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

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? My wife is a great fan of yours and she tells me your style of journalism can be quite sharp.’

      Jo grimaced. ‘She’s right. If she told you that it’s very brave of you to be so open with me.’

      ‘Why not? I’ve nothing to hide. As I told you, the hypnotism is real. The responses are real. I do not seek to explain them. Perhaps you will be able to do that.’

      He grinned.

      Jo found herself smiling back. ‘I doubt it,’ she said as she picked up her bag, ‘but I dare say I’ll give it a try.’

       4

      ‘Why did you do it, Judy?’

      Nick pushed open the door of the studio and slammed it against the wall.

      She was standing in front of the easel, once more dressed in her shirt and jeans, a brush in her hand. She did not turn round.

      ‘You know why. How come it’s taken you nineteen hours to come round and ask?’

      ‘Because, Judy, I have been at work today, and because I wasn’t sure if I was going to come round here ever again. I didn’t realise you were such a bitch.’

      ‘Born and bred.’ She gave him a cold smile. ‘So now you know. I suppose you hate me.’

      Her face crumpled suddenly and she flung down the brush. ‘Oh Nick, I’m so miserable.’

      ‘And so you should be. Telling Jo in front of all those people what Sam and I had talked about in confidence. Telling her at all was spiteful, but to do it like that, at a party – that was really vicious.’

      ‘She didn’t turn a hair, Nick. She’s so confident, so conceited. And she didn’t believe it anyway. No one did. They all thought it was just me being bitchy.’

      She put her arms around his neck and nuzzled him. ‘Don’t be angry. Please.’

      He disengaged himself. ‘I am angry. Very angry indeed.’

      ‘And I suppose you followed her last night?’ Her voice was trembling slightly.

      ‘No. She told me to go to hell as you well know.’ He turned away from her, taking off his jacket and throwing it down on a chair. ‘Is there anything to drink?’

      ‘You know damn well there is.’ She retrieved her paintbrush angrily and went back to her painting. ‘And get me one.’

      He glared at her. ‘The perfect hostess as ever.’

      ‘Better than Jo anyway!’ she flashed back. She jabbed at the painting with a palette knife, laying on a thick impasto of vermilion.

      ‘Leave Jo alone, Judy,’ Nick said quietly. ‘I’m not going to tell you again. You are beginning to bore me.’

      There was a long silence. Defiantly she laid on some more paint.

      Nick