 am. Can’t complain. At least it’s a day out of the office. If the car wasn’t in dock I’d drive down.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m walking towards the newsagent. I’ll need a newspaper or a magazine for the train. Yes, a newspaper will do, I think. They’ve put the price up again, the sly bastards . . . what time is it? Good, I’ve got half an hour. May as well buy a coffee. No point in standing here freezing.’

‘I want you to tell me everything that happens now, Mark. In as much detail as you remember. And I also want you to remember that, no matter what happens, you will feel no fear. Absolutely no fear.’

‘I’m in the station cafe, drinking coffee and watching people walk by. There’s hardly anybody in here. Just an old woman and a young man. God, this coffee tastes horrible. I should have brought a flask with me . . . I’m getting up now. I’m walking out of the cafe. Hope I’m not too long in Doncaster. I’m walking towards the ticket barrier now. Platform Nine for me, I think . . . Yes, that’s right. The King’s Cross train. Now, where did I put my ticket? . . . There’s a small line up ahead. It’s still early so there’s no problem. I expect the train won’t even be in the station yet. I’m giving my ticket to the inspector . . .’

Mark paused and Aynsley sat forward intently, ready to bring him out of his trance. This was the point beyond which Mark had no memory and Aynsley expected him to react in the same way he had done all those months ago. He remembered how he had been forced physically to subdue Mark as he screamed and lashed at the empty air.

‘He’s punching it and handing it back. I’m passing through . . .’ Mark’s face looked calm and unconcerned as he continued. Aynsley checked the tape again. It was amazing. Mark had made the transition, remembered crossing the ticket barrier and there had been no adverse reaction whatsoever. ‘. . . I’m walking up the ramp. God, it’s freezing cold. I can see my breath. I’m walking over the bridge and can see a train drawing alongside the platform below me. Didn’t hear an announcement but it must be mine. People pushing past me and hurrying down the next ramp. Yes, it’s my train. Plenty of time . . . no hurry. Oh, damn. I’ve left my paper in the cafe . . .’ Mark paused again and Aynsley realised that he had become quite excited as his patient talked. The palms of his hands were sweating. It had been so incredibly easy. Mark had not reacted adversely in any way and Aynsley’s reservations about conducting the session without proper preparation had gone.

‘I’m on the train now,’ Mark continued. ‘A first-­class carriage not too far from the cafe car. If I’ve got my checkbook with me I might be able to afford a down payment on a cup of tea and a sandwich. There’s no one else in the carriage with me. I’m on my own. Good, someone’s left a newspaper on the seat . . . We’re moving now . . . we’re on our way . . . and we’re on time, too. I wonder if I’ll have time to pay a visit to that shop in Doncaster. I could buy Joanne another of those vases that she liked so much. I’ll wait and see . . . We’re crossing the river now. I wonder how many times I’ve crossed the Tyne. Must be thousands . . . thousands . . .’

Mark paused again. Aynsley checked the tape. It was still running. A minute passed by and still Mark said nothing. He lay in the same position, breathing deeply. Only now, a look of uneasiness was creeping across his face.

‘Mark?’

‘Yes . . .’ Mark’s voice sounded querulous and uncertain.

‘Tell me more. Where is the train now?’

Mark began to shift uncomfortably. ‘We’ll be in Doncaster soon.’

‘What has happened to you? What have you been doing between Newcastle and Doncaster?’

‘I’ve just been reading my papers for the meeting, that’s all.’ Aynsley could detect a tone of reluctance in Mark’s voice. As if he did not want to answer any more questions.

‘Mark, I want you to tell me everything that happens from now on. The train is nearly in Doncaster and you’ve been sitting reading. Okay, now. Is there anyone in the carriage with you?’

‘No . . . there’s no one in the carriage with me. I’m on my own.’

‘Tell me what happens now, Mark.’

‘I don’t want to remember. I’m afraid.’

‘Listen to me. Remember what I said. You will take the role of an outside observer. You are watching yourself on a television set inside your mind. Whatever happens, it can’t hurt you now. It will not harm you and you will not be afraid. I want you to tell me that you will not be afraid, Mark.’

‘I . . . will not . . . be afraid.’

‘Now tell me what happened.’

Mark opened his mind to Aynsley.

Mark was suddenly awake. One moment he had been in a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. Now he was awake and alert, as if someone had pressed a switch to wake him up. For a second, he had no idea where he was. He was not at home in bed. He knew that. And he was cold, too. Then he remembered: he was in Dr Aynsley’s clinic. He had telephoned him early this morning and insisted that he meet him here to carry out the hypnosis session immediately. Something had happened at home which Mark refused to acknowledge and, in desperation, he had hoped that the hypnosis would solve everything and resolve all his worst fears.

Mark sat up stiffly on the couch and looked around. Aynsley was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

And then Mark saw the tape recorder. It had been knocked from the small table and lay shattered on the floor, its innards littering the carpet. There were no spools of tape to be seen. Mark swung his feet over the edge of the couch.

‘Dr Aynsley?’

He reached out for his walking stick and rose unsteadily to his feet, realising that he must have been lying like this for some considerable time. His body always stiffened up when he lay somewhere for more than a couple of hours. He crossed to the surgery door, opened it and looked out. It was morning, and a cold, bloodless grey suffused the empty corridors.

‘Dr Aynsley?’ Mark’s voice echoed into nothing. He turned back into the surgery. His hand closed round the door handle as he re-­entered and he felt something sticky on his fingers. He looked at his hand. There was blood on it. And when he looked back to the tape recorder, he could see that there was blood on that, too.

He hurried from the surgery, not knowing what had happened. Aynsley was gone and there was blood on the door and on the tape recorder. The last thing he remembered was lying on the couch listening to Aynsley’s voice as the hypnosis had begun. Mark felt cold inside as he hurried down the corridor, sensing that the nightmares were closing in on him. Soon, he told himself, I’ll be a gibbering wreck. Something on the clinically white corridor wall drew his attention. It was a smudge; a smeared hand mark. He moved closer to it, dreading what his mind told him. It was blood.

He ran the remaining few yards to the glass doors which fronted the clinic and which Aynsley had unlocked earlier that morning. They were still open. He blundered through them and out onto the rain-­washed pavement.