The Hypnotist Page 7

  I rummaged in my bag and dangled two pencil cases in the air. I was babbling. Terrified actually, but just trying to defuse the situation. Erwin seemed so astounded by my effrontery, by the pencil cases, by my Irish tone, that he must have loosened his grip on the boy . . .

  In a split second of mayhem, Pip seized his moment, wriggled free of Erwin’s grip, darted between those giant legs and bolted – straight across the track towards me.

  With a single bound, he vaulted all four steps, dived behind my back and disappeared through the door of my bungalow like a fellow with his hair on fire.

  Erwin blinked at his empty hand, like a raptor who has fumbled his prey. Then, slowly, his eyes turned to me. I have never seen a look quite like it. It was a look of unmodified violence. It was the expression of a stone-hearted killer, and it chilled me to the marrow of my bones.

  He lumbered slowly out of the yard towards me, arms extended like a vision from a nightmare.

  I employed all my training to search for an appropriate way to handle the situation, but all that came to me were rambling prayers from my convent school:

  ‘ . . . Holy Mary and all the saints defend me. Be my protection against all evils of the world below . . . Amen, Amen, Amen.’

  12

  In the White Room of Dr Morrow

  With heart pounding like a racehorse, Pip dived through the door.

  He found himself in a tidy living room, where a stripy cat sprang for cover beneath a table. The room was remarkably white, creating an atmosphere of cool and calm. Pip saw neatly stacked bookshelves and framed photographs of many smiling children, whose resemblance to the man on the deck was obvious.

  Although Pip’s trust in human nature was pitifully thin, there was no doubt about what had happened: the man who had introduced himself as Jack Morrow had risked his life for him. That strange-eyed man was neither big nor tough – in fact he was shorter even than Pip – but he was braver than anyone he had ever met.

  Now Pip stood gasping in the white room and waited for the sounds of violence to begin – splintering wood perhaps, or the shattering of glass as a small Irishman flew through the windowpane. But no sound came, except the steady ticking of a metronome by a large padded couch and the pounding of Pip’s heart.

  He looked around for an escape route. He noted a glass door at the back of the kitchen with a key in the lock. If necessary he could run into the back yard; but he had to see what was happening on the porch.

  Falling to his hands and knees, Pip crawled across the spotless white carpet towards the front window. Very slowly he raised his head and peered above the sill. Jack Morrow was standing with his back to him, looking out at the shambles of Dead River Farm. And there was Erwin, moving slow as a sleepwalker towards them, with a deadly leer on his face.

  But still Jack Morrow did not run. In fact, to Pip’s amazement, he seemed to be walking across the deck to greet his killer. Jack had his hand extended in a friendly way, and although he was standing high on the deck, Erwin was still a head or more taller.

  Transfixed with amazement and dread, Pip was reminded of a photograph in a wildlife book – a tiger approaching a deer; a predator about to disembowel its prey.

  And then something extraordinary happened – Jack Morrow reached out and grasped Erwin’s hand. He was speaking softly to Erwin all the time, although Pip could not hear the words.

  For a moment Erwin appeared puzzled and distressed. His eyes were transfixed by Jack Morrow’s and now . . . now he was allowing the small man to help him onto the deck.

  With some regret, Pip realized that he would never know his tutor. Because now the killing would begin.

  13

  Erwin Makes a Friend

  One thing to say about Erwin is he speaks his mind.

  ‘Ah’m gonna keel you,’ he said as he approached my bungalow. ‘Ah’m gonna tear off yer puny leegs laike a fly an’ ah’m gonna feed ’em to the dawg.’

  I knew he meant it too. But I struggled to compose myself. I waited at the top of the steps.

  ‘I can see why you’re feeling a little unsettled,’ I said, locking directly onto his tiny eyes. ‘Would you like me to help you up to the deck?’

  I clasped his hand and was appalled by its size. I felt a surge of panic, but sharply pulled myself together.

  ‘Wha’ . . .? Wha’ the hell you doin’? Ah don’ need no one’s heelp. Wha’ you lookin’ at me laike that? What ’n tarnation’s wrong yer ahs?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, Erwin. Everything is fine. You were tired, that’s all . . . but as you step onto the deck you begin to feel a little calmer . . . Do you notice it? And now you are starting to relax . . .’

  I felt a worm of doubt. Supposing this great clod of a man couldn’t be reached? Some people – not many, but a few – are simply not susceptible to induction.

  ‘Ah’m . . . ah’m gonna . . . Yeah . . . ah ah’m kinda tired. Ah don’ know whay . . .’

  ‘It’s been a long hot day, Erwin . . . a long life . . . We all get tired and that’s fine . . . You are safe here with me and your body needs to rest . . . Ah, now this is interesting . . . Do you see the way your hand floats in front of your face . . .?’

  I held Erwin’s wrist lightly and his enormous hand began drifting up and down like a leaf on the breeze.

  The giant stared at it with fascination. ‘Ah gotta . . . ah gotta keel tha’ boy.’

  ‘There’ll be time for everything later, Erwin, but now you need to rest . . . Look – I’m helping you onto the swing seat . . . and it’s so comfortable, so soft . . .’

  ‘Yor ahs . . .!’

  ‘Yes, keep looking at my eyes, Erwin . . . and listen to my voice . . . because my voice is the voice you have always known . . . my voice is the voice of the wind . . .’

  ‘The wind? Goddam it . . .’

  ‘Now this is where we count backwards, Erwin . . . You know how it goes . . . from ten to one . . . You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Ah laike countin’.’

  ‘Of course you do . . . so let’s begin with ten . . .’

  ‘Tin . . . nan . . . aight . . . sivun . . .’

  ‘That’s grand, Erwin, and when your eyes can’t stay open any longer, it’s OK to rest them . . . Just keep counting backwards . . . That’s all you need to do . . .’

  ‘Siux . . . faive . . . fower . . . threeah . . .’

  ‘That’s good counting, Erwin . . . and as you count, it’s like floating slowly downwards in a lovely soft cloud . . . down, down, down . . . and when you reach the very bottom, you’ll find me waiting there . . .’

  ‘Twouh . . . wun . . . Ah’m sleepin’ real good . . .’

  ‘You are sleeping very well, Erwin . . . just like a tiny child. You feel quite relaxed because this is Erwin’s happy place . . .’

  ‘Ah’m gawn . . .’

  ‘The only sound is my voice, deep, deep in your mind . . .’

  ‘Ah thought ah had important thungs t’ do . . . Ah gotta keel somebawdy . . .’

  ‘No, there’s nothing to do except relax on your cloud and float down, down . . . deeper and deeper and deeper.’

  Carefully I placed his limp hand on his lap. I realized Pip had emerged into the doorway.

  ‘Come and watch, Pip. Look, Erwin’s taking a nap. He was ever so tired.’

  ‘N-n-no . . . He’s gonna kill me . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Pip. He won’t hurt you now. I promise.’

  ‘How’d you do that? It ain’t natural.’

  ‘A little trick, Pip. I can teach you one day.’

  ‘But he’s . . .’

  ‘Yes, he’s very relaxed, isn’t he? Shall we play a game, Pip?’

  ‘Wh-what kinda game?’

  ‘We’ll have a little fun. I have no idea if this will work, but it would be amusing to try. You watch, Pip . . . Erwin? Erwin? Can you hear me? It’s Dr Morrow. I’m talking to your subconscious mind now, way, way down in your happy place . . .’

  ‘Ah hear y’.�
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  Something about Erwin’s military haircut gave me an idea.

  ‘Erwin . . . you can think of me as your commanding officer if you want to . . .’

  ‘Yessir, I wanna be good. I wanna do what ah’m tol’.’ His hand floated loosely to the side of his head, like some kind of dreamy salute.

  ‘That’s grand, er, soldier . . . In a moment I will awake you . . . and when you awake you will feel calm and very happy . . .’

  ‘Ah’m real happy.’

  I felt Pip tugging at my sleeve, whispering desperately.

  ‘Sir, sir, why you wanna wake him? Why don’ you jus’ leave him lie. He ain’t hurting no one.’

  ‘You call me Jack, Pip. And it’s all right. Trust me. I’ve done this before.’

  I crouched down and took hold of Erwin’s cherry-red ear in my fingertips. Then I whispered, ‘Erwin . . . Erwin . . . listen to me . . . You won’t remember anything that has happened this evening, but here’s a funny thing . . . whenever you see that lovely fellow, Pip, it will make you calm and happy all over again. It will take you right back to your happy place. You will want Pip to be your friend . . . your best friend in the world.’

  ‘Pip’s mah freend . . . He makes me happy . . .’

  ‘That’s right, Erwin . . . Pip’s your best friend and he will be your friend for a long, long time. Now I’m counting, and when I reach ten, you will awaken . . . One, two, three . . . gradually awakening . . . four, five, six . . . opening your eyes . . .’

  We watched a huge pumpkin smile spread across Erwin’s face. He yawned so deeply, we saw the gap between his front teeth, and his tonsils swinging in his cavernous mouth. Then he stretched his long, long lazy arms above his head, knocking my books from the folding table. As the sleeping giant awoke, I saw his eyelids flicker; but before they fully opened Pip was off like a rabbit – down the steps and across the track.

  I called out, ‘Pip, don’t forget our first lesson! Five o’clock sharp. Oh, and be sure to bring Hannah, won’t you?’

  14

  The Lesson

  To use a phrase of Zachery’s, Pip was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  After the strange events of the morning he had spent the day holed up in Lilybelle’s bedroom. He did not emerge until he heard the sound of the Jeep leaving the yard. Erwin had gone, though for how long he had no idea.

  And now Jack Morrow was welcoming him warmly, and for the second time that day Pip found himself standing awkwardly in the white living room. The Irishman behaved as if nothing unusual had occurred. In fact he was chatting enthusiastically about the book under Pip’s arm. ‘Ah, I’ve seen you with this before and I wondered what you were reading.’

  Reluctantly Pip allowed his new tutor to take the large volume. Jack placed it on a table and studied the illustrations with delight. But when Pip saw Jack reading his mother’s inscription in the front and even running his finger down the neatly written address of the schoolhouse, he could stand it no longer. He closed the book and snatched it away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pip. I didn’t mean to pry; but can you really read this? I mean, it’s pretty heavy going in places . . . I’ve always loved the scene where Pip— Now, wait a minute – you wouldn’t . . . I mean, you wouldn’t be named after young Pip in the story, would you?’

  Pip admitted that he was. Then Jack Morrow rushed to his bookshelf and, after a few moments of searching, pulled out a shiny new copy of The Complete Works of Dickens, with illustrations in full colour.

  ‘It’s something we have in common. I’ve always loved Dickens too. What larks we’ll have, Pip! What larks! That’s a quote, isn’t it? Now, come and sit yourself down . . . No sign of Hannah, then?’

  Pip had done his best to tell Hannah about the lessons, but she had glared at him in her usual hostile way.

  ‘Well, let’s not worry for now, eh, Pip? Why don’t we begin by talking about the wonderful names Dickens uses? Ebenezer Scrooge is my favourite. But there’s also Silas Wegg, Uriah Heep, Mr Sloppy, Polly Toodle, and how about the teacher, Wackford Squeers?’

  Pip could tell the man was trying to be kind. He was making some sort of joke, but it made little sense to him. He found himself staring absently about the room. Everything was stylishly modern, except for a curious sepia photograph in a frame on a shelf. It showed a happy couple from long ago, with arms entwined. There was something odd and familiar about the man. And then Pip realized that the man in the photograph had the same peculiar eyes as his tutor. It had to be Jack’s parents.

  His thoughts were broken by a movement on the porch. With a jolt of excitement, Pip saw that Hannah had appeared like a beautiful spirit, and here she was, holding Jack’s cat in her arms. The cat’s head was hanging backwards in the most relaxed fashion possible and Hannah was rubbing his ears against her cheek. A small part of Pip longed for that attention.

  Jack went to the door, moving slowly as if he might frighten her away, and as he waited at the table, Pip could hear him talking softly to Hannah in his lilting Irish accent.

  ‘Well now, Hannah, I’m glad you could join us. I see you met Finnegan. He’s a wild thing, a bit like yourself. Would you like to bring him in and join us?’

  Her oval eyes darted about at the countryside. Pip sensed that she would rather be running, leaping and free. But as Jack stood patiently with one hand holding the door, she slipped under his arm and entered the white room, the cat purring in her arms. She shot a warning glance at Pip and settled herself at the far side of the table.

  ‘Good. Now we’re all together. I feel I should ring a school bell or something, but it’s not like that here. A warm welcome to you both. My name is Jack – Dr Jack Morrow to use— But never mind all that, I want you to call me Jack. I want us all to be friends.’

  Pip felt restless. This lesson did not feel like the lessons his mama had taught, in which all the children had felt comfortable because they knew who was in charge. The other thing was that Pip kept thinking of Erwin in that dreamy state out on the deck. Surely the spell would be broken by now and he would be angrier than ever. All the time Jack talked, Pip was constantly alert for the returning Jeep on the track outside.

  ‘Now, Hannah, Pip and I were talking about a writer named Charles Dickens. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him. That’s fine. Dickens was an English writer and . . .’

  Jack Morrow told them a little about Dickens; how he had grown up in terrible poverty and worked in a factory as a small boy. All the while, Jack showed them pictures from his book. But the illustrations in Jack’s book were not right – all the characters were White people with rosy cheeks; even Pip was a White boy!

  Then, in a blinding moment, Pip realized that all these years he had been mistaken – the beautiful illustrations in his mother’s book were black-and-white line engravings and he had always assumed they were Black folks . . . especially Pip, because Pip was him, wasn’t he?

  ‘. . . and the amazing thing is that our Pip, sitting right here, was named after the hero of this story. Did you know that, Hannah? I think it’s something you should be very proud of, Pip.’

  Pip did not feel proud. He felt foolish. He felt betrayed.

  ‘All right, Pip and Hannah. Here’s a question for you – why do you think Dickens chose that particular name – Pip – for his young hero? Any thoughts at all?’

  Pip was thinking about all the books in the world and wondering if every last one of them was filled with White people.

  ‘Pip . . . The name . . . Why would Dickens . . .?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. Guess he had to call him somethin’.’

  ‘Well, first of all, I’d like you to call me Jack, if it’s all the same to you. I don’t like being called Sir. The next thing is that there was nothing random about Dickens – everything he did was for a reason. So let’s have a little think. What was the significance of the name? What about you, Hannah? Any ideas? Let’s see . . . How are we going to do this? If I ask you questions, you’ll
nod or shake your head, I suppose?’

  Pip came out of his daze. ‘Give her a pencil, mister – er, Jack, an’ she’ll write for you.’ He had seen Hannah do it for Lilybelle.

  ‘Really? Hannah, is that correct?’

  Hannah nodded shyly and accepted a pencil and an exercise book.

  ‘So, Hannah. Why do you think the writer, Dickens, would call his character Pip? Why might that be a good name?’

  Hannah thought for a long time; then, with the pencil gripped awkwardly in her fist and the other arm shielding the page, she began to write – very slowly, with a great deal of rubbing out. As Pip watched Hannah, he felt something like pride and satisfaction at her efforts. After several moments she handed the exercise book to Jack. Their tutor stared blankly at the abstract scrawl, which looked more like hieroglyphics than letters.

  a pip is reel smol

  With a sudden flash of frustration, Pip seized the exercise book and said, ‘I can read that. It says a pip is real small, don’ it, Hannah?’

  She glowered at him. Then Jack studied the page again, and slowly a look of comprehension spread across his face.

  ‘Oh goodness! Yes, Hannah, a pip is small, isn’t it? That’s excellent . . . excellent! “Pip” is a small word too. This is grand. Now, I wonder, can you tell me something else about a pip?’

  Hannah deliberated again. The cat grew bored and jumped off her lap. At last she resumed the laborious act of writing. When she had finished, Pip studied the words she had written:

  it gros

  ‘Hannah says, it grows!’ he announced. ‘A pip grows, don’t it, Hannah?’

  She nodded reluctantly. Jack was visibly excited. ‘My goodness! You are a clever girl. A pip is small, but it grows. See, that’s the whole point of the story – Pip is a small boy, but he has great expectations and he grows. It couldn’t be a more perfect name. And I suppose another thing is that poor old Dickens would have had to write the name hundreds of times by hand; and readers like us have to read it too, again and again, so a nice simple name like Pip is agreeable for everyone, if you take my meaning.’