Banquet for the Damned (9 page)

'No. You're not alone in that respect, my friend,' Arthur says.

'But we grew up and left the excesses behind, in youth where they belong. Eliot never did. A man of his age and education still messing about with some theory about the "unseen world". It's absurd. But can we be blamed that it led to this? I thought we could help him, Arthur. Maybe we owed him something. Think how we used to laugh together.'

Arthur relaxes his shoulders and chuckles to himself.

'But were we ever able to really trust him? Was our regard ever returned? Did we deserve this?' Harry says, peering into the sky.

'Could you trust anyone who was that good at chess?'

'And cricket, and rowing, and climbing. At anything he put his mind to.'

'We both know, he bears little resemblance to the man we knew at Oxford.'

Arthur nods.

'We owe him nothing.' A car passes. Sunlight blesses the street in summer; snow distinguishes it in winter. This is a home for learning built from old stones, with an elegance to its arches and courts, and a mystery endowed by its shadows and legends. But the aesthetics have shifted: he can feel it. Something has arrived to disturb the calm, to wind back time and reinstall a grimmer place where thinkers burned for heresy and darkness brought dread to small grey towns.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'Hey now. You must be Mike.' Hart's vision is starting to swim and something beats against his temples from the inside. Before he knew it, the one shot of scotch he needed for Dutch courage, an hour before Mike Bowen was scheduled to arrive, grew swiftly to four generous measures.

'Hello,' the stiff figure answers, and embellishes the greeting with a single nod from a slender head. There is something graceful about the tall, thin-faced figure's movements as he steps, cautiously, into the flat's reception area, and Hart wonders if his heart beats at half speed. Only the student's grey eyes are quick and animate, but whenever they flit toward Hart they take in his beard and then glance away to peer at the wall or floor.

'Just go up the stairs,' Hart says. His guest begins a slow climb. 'What you studying, Mike?'

'Classics.'

'Liberal arts, God bless 'em. All set to be an academic?'

Mike nods. 'I hope so.'

'Where you from?'

'Boston, originally.'

Hart recognises the type: single, old money, with a manner as straight-backed as a Puritan's church bench. Takes himself seriously and only adopts the little silver earring to fit in, which only serves to make him look more incongruous.

In the lounge, Mike begins to shuffle about on his sensible shoes before coming to a standstill. 'What exactly are you studying?' he asks, and raises himself onto his toes.

Hart smiles. Kid with an attitude. Someone like Mike would only come to him through desperation, and would never tell a soul afterward. He gives Mike a run down of his credentials and the book he is writing.

'Interesting,' Mike says, sincerely. 'I've specialised in Ancient Greek religion.'

'Great,' Hart says, and slips a blank cassette into his tape recorder.

'Do you speak Greek?'

'Ancient Greek, Latin, and a little Pictish for amusement.'

When Hart wafts his hand, palm outward, at the couch, Mike looks uncomfortable and is eyeing the recorder. Nodding toward it, Hart says, 'Don't worry. I'd only use your interview with permission and I always change the names.'

The student sits stiffly on the couch. There is little point asking him to relax. 'Let me guess,' Hart says to clear the air. 'You wouldn't usually associate with anything resembling my work, but you're fascinated.' He says 'fascinated' slowly and hopes the whisky hasn't added a sarcastic tinge to his voice. There is another gentle nod of Mike's narrow head and a sideward sweep of the eyes. 'Absolutely.'

'You've never had a history of vivid, perhaps hallucinatory dreams?'

'That is correct.'

'But recently your world turned upside down?'

Mike adjusts his position on the couch.

Hart grins. 'Seems to be happening a lot in this town. Makes you wonder.'

Mike angles his head toward Hart. 'Really?'

'Oh yeah. You're not the first.'

'Lifestyle or atmospheric conditions perhaps. A susceptibility to the baroque ambience of the town.'

Hart smiles. 'Maybe.'

'Will you let me know of your results?'

'Sure. When I've collected enough data, which doesn't seem to be in short supply, I'll let you all know.'

Mike removes his coat and stretches out his corduroy-clad legs. Sitting opposite, Hart runs through his spiel and opening questions about medication and alcohol consumption, which Mike answers candidly; he confesses to treatment for depression. Hart nods in sympathy, but swiftly moves on, remembering Kerry's aversion to his prying. 'So, Mike. What I'd like you to do now is tell me about your dreams, in your own time.'

Mike clears his throat. 'Well, about a month ago I began suffering from a series of recurrent nightmares. I was recovering from a particularly bad flu. I couldn't remember the exact subject matter, but became convinced it was more or less the same dream each night. You see, the situation was always the same after I awoke. And the dreams increased in frequency to the point when . . .' Mike pauses until Hart gives him a friendly nod. 'There was little point in even attempting to sleep. I never sleep for more than five hours and after a nightmare, I was too –' Mike hesitates '– wary about returning to sleep.'

'Anything in your room move?'

Mike licks his top lip and Hart notices his white knuckles – both of his hands have balled into fists. 'My bed linen had been seriously disturbed. As were some of my books and papers.'

'Pulled off shelves and things?'

'On the contrary. Turned around and upside down, and then placed back on the shelves. I must have done it in my sleep.'

'Been sleepwalking?

Mike nods. 'I live in Dean's Court and have found myself in the castle grounds twice after midnight.' Hart tries to keep his face deadpan. 'Should I see a doctor?' Mike asks.

'Why haven't you so far?'

'I don't think it's a physiological matter. I work hard and eat well.

My health is good. There's only been the pills for depression.'

'Yeah, you mentioned that. Which drug?'

'Prozac. I consulted a physician's desk guide and couldn't find anything about this medication having a connection to sleepwalking. My actions while asleep are quite deliberate.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, after every episode, I find a copy of
Caesarious
open on my desk, at the same page. Didn't notice it the first two times. And what's most odd is the fact I seem to highlight a certain phrase with . . .'

Hart frowns. 'Go on,'

'With my own blood.'

There is a perceptible tightening of Hart's scalp and something catches at the back of his throat.

'Alarming, isn't it?' Mike says, raising both eyebrows. 'I make a small incision somewhere on my body and select the same passage. Three times now.'

Hart clears his throat. 'What passage?'

'
Sit tibi terra levis
. Roughly translated it reads, may the earth rest lightly on you.'

This is new, but Hart says nothing.

'It's as if,' Mike continues, 'I'm taking an interest in resurrection – in the Jungian sense, and then wandering into the castle. I'm getting quite alarmed. There are cliffs nearby.'

'And you're still in town?' Hart asks, incredulous at the young scholar's calm.

'My work is at a crucial stage.'

Hart begins to rub his beard, and feels like he could use a drink.

'Do you see or hear anything when you wake up?'

'In my room, no. But in the library, yes.'

'The library?' Hart raises his voice, before apologising.

'Quite all right,' Mike replies. 'No one is more shocked than I. It happened as I worked late one evening, on a difficult translation, on the top floor of the university library. I always select the same spot. There's too much talking on the stairs and by the computer terminals, so I hide in a corner when I need to work. I must have fallen asleep because when I awoke, someone was touching me.'

'What time was this?'

'About nine in the evening. It stays open late for final-year students and postgrads in the summer.'

'Did you see who was touching you?'

'No. I would have turned had I been able, but I was completely paralysed. I couldn't move so much as a finger.'

'But you were able to see?'

'Oh yes, I was fully awake. I was able to move my eyes but not my head. I could see the coloured spines of the books to my right, the strip lights above, and my notebook on the desk below. Everything the same as before I fell asleep. As I explained earlier, I had not been sleeping well at night.'

'How would you describe the touch?'

'Like fingers. Pawing me.'

'How did you feel? I mean it was unpleasant, wasn't it?'

The grey eyes are roaming again and his little tongue flicks between his taut lips. 'Mr Miller, I was terrified. Unable to call for help, I just sat there incapable of anything besides a feeble whimper. It was talking to me, very quietly. In old English and broken Latin, I think.'

'It?'

'Yes. Not like a man's voice. Not quite. And not a pleasant voice either.'

'What was it saying?'

'To tell the truth, I was too frightened to concentrate and there was this appalling smell. But I understood one phrase. Although, in hindsight, it may have been my imagination, I think I heard, "
Dies Irae
". Latin again. It means day of wrath.'

'Day of wrath,' Hart mutters.

'Insane, isn't it? Do you believe me?'

'Thousands wouldn't, but do you see me laughing?'

Mike begins to fidget. 'My imagination has never been so active. I enjoy science fiction, but this is all new for me.'

'I bet it is.'

'Well, Mr Miller. What's my problem?'

'Please, Mike, call me Hart, and as to what's wrong with you, I don't know. I could speculate, but it'd sound crazy. I'm used to studying undeveloped communities ridden with superstition and elaborate belief systems, where apparitions are never questioned, but in Scotland? I don't think any of you are ready for what I think.'

Mike smiles. 'I would certainly not entertain any thought of a supernatural cause. I was hoping for something a little more concrete.

A passing malady for instance, caused by stress or overwork.'

'Can't tell you what you want to hear. I think this goes way beyond mental strain or illness.'

Mike smiles and rises to his feet. 'Think I better consult a physician.

I've been worried sick about a tumour.'

'Do what you think is best. But if you want my advice, I'd leave town.'

'Not possible,' Mike answers, and then removes his glasses to pick at a lens. 'I think I'll ride this one out with sleeping tablets. Of the strongest variety. Here's my number. Please keep in touch.'

'I will. And look after yourself, buddy.'

As Mike descends the stairs, Hart has a hunch there is one more question he'd like to hear an answer to. 'Hey Mike, one more thing.'

Mike turns on the stair.

'It's a long shot, but did you go to any of the paranormal group's meetings? With Eliot Coldwell?'

Immediately, Mike blushes. Hart nods, smiling. 'I know, you were fascinated.'

Mike grins. 'Coldwell is an interesting man. I enjoyed his book immensely.'

'Did he hypnotise you?'

'No. I merely attended a few talks and watched a meditation session.

It's amazing what a man of his age believes.'

'Like?'

Laughing, he continues down the stairs. 'Perhaps, like yourself, Mr Miller, Eliot Coldwell is convinced of the existence of an unseen world. Rumour has it he communes with the dead.'

Hart follows him. 'Don't you think there could be a connection?'

'Gave it some thought, but found it too improbable. I'm even sure he was unable to suggest anything to me subliminally. One session involved a Mantra and some exercises in concentration. Some took fasts, they say, but I hardly think we were at risk. Goodbye.'

Rubbing his face, Hart walks back upstairs. He rewinds the tape. Thinking of a drink, he ambles to the fridge, deciding against scotch. It could knock him out and he still has Maria to interview in less than an hour. Instead, he plunders a four-pack of Budweiser. Drinking steadily, he drifts around the lounge, excited by the information but feeling something else too: like a diminishing sense of control, after being suddenly dropped into a small stone prison to rub shoulders with something unpleasant he's chased for years and never expected to run into.

Finding a chair by his favourite window, Hart sits down and enjoys the effect of the cold beer. After a while his thoughts roam across the garret flats, hotels and placid cottages of St Andrews, and he considers the young men and women who live here. They are protected from bacteria with bleach, nursed through colds with doctor's prescriptions, and coddled through broken hearts by parental cheques and union beer. But what of the night, and those who walk while others sleep? 'If it's all coming on down,' he mutters, 'breaking through, these people have no defence.'

He begins to feel out of his league. He does the market research. It isn't his role to provide the sale, the cure, or the answers. He scurries around the back corners of the world on all fours with a tape recorder interviewing witnesses and collecting hearsay. He isn't an exorcist, only an observer. He arrives after the stage has been cleared and only the stragglers are left behind chattering about something resembling a dangerous animal.