The Hypnotist Page 5

  ‘Y’ Bridish or summat?’

  ‘Well, Irish actually,’ I replied with a wink. ‘We’re a more evolved species!’

  Not a flicker of a smile. And I realized he was doing that thing again – just staring at my face for so long it was embarrassing. Eventually he said, ‘Yer maighty sweaty. Thought ah saw ye headin’ up to th’ barn.’

  I said, ‘Oh yes. I meant no harm. Just a little stroll. See, back home a fellow is free to wander the countryside so long as he keeps to the paths and closes the gates behind him. As a matter of fact, in Kerry—’

  ‘Zat so? Wal, round here a fellah is free to wander so long as he don’t maind a barrel o’ buckshot up his ass. Jes’ a friendly warnin’, maind. See, that barn belong to ma boy, Erwin, an’ he don’ take kaindly to trespassers.’

  And then I made the connection! The extraordinary-looking fellow I saw occasionally in an ex-army Jeep was Zachery’s son. If you’ll forgive an old Irish expression, he scared the living crap outta me, so he did! The first thing that struck you about Erwin was his height. I mean, there’s tall and then there’s towering. I never put a tape measure to the fellow, but I reckon there was around seven foot of him from the tips of his combat boots to the top of his shaven head. Now, I’m not one to discriminate against anyone – Tolerance being my middle name – but Erwin was a brutal-looking thug. On one occasion I was working at the typewriter on my deck. He didn’t so much look at me, he glared at me, with tiny bullet eyes buried deep in his skull. He had a curious way of moving too, like King Kong or some class of prehistoric creature that might rip a small Irishman into a multitude of pieces.

  If the barn belonged to Erwin, then the night drivers must be his pals. It was all beginning to make some kind of horrible sense.

  Zachery conjured a cigarette from his beard and studied me a while longer. Eventually he spat on the ground, turned and walked away. Just as he reached the gates, he paused as if he’d reached a moment of enlightenment.

  ‘Yer a doctor, huh?’

  ‘Ah no, not a medical doctor . . . more of an academic. I teach at the new university.’

  ‘Ah wus gonna say, if yer a doctor, how come ye don’ do summat ’bout them ahs? Makes ye look laike you wus born on crazy creek . . . Snee, hee, hee!’

  For the first time, his beard parted in what might have been a grin. All I noticed were the dreadful teeth within, like a desecrated graveyard.

  7

  Pip Meets Jim Crow

  Whenever that sinister Jeep was in the yard, Pip knew that Erwin was home.

  On those days the atmosphere was tense at Dead River – the dog skulked in the doghouse and Zachery retreated into a shed. By some unwritten code Erwin never entered Lilybelle’s room, although they occasionally shouted brief practicalities to one another through the closed door. At the sound of that terrible voice, Pip would cling to Lilybelle. He knew this game of evasion could not last for ever; sooner or later the dancers would dance.

  Fortunately, Erwin was often away for days on end. Pip would see the colossus piling ropes and rucksacks into the Jeep, and as soon as he was gone the house seemed to sigh with relief. Pip lost himself in work. First he used the disciplines he had learned at St Joseph’s to bring order to Lilybelle’s room. The boy wiped greasy surfaces, threw out bags of garbage and candy wrappers, and brushed the threadbare carpet, which involved crawling beneath that great bed.

  As he rearranged the family of soft toys on the shelves, Lilybelle looked up from her painting and smiled. ‘Bless yo’ little heart, Pip. Look at ’em awl sittin’ in a line. You cin tell they happy now!’

  Pip found it a pleasure to answer Lilybelle’s tinkling bell. She was easy company – always positive, always full of homespun wisdom. Her attitude was infectious, and with something close to cheerful determination Pip carried in a bucket of soapy water and washed the bedroom windows. It was evident they had never been cleaned before.

  ‘Lawd!’ she sang. ‘It’s laike a fresh new day since you arrived, Pip. Yo’ mah precious ray o’ sunshaine.’

  Before long Pip was caring for her in other ways – she liked him to hold an ornate plastic mirror while she worked on her complicated make-up or backcombed her hair. At her request, he even sprayed her body with the perfume she called Clone.

  It was clear that a complete lack of exercise had created problems for poor Lilybelle – aching limbs, poor circulation and, most worrying of all, acute attacks of asthma which left her wheezing and gasping for air.

  Pip was a kind-hearted boy and he realized the simplest way to be of use was to help Lilybelle to wash. There was no hot water in the bathroom so he had to boil a kettle in the kitchen and fill a bowl and creep as nervously as a fox past that outsized door.

  With great patience, Pip washed Lilybelle’s hands and feet, as round and bloated as the udders of Zachery’s goats. This simple act provided her with so much pleasure and relief that eventually Pip realized that a full bed bath would be an even greater kindness.

  He attempted to ask Zachery how this could be done, but the old man looked appalled. ‘Listen, boy, y’ got yer chores an’ ah got mine. See me askin’ ye how ter split wood or fix an engine?’

  Eventually Pip raised the subject with Lilybelle herself. Immediately the tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Ah know it ain’t raight fer a boy t’ do these thangs,’ she wailed. ‘But ah don’ know where else t’ turn. Hannah’s strong but she’s awful surly and ah don’t much care for her. Ah had two naice boys once – twins, they wus. Ah don’ know what happened to them . . . Ah sure hope they’s in a happy place. Ah used t’ have friends too, but th’ bigger ah got, th’ less ah see o’ ’em. Prej’dice, ah call it, Pip. Oh Lawd, ah made a mess of mah life, an’ tha’s the whole truth of it!’

  Pip watched her sniffling into a tissue and his heart went out to her. He resolved to do what he could, no matter how hard the task. In fact the real problem was not so much the practicalities of bathing Lilybelle, more the sheer embarrassment of the situation. Having been brought up without sisters and having lived so long at the orphanage, Pip knew little about the intimacies of the human body. In particular, the anatomy of the female form was a mystery to him. He recalled a time when, aged six or seven, he and his school friend Foxy Brown had taken it upon themselves to climb inside the square laundry basket in the bathroom at home. It was nothing more than an innocent game, but when Pip’s mother had come in for her evening bath, Pip and Foxy had been too slow or too ashamed to give away their hiding place. The boys found themselves watching through the woven wicker in ever-increasing alarm and fascination as Mama removed every item of her clothing. Then she proceeded to soap each part of her gleaming body, and it was only Pip’s struggle to cover Foxy’s bulging eyes that gave away their refuge.

  Pip’s mother was a liberated woman and a compulsive teacher, so when she heard a rustling, raised the lid and saw two small boys squirming amongst the dirty linen, she did not scream or punish them as others would; she simply said that a sense of curiosity was a commendable thing and if more young men took the trouble to understand the natural beauty of the female form, there might be a little more respect and lot less stupidity amongst them.

  Pip swore that if he and Foxy had not fled the room in embarrassment, his mother might have dragged them through to her classroom and provided them with a full discourse on the female reproductive system, with diagrams to assist.

  And that was the full extent of his education on the subject. Now it fell to Pip to remove Lilybelle’s grimy nylon nightrobe and do his best to cleanse the uncharted continent of her body. The task was hard and upsetting for them both; hard because the boy had to physically heave and push Lilybelle onto her side – the weight of each leg alone was as much as he could manage, and it took his whole strength standing on the bed to haul her over. Upsetting, because Pip discovered terrible sores, which he tenderly cleaned and dried before smearing them with an antiseptic cream designed for diaper rash on babies.

  When the operation
was complete and Pip had tugged the filthy sheets from beneath her and somehow forced clean ones on in their place, they collapsed and cried together, both completely exhausted.

  What made it all so much easier was Lilybelle’s sense of humour. On one occasion as he was washing her, Pip misplaced a bar of soap between the folds of flesh. He searched long and hard to find it . . .

  ‘Oh mah! That tickles!’ she hollered. Then she collapsed into hysterical fits of laughter, which sent her whole body wobbling and rippling so that the bar of soap dislodged itself and shot across the bed, leading to further shrieking and wheezing from Lilybelle.

  Of course, there were other parts of the job that were almost impossible to bear. Several times a day Pip had to force the long-handled bedpan beneath Lilybelle’s body, and the subsequent wiping and cleaning made him recoil in disgust.

  As the weeks went by, Lilybelle and the boy found themselves growing closer. When everything was done, they sat together with the hot breeze blowing through the open window, and Pip read to her from his book or from the newspaper. There were plenty of issues to discuss at that time: Pip became aware of race riots, freedom marches, and many alarming stories of people of Colour or immigrants who had disappeared without trace. Lilybelle had an unschooled homespun wisdom about these matters which was surprisingly profound.

  On one occasion as she mixed paints on an old plate, she said, ‘Ah don’ know whay folks cain’t git along, Pip. Truly ah don’. People faightin’ an’ killin’ each other ’cos o’ the colour of their skin, or they religion or . . . anythang! Way ah see it, people is the opposite o’ paint.’

  ‘What does that mean, Lilybelle? Opposite of paint?’

  ‘See, when you mix colours, Pip, laike ah’m doin’ now, wal, the more colours you mix, the muddier it awl becomes. You git yo’self in a faine ol’ mess with dull greys an’ browns an’ awl that. Ah laike braight colours! Tha’s wha’ makes me feel good. Now, with people, it’s the other way round – the more folks mix together, the braighter the world becomes! In fact, Pip, if folks don’ mix, they git in awl kainds of trouble. There’s a family live up near the mountains name o’ Trencher-Feetus and, well, ah don’t know how t’ put it polite, but ev’ry las’ one o’ them married they cousin, o’ they nephew, and it cawsed no end o’ problems. Put it laike this – if brains wus dynamite, ol’ Trencher-Feetus ain’t got enough to blow his nose.’

  Pip may not have understood the full argument, but instinctively he agreed. The question left hanging in the freshly antiseptic air was how a person like Lilybelle could have raised a son like Erwin?

  Beyond the candy-coloured door the other occupants of Dead River went about their lives – old Zachery worked wearily on the farm, battling with the infertile soil; feeding, milking and killing sundry animals, before shuffling in to eat, hunched, sucking and tearing at his food in the kitchen. He must have realized that Lilybelle was happy with her new companion because, although Zachery did not go in for praise, he seemed to gruffly accept the boy’s presence, like a new dog, or another turkey or chicken in the yard. He never ‘rolled him a nickel’, but he occasionally surprised him with a gift of a warm egg and, once, a ruffle of his hair, which felt as good to Pip as six months’ salary.

  Pip avoided Erwin at all costs, but he tried his hardest to bump into Hannah. Once or twice his heart leaped when he saw her at the stove; but the meeting did not go as he hoped – she glared at him with open hostility and Pip found himself launching into a tide of embarrassed babble –

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Hannah . . . I should ‘a knocked . . . But only a fool knocks on a kitchen door, don’ he? I just wanna say, you sure look good . . .! I mean the food . . .! The food looks good . . . Good enough to eat, ain’t it? It’s you that smells – good, I mean – I mean, the food smells good . . . Oh Lord . . .!’

  Then she would stare at Pip like he was crazy to even attempt a conversation, leaving him flushed and crushed by the encounter as she backed silently from the room.

  And that was Hannah – the silent ghost-child who seemed to live half her life out in the countryside. She prepared fine meals but never ate with Zachery or Pip. When he was hungry, Pip wandered into the kitchen alone and helped himself to slices of creamy chicken pie with mashed potatoes thick with butter; or salty ‘chitlins’, which are deep-fried pigs’ intestines in a spicy sauce. He discovered these delicacies by their smell, concealed in pans on the stove, or beneath a mesh cover in the pantry. Perhaps it was not the healthiest of diets, but it was exactly what his thin frame required. Although he barely noticed it, the boy put on a little muscle and even grew a fraction taller.

  In addition to the three meals a day that Hannah delivered to her door, Lilybelle liked the occasional ‘li’l treat’ or ‘tiny snack’, and towards the end of his first month at Dead River, Pip was deemed trustworthy enough to go alone to the burger bar in town. It was a big occasion – Lilybelle gave him a small purse of coins, detailed directions and precise instructions about how to respond to any awkward questions.

  ‘Now, Pip, you know we have real strict Jim Crow laws roun’ here. Tha’ means Black folks and Whaite folks cain’t do nuthin’ together – no schoolin’, no eatin’, no dancin’ . . . nuthin’ at awl; otherwaise tha’s a felony, y’ hear? Don’ even think ’bout usin’ th’ Whaite folks’ drinkin’ fountain. Best thang – you don’ speak to Whaite folks at awl ’less they speak to you first. Then you say, “Yessah”, real polite. You say yo’ name’s Pip and you’re houseboy at Dead River Farm. You tell ’em Mr Zach got all the necessary paperwork.’

  Erwin had been absent for four days and Pip felt a new sense of liberation. ‘Lilybelle, can I take Amigo?’ he asked.

  ‘Wal, sure. Ah don’ see why not. Jes’ find a piece o’ cord to tether him. Go on now, you have a real naice time.’

  Amigo did not appreciate the length of cord which Pip tied to his collar out in the yard, but he seemed happy enough to trot at the boy’s side, along the dirt track past the white bungalows, with the scent of magnolia in the air. Remembering Lilybelle’s warning, Pip did not even glance at the White folk cutting their lawns or polishing their cars, and he seemed utterly invisible to them. Vivid in his mind was the shocking story he’d heard of a Black boy of exactly his age: Emmett Till had come to the Deep South to take a vacation and stay with relatives. The boy had grown up in Chicago, which was another world entirely, with no segregation, and Emmett even attended a mixed-race school. So he was severely warned, just as Pip had been, to avoid any contact with White folk. But Emmett was a playful boy and he had not heeded his mother’s advice. He went out one morning with a group of friends, and it was three days before they hauled his swollen body from the Tallahatchie River, weighted down with a seventy-pound cotton-gin tied tight around his neck with barbed wire. One eye had been gouged out and the boy had been shot in the head. His crime? Emmett Till was accused of whistling at a White girl, although those who knew him said that Emmett Till had a lisp and whistled all the time.

  Pip and Amigo came to the large copse of poplar trees that Lilybelle had described, and from there it was another fifteen minutes into town. They took their time, because elaborate window displays and interesting odours diverted them. Besides, it felt good to get out of the yard.

  Averting his eyes and stepping carefully out of the way of White folk, Pip reached the burger bar. But to his dismay, when he peered through the glass, he could not see one Black face inside. There was the sign on the door:

  NO DOGS, NEGROES OR MEXICANS

  Crouching on the sidewalk, Pip squeezed Amigo tight against him and whispered, ‘Look at the sign, ol’ friend. Between the two of us I reck’n we offend on every count.’

  He turned and ran home at full tilt, flustered and empty-handed, his happy mood and sense of liberation abandoned.

  ‘Aw, honey,’ crooned Lilybelle, stroking his cheek. ‘Didn’ ah tell ya? You have to wawk round th’ back. There’s a li’l shed there for Coloureds, an’ the food is exa
ctly the same. If you turn an’ run, fast as you can, you’ll git there afore they close.’

  Once again, Pip called Amigo from the shade. The dog seemed confused about being trussed again, but he was willing enough. Pip turned and sprinted back along the track with the purse gripped tightly in one hand and the cord leash in the other. When they reached the burger bar for a second time, Pip discovered a small alley leading round the back. There, as Lilybelle had promised, was a short line of Coloured folk in front of an open hatch. He tied Amigo to the fence and joined the line. When the friendly Coloured lady handed him the huge box of hot food, he opened it to check that the order was correct and, as any boy would, tasted a handful of hot fries, tossing one to Amigo. Then they sprinted back as fast as they could, running along the road rather than the busy sidewalk.

  As they approached the farmyard, Pip saw the curly-haired stranger sitting on his deck with a striped cat on his knee. The cat bolted inside at the sight of Amigo, but the man called after Pip in a cheerful kind of way. Once again, it was the man’s peculiar eyes that struck him, but immediately Pip realized that staring at a White man was the one thing he had been warned against, so he dived through the gates and into the farmhouse.

  8

  The Tutor

  I had a grand day at the university – one of the best! On the drive home, all the details replayed in my mind . . .

  It had started a few days earlier with a message from Professor Walter Cerberus, Vice Principal at the university and a very important man.

  I hadn’t met Cerberus but I knew he was interested in what we got up to in Neurology. The professor was a historian rather than a scientist, but it turned out that he had heard about my lectures and hypnosis demon strations and wanted to bring along a few VIPs and university benefactors to see me in action!

  Of course I felt flattered, and I suppose I was showing off a bit when I decided on a performance to demonstrate the effects of hypnosis on body temperature. The first thing I needed was a volunteer – preferably somebody pretty tough, so I paid a visit to the Sports Department to look for someone suitable. We hypnotists are always on the lookout for what we call ‘susceptible subjects’ – in layman’s terms that means people who are easy to hypnotize. So how do you spot a susceptible subject? Well, there are a number of give-away signs which I’d rather not divulge, but suffice to say, I spotted my man right away – a muscular young hockey pro who was obliging but none too bright. I offered him five dollars for a few hours’ work and he seemed more than happy to get involved.