Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
open and he watched almost frightened as Walton caught his wrist and lifted the limp hand. He let go and to Jo’s surprise the arm stayed where it was, uncomfortably suspended in midair. Walton made no comment. He passed on to the next person in the line. Behind her Jo heard the faint click of the camera shutter.
A moment later it was all over. Gently, almost casually, Walton spoke over his shoulder as he returned to his desk. ‘Fine, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. You may lower your hands and open your eyes. And may I suggest that we all have some coffee at this stage while we consider what is going to happen next.’
Jo licked her lips nervously. Her mouth had gone dry as she sat watching the man next to her. His hand had returned slowly to his lap, completely naturally, without any effort of will on his part, as far as she could see. She glanced over her shoulder at Tim. He winked and gave a thumbs-up sign. Then he subsided into his chair. As if at a signal the door had opened behind them and the young woman reappeared wheeling a trolley on which sat two large earthenware coffee pots. Unobtrusively she moved up the line of chairs, never speaking, nor raising her eyes to meet those of anyone in the room. Jo watched her and found herself wondering suddenly whether it was to stop herself from laughing at their solemn faces.
When they had all had their coffee Walton sat down once more. He was looking preoccupied as he stirred the cup before him on the desk. Only when the woman had left the room did he speak.
‘Now, I’m glad to say that several of you tonight have demonstrated that you are susceptible to hypnosis. What I intend to do is to ask if any one of those people would like to volunteer to come and sit over here.’ He indicated a deep leather armchair near the desk. ‘Bring your coffee with you of course and we’ll discuss what is going to happen.’
It was several minutes before anyone could be prevailed upon to move but at last one stout, middle-aged woman rose to her feet. She looked flustered and clutched her cup tightly as she approached the chair and perched on the edge of it.
Walton rose from his desk. ‘It’s Mrs Potter, isn’t it? Sarah Potter. Now, my dear, please make yourself comfortable.’ His voice had dropped once more and Jo again found herself sitting upright, consciously resisting the beguilement of the man’s tone as she watched the woman lean back and close her eyes. Walton gently took the cup from her and without any preliminary comments began to talk her back into her childhood. After only a slight hesitancy she began to answer him, describing scenes from her early schooldays and they could all plainly hear the change in the quality of her voice as it rose and thinned girlishly. Tim stood up and, creeping forward, dropped on one knee before the woman with his camera raised. Walton ignored him. ‘Now, my dear, we are going back to the time before you were born. Tell me what you see.’
There was a long silence. ‘Back, further back into the time before you were little Sarah Fairly. Before, long before. You were on this earth before, Sarah. Tell me who you were.’
‘Betsy.’ The word came out slowly, puzzled, half hesitating, and Jo heard a sharp intake of breath from the people around her. She gripped the notepad on her knee and watched the woman’s face intently.
‘Betsy who?’ Walton did not take his eyes from her face.
‘Dunno. Just Betsy …’
‘You were lucky this evening.’ Walton looked from Jo to Tim and back with a grin. ‘Here, let me offer you a drink.’
The others had gone, leaving Tim packing his cameras and Jo still sitting on her wooden chair, lost in thought. ‘Three subjects who all produced more or less convincing past lives. That’s not bad.’
Jo looked up sharply. ‘More or less convincing? Are you saying you don’t believe in this yourself?’
She saw Tim frown but Walton merely shrugged. He had poured three glasses of Scotch and he handed her one. ‘I am saying, as would any colleague, Miss Clifford, that the hypnosis is genuine. The response of the subject is genuine, in that it is not prompted by me, but where the personalities come from I have no idea. It is the people who come to these sessions who like to think they are reincarnated souls.’ His eyes twinkled roguishly.
Tim set his camera case on a chair and picked up his own glass. ‘It really is most intriguing. That Betsy woman. A respectable middle-aged housewife of unqualified boringness and she produces all those glorious words out of the gutter! I can’t help wondering if that was merely her repressed self trying to get out.’ He chortled.
Walton nodded. ‘I find myself wondering that frequently. But there are occasions – and these are the ones of course which you as reporters should witness – when the character comes out with stuff which they could in no way have prepared, consciously or unconsciously. I have had people speaking languages they have never learned and revealing historical detail which is unimpeachable.’ He shook his head. ‘Very, very interesting.’
Jo had stood up at last. She went to stand by the bookcase, still frowning slightly.
Walton watched her.
‘Did you know, Miss Clifford, that you are potentially a good hypnotic subject yourself?’
She swung round. ‘Me? Oh no. After all, none of your tests worked on me.’
‘No. Because you fought them. Did it not cross your mind that the fact that you had to resist so strenuously might mean something? I was watching you carefully and I suspect you were probably one of the most susceptible people here tonight.’
Jo stared at him. She felt suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the room. ‘I don’t think so. Someone tried to hypnotise me once, at university. It didn’t work.’
She looked into her glass, suddenly silent, aware that Walton was still watching her closely.
He shook his head. ‘You surprise me. Perhaps the person wasn’t an experienced hypnotist. Although, of course, if you resisted as you did today, no one could –’
‘Oh, but I didn’t resist them. I wanted it to happen.’ She remembered suddenly the excitement and awe she had felt on her way to Professor Cohen’s rooms, the abandon with which she had thrown herself into answering all his questions before the session started, the calm relaxation as she lay back on his couch watching Sam standing in the corner fighting with his notepad whilst outside the snow had started to fall …
She frowned. How strange that the details of that afternoon had slipped her mind until this moment. She could picture Sam now – he had been wearing a brown roll-neck sweater under a deplorably baggy sports jacket. When they had been introduced she had liked him at once. His calm relaxed manner had counteracted Cohen’s stiff academic formality, putting her at ease. She had trusted Sam.
So why now did she have this sudden image of his tense face, his eyes wide with horror, peering at her out of the darkness, and with it the memory of pain …?
She shrugged off a little shiver, sipping from her glass as she glanced back at Walton. ‘It was about fifteen years ago now – I’ve probably forgotten most of what happened.’
He nodded slowly without taking his eyes from her face. Then he turned away. ‘Well, it might be interesting to try again,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would you like to?’
‘No!’ she answered more sharply than she intended. ‘At least, not yet. Perhaps when my research is a bit further advanced …’ Warning bells were ringing in her mind; Sam’s face was there again before her eyes, and with it she heard Nick’s voice: ‘There is something you don’t know, something you don’t remember …’
Shakily she put down her glass, aware of Tim’s puzzled eyes upon her. Furiously she tried to get a grip on herself as she realised suddenly that Bill Walton was addressing her whilst he straightened some papers on his desk.
‘And were you pleased overall with what you saw this evening, Miss Clifford?’
She swallowed hard. ‘It was fascinating. Very interesting.’
‘But I suspect that you are going to debunk the reincarnation theory in your articles?