Mean Spirit (8 page)

Cindy’s on his own. Out of contact with his producer, but Jo trusts him.

‘Relax? Me? Nervous wreck, Kurt. Oh, all right then.’ Straightening his dress over his knees and laying his hands demurely in his lap. ‘In your hands, I am. Big Boy.’

And, to a low
whoooh
from the audience, Kurt takes Cindy’s hand and holds it up. Remarks on the bangles, how heavy they must be –
taking his own hand away, leaving Cindy’s hanging there. How very, very heavy. As heavy as his eyelids.

Cindy smiles, letting his body relax but carefully detaching his consciousness, watching Kurt as from a couple of yards away. Studying Kurt’s performance – that low, midnight voice, a seasoned seducer’s voice. Ostensibly having a chat, but the words coming very slightly slower than normal, the tone a little thicker, textured, conveying a conviction – the sense of certainty which must swiftly be impressed upon the subject.

This is the art of
informal
hypnosis. People think you need a swinging watch or a deep, fluid gaze. Not true.

Cindy’s arm falls slowly to his lap. Kurt is telling him he’s simply resting, allowing his mind to relax. Telling him he can hear everything Kurt is saying to him but he really doesn’t have to think about it because he’s so pleassssssantly drowwwwwsy. Talking evenly, to deepen the trance, and after little more than half a minute, Kurt’s voice is pouring into his head like warm olive oil.

‘You hearing me OK, Cindy?’

‘Yes.’ A whisper. Cindy’s whole attention is fixed on Kurt, as though the set and the lights and camera and the studio audience no longer exist. He produces a couple of butterfly blinks.

‘It’s very comfortable here in this chair, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Deepening his breathing.

‘Warm.’

‘Yes.’

‘And getting warmer.’

‘Yessss.’ Should he attempt to sweat?

‘Getting warmer and warmer still under these very strong lights. You’re beginning to perspire and your clothes are feeling tighter. Very
much
tighter.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Cindy squirms a little, gives an apparently involuntary swallow.

‘You’ve simply
got
to take something off.’

A little smile on Kurt’s leonine face. He’s quite a big-boned man, probably has to watch his weight. By middle age, he will be a formidable presence. But already, at twenty-nine, Kurt has an undeniable strength and his influence is growing. His television work is now merely the icing on a very rich cake, filled with the lucrative cream
of consultancies – Kurt has his own company, operating in industry, where he motivates sales forces, perhaps even passing on (highly improper, in Cindy’s view) some tricks of the trade which will enable salespersons to apply gentle hypnotic pressure to recalcitrant customers.

‘Your wrists have expanded in the heat, so that the bangles are tight. Take one off.’

Cindy shrugs off a bangle, which clatters to the studio floor. He’s thinking that when it comes to buying himself a castle, Kurt Campbell is a man who certainly has no need of a Lottery grant. Or a Lottery win. Or the Lottery show itself… but perhaps it’s to serve his ego. Or perhaps Kurt also gets that live-television buzz which, coupled with the hypnotist’s power buzz, must make for a
very
intoxicating surge.

‘Hey, Cindy … You’re a star. A performer.’

Cindy smiles, giggles faintly.

‘If you’re going to take off your bangles, you want to make a performance of it. Stand up.’

Cindy comes gracefully to his feet.

‘You … are a
stripper.’

Squeals from the audience, to which Cindy doesn’t react.

‘You know how a stripper performs. You’ve done it soooo many times you could do it in your sleep.’

‘Yes.’

‘So when your music starts up, you’re going to begin by taking off your bangles … like a stripper.’

And so it begins. Apparently oblivious of the audience laughter, Cindy tosses his bangles one by one into the crowd, where they’re scrabbled for as trophies.

Kurt Campbell smiles, but he’s always watchful. A professional.

The taped music – no originality required
here
– bumps and grinds along its languorous, familiar catwalk.

Up comes the skirt, to howls and wolf whistles. Cindy feels a real sweat breaking out. How easy and pleasant it must be to surrender to hypnosis … but what a careful combination of attention and detachment is required to carry out the commands to the letter while remaining
un
hypnotized.

The pop of the suspender, a glimpse of knicker – from the rear, naturally – and off comes the first stocking, landing at the feet of a young man who hesitates, unable to decide whether retrieving it will be his moment of celebrity or mark him out as gay, poor dab.

Off comes the second stocking, and Cindy aims for the camera he isn’t supposed to be aware of, knowing what a nice shot this will make, but the stocking falls short.

One minute, Cindy estimates, before the rather risqué hypnotism sketch must be wound up and the famous National Lottery machine activated.

He drops a black shoulder strap, provocatively flexing the arm muscles to an intake of breath from the audience – most of them at last having come to believe that this is the real thing; you can tell by the sudden hush.

While young Kurt Campbell, of course,
knows
that it’s real. And that he must presently bring Cindy out of his trance.

Cindy does an exotic twirl, turning his other shoulder to the audience and to Camera One. On the way round he comes face to face with Kurt, and Kurt’s face is impassive; he’s leaning back in his cane chair, legs stretched out, relaxed, enjoying the show. The music swells to its final climax. After the second strap is lowered, the music will fade and Kurt will look at his watch in apparent alarm, come to his feet, wander casually over and stop the performance, bringing Cindy safely out of trance … bemused and appealing to the audience to tell him what appalling atrocities he’s committed.

Down comes the strap. Cindy feels his bodice start to slide. Take it carefully now, or two foam-rubber tits will drop out and go rolling into the audience. Trophies indeed!

The music fades.

Nothing happens. Cindy does another twirl.

Which shows him that Kurt, smiling complacently, has remained seated.

The music continues at background level.

Christ.

Cindy continues his voluptuous weaving, the bodice continues to slip – thank the Lord he doesn’t have a hairy chest – and still Kurt Campbell doesn’t move … Kurt Campbell who firmly believes, because he’s done this thousands of times before and is absolutely
sure of his power, that he has Cindy in deep trance and about to disclose his small, male nipples.

And this is not merely mischief, because Kurt knows that Cindy’s act depends on that continued ambivalence …
is he or isn’t he?
– with so many levels to that question – and that the revelation of his padding will literally be the end of him … the end of his credibility, the end of his career even on Bournemouth Pier.

Why does Campbell want to do this to him? What has he ever done to the boy to inspire such cruelly reckless disdain?

And what is Cindy to do now?

Up in the gallery, Jo, the producer, will be in a panic, on her feet, probably unsure – because she’s quite young for this job – how to stop it.

Now some members of the audience have started a rhythmic slow handclap. This is definitely not in the running order. Cindy does a last, desperate twirl. Kurt is smiling. The
shit.

Cindy pauses. Pushes out his chest.

The spotlight encircles him. Cindy backs up and it follows him. He’s standing now in front of his chair.

The crowd whoops. Kurt no longer smiles, no longer has that certainty.

The moment has come. No avoiding it.

The pink suitcase still standing, half in spot, next to Cindy’s empty chair, emits a raucous squawk.

‘Get ’em off, you old tart!’
shrieks Kelvyn Kite.

When Kurt Campbell started the machine for the draw, a number of people, Cindy among them, noticed that his smile was tainted by a pure, black fury.

The winning numbers were six, fifteen, thirty-six, forty-two, forty-three and forty-six.

Kurt did not look at Cindy again, but Cindy could almost see the rage shooting out of him like thick, black arrows.

When the team gathered in the green room for a drink afterwards, Kurt had gone. Jo Shepherd dragged Cindy into a corner. She was white.

‘Christ…!’

‘I’m sorry, Jo.’

‘What the hell
happened
?’ There were great sweat stains under the arms of Jo’s blouse.

Cindy was calm, but no longer high, no longer living in the moment.

‘I think’, he said, ‘that young Kurt forgot his cue.’

‘He bloody didn’t. He wanted you …’ Jo was near to tears ‘… all fucked up in front of twenty million viewers. I knew it was the wrong thing, I bloody
knew
it.’

Cindy blinked. ‘I’m sorry, lovely?’

Jo shook her curls. ‘Never mind, you got out of it. You turned the tables. You’re a brilliant man, Cindy, we all thought you were completely under. How did you do that?’

‘Wasn’t me, lovely. Kelvyn, it was.’

Jo was smiling and shuddering at the same time.

‘I’ll tell you what, Cindy – public humiliation on the National Lottery … that guy is never going to forget this. I think you’ve probably made yourself an enemy for life.’

‘Yes.’ Cindy bent down and flipped open the case. ‘I suppose I have.’ He extracted Kelvyn Kite, all beak and feathers and big rolling eyes. ‘There’s unfortunate, isn’t it?’

VII

MOST OF THE NIGHT, GRAYLE HAD AVOIDED IT
.

Ersula. The matter of Spirit.

She’d taken down the numbers of two hotels in Stroud, but it was clear Persephone Callard was in no fit state to drive her there and she wouldn’t have a cab calling here for Grayle – there were already too many people who knew the house wasn’t empty.

No way out of this.

Past midnight: she lay on her back, in her sweater, under an eiderdown on the iron-framed, brass-headed bed, in the plain, square Victorian bedroom with its small iron fireplace and a view into the dark woods.

From the next room she heard Persephone Callard snort and then moan in her sleep.

They’d eaten microwaved Marks & Spencer’s Chinese food – Callard leaving most of hers – and then drank and talked for over four hours, with a lot of stuff coming out.

But none of it explaining what Callard was hiding from. Either she was playing with Grayle or whatever it was really could only be said to Marcus Bacton.

Fathers. They talked about fathers.

They’d discussed Dr Erlend Underhill, eminent Harvard Professor of American and European History, who had two daughters: Ersula
who, in her father’s image, was studious, serious, humourless and an archaeologist, and Grayle, of whose writings Lyndon McAffrey, Deputy City Editor of the
New York Courier,
had once said,
This may be journalism, but not as we know it.

They’d spoken of Stephen Callard, the knighted career diplomat, who had become besotted with a lovely black nurse in Kingston, Jamaica, brought her home to be his wife, have his child and die.

‘So what does your father think about what you do?’ Grayle had asked.

‘What I
did.
’ Persephone Callard’s eyes were hot but hard in the candlelight.

Grayle had accepted a second weak Scotch, but Callard’s tumbler remained on the mantelpiece, and Grayle kept thinking of what she’d said earlier:
When I’m pissed I don’t receive.

‘So how does he feel about it, your father?’

Callard shrugged. ‘I don’t know how he feels now. I haven’t seen him in two years. He’s over seventy, spends most of the time in Italy, studiously avoiding the kind of English newspaper that might contain items about me and … what I did.’

‘He’s embarrassed?’

‘He’s glad I’m rich and going my own way. I don’t think he’s really wanted to have anything to do with me since I turned twelve. I was the only woman who reminded him of my mother at her ripest and also the one woman he couldn’t fuck. Hardly remind him of her now, would I? Look at me!’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’

‘Maybe I want to die,’ Callard snapped. ‘Maybe I want to die and find out if there’s any truth at all in the kind of shit I’ve been feeding people for the past fifteen years.’

As always when she lay alone in strange beds, sleep receded like the tide on a long beach, leaving Grayle cold and tense and thinking,
Why am I here?
On every level of the question.

She knew – because he’d said so several times – that Marcus firmly expected her, at some stage, to leave her rented cottage in the village of St Mary’s, on the border of Herefordshire and Monmouthshire, to take up a
real
career.

She kept telling herself she wasn’t going to do this, at least until
The Vision
was making enough money for Marcus to hire another writer and maybe a sub-editor too.

So perhaps she was destined to be there all her life.

There should, of course, be a man. There always used to be a man. And yet she’d been faintly horrified when her old boyfriend, Lucas, the Greenwich Village art-dealer, had written to her saying he’d be over on a buying trip in the spring and maybe they could like
get together.
Cool, refined, Ferrari-driving Lucas, who talked all night about the need for an inner life and would just hate ever to have time for one.

Lucas, Grayle decided, had his place in history and that era had been covered.

It was hard to find a man with an inner life. Maybe this was what drew her back to Marcus. Not in
that
way, of course, but Marcus, even though he raged and threw things, was certainly the father she kind of wished she’d had.

Grayle also thought sometimes about Bobby Maiden, the English cop. Who’d died in the hospital after a hit-and-run incident – and then been resuscitated and come out of it different. Events had tied them together. Losing loved ones to the same killer.