He felt sick and light-headed – exactly as Declan felt when he followed Colm out into the London streets all those years ago, he thought. But that wasn’t real. I’ve got to remember that this is all simply a quirk of my own mind.
But he could feel that dark alter ego’s claws still embedded deep in his mind, and fighting free of them took such a massive mental effort, he thought at first he was not going to manage it. This time, thought Benedict in panic, he’s going to take me over forever. But even as the thought formed, he was aware of a surge of defiance. I won’t let him, he thought. Whether any of that was real or not, I’m not going to stay in that world. I don’t want to see what happens next – I don’t even want to know about it. Because the murders are about to begin. He’s going to the East End tonight – to Canning Town and to the old river steps.
Declan Doyle was about to start killing all the people he believed had brought about Romilly’s death.
Michael was absorbed in his Andrew Marvell notes when the phone rang.
A slightly hesitant voice said, ‘Dr Flint? Michael Flint? It’s Benedict Doyle. I don’t know if you remember me, but—’
‘Of course I remember you,’ said Michael at once. ‘How are you?’
‘A bit mixed. You said if I needed help . . . I dare say you’re frantically busy, but . . .’
Michael consigned the Marvell notes to the back of his desk and said, ‘I’m not frantically busy at all.’
Benedict sat in Michael’s study with the view over the tiny, tucked-away quadrangle, and said, ‘It’s very good of you to spare the time.’
‘You said on the phone you weren’t exactly recovering.’
‘I’m not. I don’t know how much Nina told you—’
‘Only the basics,’ said Michael, not wanting the boy to be embarrassed. ‘That you seem to have plugged your mind in to a different time and place.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, they’re calling it – this thing I have – these visions of people living in another time – a form of dissociative personality disorder. It sounds grim, doesn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. Half my students have some peculiarity or other. Particularly,’ said Michael, choosing his words carefully, ‘if they’ve been taking something slightly exotic.’
‘I’ve never done drugs,’ said Benedict at once. Then, with a half-grin, ‘Well, OK, I’ve smoked the occasional joint. Only grass, though.’
Michael said, ‘I’d have been a bit sceptical if you’d said you hadn’t tried anything. But I shouldn’t think dissociative personality would be caused by the odd spliff.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ said Benedict gratefully, and Michael saw his use of the slang term had been reassuring. ‘I thought you might. My cousin’s very kind, but she’s a bit—’
‘A bit removed from student life?’
‘Yes. And the doctors were very good, but it doesn’t occur to them that there might be another explanation for these visions. I don’t really think there is,’ said Benedict firmly. ‘I think the diagnosis is right. But the things I see – people and incidents – are so real. This personality they call an alter ego – his name’s Declan – I feel the emotions he feels.’ He frowned, then said, ‘I thought if I could disprove these people – if I could . . .’
‘Find there was no record of any of the people or places?’
‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Declan was my great-grandfather’s name, so I’m identifying the . . . the alter ego with him. And he did exist, of course. But there are other people with him. I do know you can’t prove a negative,’ he said, earnestly, ‘but I think it would be reassuring if a search – a real scholarly, organized search – didn’t find any evidence of their existence. I think I could just about cope with Declan waltzing into my mind occasionally if I knew he wasn’t real. But it’s this halfway state I’m finding so hard. Only I don’t know really how to go about making a search.’
‘Isn’t there anyone at Reading who would start you off?’ said Michael. ‘I’m not making a polite excuse – I’d like to help if I can – but I don’t want to tread on any toes. Your own tutors, for instance?’
‘I’d rather no one at Reading knew,’ said Benedict. ‘Well, not unless they have to. I’m hoping to go back in a week or so and I don’t want them to look at me sideways or wonder if I’m suddenly going to turn into Mr Hyde or the wolfman.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Michael. ‘I think you’d better tell me a bit more. Can I make some notes? I promise to eat them afterwards so nobody will know. Or,’ he said, glancing towards the window sill, ‘I’ll feed them to Wilberforce.’
With his usual instinct for timing, Wilberforce yawned and got up to walk across to the fire at this point, and Benedict smiled. Seeing that he had relaxed, Michael said, ‘Take me through the whole saga. Start at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.’
With an air of a swimmer finally deciding to plunge into treacherous waters Benedict took a deep breath and said, ‘The beginning is two boys growing up on the west coast of Ireland.’
FIFTEEN
It was a remarkable story. As it unfolded, in Benedict’s rather hesitant words, Michael thought one of the really remarkable things was the logical, sequential nature of it. Declan Doyle and Colm Rourke’s childhood – their youthful infatuation with the red-headed Romilly as they grew up; the appalling incident with the renegade priest in the old watchtower – could Benedict really have dredged all that out of his subconscious? Could anyone? Michael reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about the subconscious mind. He reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about Benedict Doyle, either.