Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ damn hypnosis came over you.’ Nick eased the car forward a few yards behind the car in front and braked. His elbow out of the open window, he drummed his fingers in irritation on the roof above his head. ‘I hope this has finally convinced you, Jo, of the idiocy of persisting with this research. Sam must have spelled out the risks for you.’

      Jo coloured angrily. ‘What the devil has my fainting to do with the fact that I was hypnotised a couple of days ago? Oh Nick, drop the subject, please!’

      She hunched her shoulders defensively. How was it possible to feel so many conflicting emotions for the man sitting next to her? Love. Anger. Despair. And now fear. Real fear, which would not listen to the reason which told her it was groundless. She knew Nick had not tried to kill her. The thought was farcical. But if not his, then whose were the hands which had encircled her neck? And if they had been imaginary, then why had she imagined them? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps being hypnotised had some delayed effect. Some dangerous, delayed effect. She shuddered violently.

      Half of her wanted to beg Nick to pull onto the hard shoulder and put his arms around her and hold her safe, but even as she glanced towards him she felt again that irrational shiver of fear.

      It was another hour before they turned into Cornwall Gardens. She had already extricated her key from her bag and was clutching it tightly in her hand as the car drew to a halt and she swung the door open. ‘Please, Nick, don’t come in.’

      She almost threw herself onto the pavement. ‘I’m going to take an aspirin and go to bed. I’ll call you, OK?’ She slammed the door and ran towards the steps, not looking round to see if he followed. She had banged the front door shut behind her before he had levered himself out of the car.

      Nick shrugged. He stood where he was in the middle of the road, his hand resting on the car’s roof, waiting until he saw the lights go on in the room behind the first-floor balcony doors, then he climbed back in and drove away. He was very worried.

      Jo double-locked the door behind her. Throwing down her bag she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

      Flu. It had to be flu. That would explain everything. A horrible, vicious summer flu which had given her a few fleeting moments of delirium before changing direction and locating in her throat. She found a Beecham’s Powder in the back of the cupboard and tipped it into a glass, filling it up with hot water. Carrying the glass into the bathroom, she turned on the taps full and began to take off her dress. The mirror steamed over. As she stepped into the warm silky water she could feel her headache already beginning to relax its grip and cautiously she sipped the liquid. It made her feel slightly sick, but she forced herself to drink it all and then she lay back, staring up at the fawn patterned tiles on the bathroom walls with their delicate misty swirls.

      It was twenty minutes before she walked slowly into her bedroom, wrapped in her bathrobe, and pulled the heavy sash windows up. Outside, the night was very warm and still. Darkness had come early with the heavy cloud and there was an almost tropical humidity about the air. She could hear the sound of flamenco coming from the mews and, suddenly, a roar of laughter out of the dark.

      Half drawing the curtains, she switched on her bedside light with a sigh and untied her bathrobe, slipping it from her bare shoulders.

      The light was dim and the small antique mirror which stood on her low chest was the other side of the room, but even from where she stood she could see. Her body was evenly tanned save for the slight bikini mark, but now there were other marks, marks which had not been there before. Her neck was swollen, and covered with angry bruises. For a moment she could not move. She could not breathe. She stood transfixed, her eyes on the mirror, then she ran naked to the bathroom, dragging the main pull-switch on, flooding the room with harsh cold light from the fluorescent strip in the ceiling. She grabbed her bath towel and frantically scrubbed at the condensation which still clung to the large mirror, then she looked at herself again. Her neck was violently bruised. She could even make out the individual fingermarks in the contusions on the front of her throat.

      She stared at herself for a long time before walking slowly to the living room and, kneeling down beside the phone, which still lay on the coffee table, she did not even realise she had memorised Carl Bennet’s number until she had dialled it.

      There was a series of clicks, then the answering machine spoke. Jo slammed the receiver down and glanced up at the clock on her desk. It was nearly midnight.

      For a moment she contemplated ringing Sam. Her fingers hovered over the dial, then her hands dropped to her sides. Nick might have gone back to the flat, and besides, she knew without a shadow of doubt that whatever Sam or Nick might think she had made up her mind to return to Carl Bennet.

      Slowly she made her way back towards her bedroom. She was shaking violently, beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. Somewhere in the distance she heard a rumble of thunder. The storm was coming back. She walked to the window and stood looking out at the London night. It was only at the sound of a soft appreciative whistle from somewhere in the banks of dark windows behind the mews that she realised she was standing there naked in the lamplight.

      With a wry smile she turned away and switched off the light, then she climbed into bed and lay staring up at the darkness.

      It was very early when she woke and the room was cold and fresh from the wide-open windows. Shivering, Jo got up and put on her robe. For a moment she did not dare look at her reflection in the mirror. The pain in her throat had gone as had her headache and all she felt now was an overwhelming longing for coffee.

      In the bathroom she dashed cold water over her face and reached for her toothbrush. Only then did she raise her eyes to the mirror. There wasn’t a single mark on her throat.

      At the flat in South Audley Street the following evening Nick threw himself down into the armchair facing the windows and held out his hand for the drink Sam had poured for him.

      ‘I see it didn’t take you long to find my booze,’ he said with weary good humour.

      ‘You can afford it.’ Sam looked at him enquiringly. ‘So, what did you want to see me about? It must be important if it brings you here from the lovely Miss Curzon.’

      Nick sat forward, clasping his glass loosely between his fingers. He sighed. ‘I haven’t seen Judy for two days, Sam. If you want to know, I spent last night in an hotel. I went to Judy’s then I couldn’t face going in.’ He paused. ‘I want to talk to you about Jo. How did you find her on Saturday?’

      ‘Tense. Excitable. Hostile.’ Sam was thoughtful. ‘But not, I think, in any danger. She was thrown by what happened at Dr Bennet’s, but quite capable of handling it, as far as it went on that occasion.’

      ‘But you are worried about her being hypnotised again?’

      Sam swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. ‘I am worried, yes, and I spoke to Bennet this morning about it.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Unfortunately the man was on the defensive. He seemed to think I was trying to interfere and spouted a whole bag of crap about medical ethics at me. However, I shall persevere with him in case Jo goes back to him. Tell me, why are you still so interested? I should have thought the beautiful Miss Curzon took up most of your time these days, and if she doesn’t, she ought to!’

      Nick stood up. ‘I still care for Jo, Sam, and there is something wrong. On Sunday she and I went to Suffolk. She was taken ill –’ He stood staring out of the window towards the park as he drained his glass. ‘There was something very strange about what happened. We were talking during a violent thunderstorm and she had some kind of fit. The local quack said it was exhaustion, but I’m not so sure СКАЧАТЬ