Chapter Five
"You don't trust me. That's funny, because I trusted you."
Startled, Cowley almost skipped a heart beat. He hadn't expected this. Of course, it had to be translated as, "I've found no other way to get out of your grip, so far." But it was unsettling nonetheless. He looked straight through Bodie's eyes. "I hope I can trust you – I want to - and you've to trust me because I'm the only backer you've got in this game."
"I don't play," retorted the young man sternly.
Cowley snorted. From all the titbits of information he had collected, the man was a gambler if ever there was one.
"So, should have I said: 'the only ally in this war'?"
"What war?"
"I wish I'd the answer. And you need to get it because it's the key to your freedom in this country."
Bodie grew sombre. "What do you mean?" Cowley hesitated. Perhaps, it was too early for a full explanation. But this had to be said sooner or later and maybe the shock of a direct attack would elicit an instructive reaction from the lad in his present state of exhaustion; if he wasn't faking, of course.
"From the information I've gathered, you're a mercenary and a gun-runner. For MI6, you are specifically suspected of providing arms and technical support to the Palestinian activists; something our government is not keen about letting pass unchecked and unsanctioned, or appearing to do so in the eyes of our Israeli friends. He paused. "I've got clout enough to give you a clean sheet and a new life if I can trade it against valuable intelligence."
"About the Palestinians? From me?" If Bodie's astonishment was an act, then he was the actor of the century. He held the older man's scrutinizing gaze for a long while and sighed, eventually breaking eye contact. "Are you sure I was a gun-runner and a mercenary?"
"Yes, of that at least, I'm sure; though of little else." Maybe it wasn't wise to admit as much. Was trust contagious? Cowley relented. "You're knackered and so am I. We'll discuss your past tomorrow. Let's go to bed."
And that was all for the night.
Of the days that followed, and for all the years to come, far ahead in the future, Cowley would keep a vivid, deceptively sharp memory, but unreal, like the mental images we keep of certain potent, recurrent dreams that, awakening, we can hardly distinguish from our daylight experiences; though we know with certainty they weren't part of our terrestrial life.
And yet, everything had begun so normally...
The next morning was ushered in by a belligerent sunbeam thrusting straight into Cowley's eyes through his bedroom window. Blinking, he rose up, fully awake at once and ready to start his customary morning routine.
He showered and shaved, trying not to use all the hot water, then cooked a copious breakfast, again blessing the kind heart and provident mind of his cousin; the old man had seen that the fridge was filled with abundant supplies of everything he deemed necessary. Which was a lot. A near-by farmer must have been commissioned in a hurry.
"I hope you like eggs," he addressed to Bodie when the youth emerged from his bunk some time later, looking shabby in Angus' worn out dressing gown, "because forty eight will be a little too many for me alone, even for two weeks."
"Love 'em," Bodie mumbled as he slumped down in front of him. He stayed quiet for a while, eyes shut; then, suddenly livened up by the smell of fried bread and bacon, exclaimed enthusiastically: "All fucking mighty Gods! That's breakfast!"
"Rather than blaspheme, young man, thank old Angus who provided us all this good fare." (barring the load I was silly enough to carry on slippery slopes, at extreme risk of breaking my neck) he added to himself, a bit gloomily.
Bodie happily dug his buttered toast into the creamy, fluffy mound of scrambled eggs. "Who's Angus?"
"Angus MacFarlane, my cousin, as I told you. Or, more accurately, my father's brother-in-law. I always called him "cousin" but he's my uncle by marriage actually."
Swallowing a double portion of eggs and bacon on fried bread, Bodie seemed to consider the question: "Your father's name's Cowley, I take it? Doesn't sound very Scottish; English, rather. So, you've got relatives by marriage in Scotland but you're not a Scot yourself?"
Cowley spluttered, almost choking on his tea. When he was able to speak again, his voice was vibrating with indignation. «What d'you mean, relatives by marriage? My mother was a MacFarlane too, from another branch, my father's mother a MacGregor from both sides, my mother's mother a Lamont and a MacLaren, and you can pretty well go back to Middle Ages that way..." He stopped, feeling silly as he caught sight of a twinkling in Bodie's eyes. The boy was teasing him.
Which, again, raised his suspicion. Sure, he had told Bodie "I am a Scot." But that was in the London military hospital; never since had he hinted anything about his origins, except that he had relatives in Scotland. "And what do you know about Scotland anyway?"
Bodie shrugged: "No more than I do about my past or anything else; I could well be Scottish myself, for all I know."
Cowley snorted with affected disdain; "Not with that Paddy mug of yours."
"I assume that statement was meant to be derogatory?" Bodie articulated in a plummy voice.
Taken aback by this odd display of pedantry coming from a young hobo, and vaguely ashamed of himself, Cowley opted for self-derision: "Not in the least, some of my best friends are Irish, you know..."
It was said quite playfully but Bodie didn't let himself be disarmed so easily; "I don't doubt it; and some others are Jewish, I'm assured."
At that, Cowley growled: "Stop it now! I don't need lessons from you, especially on that ground."
They stared at each other, neither willing to yield. Cowley won, to his own surprise. He felt better and spoke more gently.
"You've still a few things to learn, laddie. And first: how to give and take as gentlemen do in society. If you can't take a joke for a joke..."
"Oh, I can. Except when the joke is a racist slur."
Cowley frowned. "Don't start me again on this. There was nothing of the sort in my mind. Why did you react that way? Are you Irish?"
Bodie sighed. "How many times must I repeat it? I've not the least idea who I am and where I'm coming from."
Cowley feigned to study his guest's features keenly: "You could well be half-Scottish after all. Are you certain your name is Bodie?"
"Yes," Bodie replied firmly. "Bodie's my name."
"Bodie, not Brodie?"
Bodie looked amazed. "Why do you say that?"
"There's very little difference in pronunciation and it's not infrequent that spelling gets done wrong when transcribed on a birth certificate."
"But why do you suppose such a thing?"
Actually, this was precisely what Cowley was wondering. "Oh, I was simply thinking of the Brodie clan of Moray; it's a very old and honourable lineage."
Bodie laughed softly. "If you absolutely want to count me among your innumerable cousins, I won't object. Don't care. I'm sure I always was called Bodie, though."
"Good to have this one certainty, at least." Cowley's smile was genuine. The mood between them was getting lighter and almost friendly in spite of their previous clash. His, by no means involuntary, "blunder" had provided him some interesting pieces of information: whatever his later way of life had been, the lad had received a fairly good education.
Something he wasn't exactly showing at the moment. After he had wolfed down the greater part of the eggs and bacon and most of the toasts, he was pouring a flood of cocoa powder, directly from the box into his bowl of oatmeal, generously adding more hot milk and a large spoonful of honey.
"What are you doing?" Cowley asked, aghast.
"I like chocolate."
"Me too but not in porridge!"
"Too bad you don't," Bodie replied placidly. And he set about swilling down the disgusting mixture.
Ever since their arrival the door had been left unlocked and Bodie's knowing gaze was proof he had noticed. Not that a door would have stopped him, had he attempted to flee, but that was sort of symbolic…
Eventually Cowley decided there was no reason they couldn't pay a courtesy visit to his cousin. He owed him that much. Bodie looked peaceful and rational enough now, though still apparently amnesic. If in itself this rapid return to normal could have meant something suspicious in Cowley's eyes, it was in no way threatening – at least not for the moment - and, besides, he could put to use Angus' sharp mind and experience of men in those matters. The old man had been the first to introduce him to the military intelligence career and he trusted him completely.
«Fancy a walk?» he asked as they were finishing their lunch.
«I had a walk,» Bodie replied, swallowing his last bite of an apple. He threw the core over his shoulder through the window behind and spat a pip into his dish, ignoring his companion's deep frown.
Actually Cowley had let him go to the nearby river while he himself was busy checking the fishing equipment in the adjoining tools shed. And the boy had come back on time, proudly waving two small trout skewered on a sharpened twig. Cowley had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of such a barbaric way of fishing; Bodie had agreed, and eaten both fish merrily.
«We're going to see Angus Mac Farlane,» Cowley said sharply, «to thank him for his generous hospitality. I expect you to behave properly...if you haven't lost all notion of what's considered to be civilized manners in this country.»
«I'll behave,» Bodie promised, «Scout's honour!» Cowley's glare made him lower his gaze. «Seriously, I don't mean to stir up any trouble. We've an agreement and I'll keep to it. What d'you think? That I would run away with the silverware?»
This wasn't to be dignified with an answer. Cowley went back to the tools shed to fix the fishing rods while Bodie obediently helped by cleaning the small boat. And so, later in the afternoon, after a much faster and easier climb up the same forest path they had so painfully walked down the night before, they had showed themselves at the farm's main door, quickly ushered in by Bart, Angus' handyman and former orderly.
"Good evening, Major. Glad to see you."
"Me too, Bart, thanks for the express supply; it was really helpful. And how's Martha doing?"
"Fine and dandy, as I am," grinned the old man, "Now busy in the kitchen cooking her famous pie."
"Wait, we aren't –"
"Yes, you are!" Bart's grin widened. Martha will never forgive you if you don't stay for dinner. You wouldn't disappoint Martha and the Captain, would you?"
"How's my cousin?" Cowley said hastily, before Bart, who had known him in short trousers, could forget what was left of his military sense of etiquette and go all familiar in Bodie's presence. Last time he had argued with him, the man had called him a scallywag.
"Ah, ah, same question, same answer," was the reply, "Fine and dandy, as I said. He's waiting for you in the main lounge."
The house was large and ancient. More a mansion than a farm, though it had been built as one two centuries ago. Cowley vaguely wondered how Angus, who wasn't as affluent as his family used to be, could still afford the repairs and the wages of two full time servants. The post-war tax laws had made it impossible for most people. Probably he wasn't paying them any longer and the three of them were living in a sort of fraternal community, not mentioning the four legged members. Which, at the moment, were barking and hopping madly all around as they entered the room.
"Rover, Rascal, quiet…sit down!"
Angus Mac Farlane got up briskly from his seat to welcome them. He was slightly taller than Bodie, Cowley noticed, and his bony face was getting gaunter with years. But Bart was right: the old man's stance radiated strength and health. He was centenarian material, if anything.
"Thanks a lot, Angus. My apologies for requesting your help at such short notice."
"Never mind, you know you can count on me. And I understand there were quite special circumstances." He gave Bodie the professional once-over from under bushy brows. "So, this is our unexpected guest?"
"You may call him that, at least no stowaway: Wasn't exactly willing. Were you?" This got a pout from Bodie, who suddenly looked a very young and rebellious schoolboy.
"Anyway, be welcome at Stronchuillin, young man."
"My name's Bodie," said Bodie firmly.
"So he said," Cowley commented dryly; "that's unfortunately the only thing he seems to know about himself."
Angus' expression was all benevolence and sympathy, if you didn't consider the sharpness of the penetrating blue gaze, so similar to Cowley's, while he was taking in Bodie's features and bearing.
"Don't worry, lad; you have plenty of time to work it through, with my cousin's help." He smiled encouragingly. "And mine," he added. Hell, no, thought Cowley, the point is we do not have all the time in the world, maybe very little time, and Angus should know that. The truce he had negotiated couldn't last forever. But he didn't want to break the flimsy bond of trust that Angus was trying to build with the boy; he kept his reflections to himself. The vague, half-baked plan he'd had in mind when he had decided to ask for his cousin's help was taking shape nicely but he wasn't sure now was the right time to disclose it.
A while later, greetings and introductions duly done, they settled in front of a roaring fire, sipping hot strong tea with a tray of light snacks, keenly watched upon by over-friendly dogs, Rover sitting by Bodie's side and Rascal sprawled on Cowley's feet.
"Don't feed the dogs!" warned Cowley as he caught a glimpse of a buttered crumpet being swiftly slipped into the big spaniel's mouth.
"Good advice" agreed Angus, "but too late: I'm afraid they've already been irredeemably spoilt by Martha." He smiled, "Rover likes you, Bodie; still one more crumpet and you won't be able to get rid of him. You'll be smothered with canine love."
"No need of crumpets for that," grumbled Cowley, tugging at Rascal's long ears to push him aside. The smaller spaniel yawned, turned round and get back to position on the other side. "And take this feline off me!" Disturbed by the move, a large ginger cat had leaped from under the next seat right onto Cowley's lap.
"Poppy, get down! George, really, I hope you're more patient with men than with animals."
"Hardly," dared Bodie, and Cowley glared at him while Angus winked.
"I'm not used to living in a zoo."
"That's the town mouse visiting the country mouse, eh?"
"Speaking of which, have you renewed your fishing licence this year?"
They talked of trite, innocuous topics, like the weather, hunting and fishing, various family events, the promising future of Angus' two oldest grandsons, respectively in New-Zealand's sheep farming and the service of HM in a ruinously distinguished regiment. Bodie behaved alright, though not in a very communicative way, and visibly bored, but suffering patiently. Cowley was wondering if they would ever come to the point.
He cast a sidelong glance at Angus. All that idle chit-chat was probably meant to be soothing and reassuring to his reluctant guest. Sure, he was willing to let Angus play his part as he felt proper but he was still growing impatient. He hadn't had time to present him with all aspects of the situation the previous day and, of course, there was no telephone in the lodge. Yet he had no doubt his cousin was able to guess what was expected of him without much explanation. Angus was sharp. In the narrow and very discreet circles where he was still known, he had won the fame of a true spy mastermind. Few also remembered he had been, back in his time, a pioneer in some weird fields of psychological research. Something Cowley intended to remind him about. Soonest.
But Bodie preceded him. "What precisely is this help you're offering me?" he asked warily in the middle of a totally unrelated war-time tale from the old man.
MacFarlane considered him intently for a while. "Do you really want to recover your memory?" Bodie flinched. "I – don't know," he said; not for the first time, Cowley noticed. "You have to be willing and work for it. There's really nothing I can do for you in your own place."
Bodie seemed to be inwardly wriggling under the pressure of two piercing gazes boring through him mercilessly. "Er, I understand that. I just… feel that way. It's odd, yeah; I…don't know why…,"
"Come on, man," Cowley snapped, "you can't postpone this much longer. Soon we'll have all Her Majesty's services laying into us again. And you promised to cooperate, remember," he added, more gently.
"I remember," Bodie said weakly, his morning perkiness vanished altogether.
"That was the condition for your release, and for my protection."
"Thanks so very much! Who's going to protect me from you?"
"You've nothing to fear from us, you're not in the claws of the MI6 bloodhounds any more. But you could be sent back to them directly if you linger too much."
"I just need to know what you intend to do with me, that's all."
"That's only too natural," Angus interfered in his strangely appeasing voice, "perfectly legitimate demand, son; you've a right to ask, and the more so since nothing is achievable without your consent."
"So, what's it about?"
"Nothing extraordinary, nothing dangerous: basically hypnosis with add-ons."
Cowley wondered about the adds. He'd had no time to discuss the details with Angus when they had talked on the phone. He had just assumed he could rely upon his cousin to deal with the necessary.
Bodie, obviously, didn't share this point of view. He stared at Cowley: " You told me you wouldn't use the same methods they did at Repton, that I wouldn't be forced. I can do without still another shrink."
"I'm not a shrink," Angus protested, just an honest to God Navy officer with an interest in psychology."
"You can trust my cousin," Cowley said curtly.
"I'm pretty sure hypnosis wasn't used on you," explained MacFarlane, "or if it was, it failed, because it's not possible to get hypnosis working without the subject's consent." Looking through Bodie's eyes, he added with conviction: «If you do not want to get your memory back, whatever the reason, you won't. But think a bit more about it. A man without a past is only half-living, and has a most uncertain future."
"I'm afraid he may even have no future at all," was Cowley's grim comment.
"Tut-tut, don't frighten the boy, George, it's not the best way of achieving what has to be done."
"Which is?" Cowley's impatience was resurfacing in spite of all his best intentions.
"Proceedings that take time. Like awakening, one by one, the several spots of consciousness that are now deep asleep, re-connecting together the brain's areas that have been shut down by, let's say: fear, anger, pride, whatever; the need to keep in control struggling with the survival instinct, the whole emotional complex."
"I thought it was mainly due to chemicals." Cowley didn't want to be carried too far along the psychology path.
"If his state of amnesia was only a side-effect of the chemicals he'd absorbed, it would have receded as they have been drained out of his system."
"Have they been?"
"Maybe not completely, but for the most part, yes. The boy's awareness and rationality is fairly good, I reckon. As much as I can tell without further examination, he seems to have recovered all his abilities and skills, minus the memory of past events."
"Eh!" Bodie broke in, "I'm here! May I have a word?"
"Sure," Angus smiled. "We're not trying to dismiss you, lad. I just wanted to make a few points clear before proposing a process."
"Proposing to me or proposing to your cousin?"
"Both. Aren't you working together on this? But first to you, of course."
"What is my choice exactly? A soft brain-washing with you two against a hard brain-raking with the others?"
"That's the idea," said Cowley, flatly
"No, it's not!" Indignation in Angus' voice sounded sincere. Cowley himself might have been convinced, had he not known the old fox so well. "The process involved in hypnosis has nothing to do with brainwashing or any form of mind abuse or manipulation; in a way, it's almost the opposite; you can describe it more accurately as an inner journey to self-knowledge and self-repossession. "
"But you do have to manipulate your patient to extract what you want from him, don't you?" From Bodie's tone, it was more an assertion than a question.
"No, all I have to do is to guide him from the outside through the maze of his own inner self; I am Ariadne's thread; the only real actor is the subject, nothing can be done against his will. Be sure of that."
"The only thing I know for sure is you want information from me."
"Yes, and you need help from us." Cowley cut, sharp. He had easily jumped back into the familiar 'good cop/bad cop' pattern. "Isn't that a fair trade?"
"So, I was right; I have no choice." He looked away, expressionless.
Bodie was yielding, however bitterly. Cowley's bluntness appeared to be more effective than MacFarlane's kindness and diplomacy, Cowley noted with satisfaction. The forlorn look on Bodie's face was disturbing though. Not minding the dynamic reversal, he gently patted the big, strong hand laying on the close-by armrest. "Don't be afraid. Just prove to me you're doing everything you can and I will provide you all the help that's in my power. And, don't be mistaken: that's not a little."
Bodie faced him back again and said hesitantly: "Even if there's no result?"
Cowley fastened his grip on Bodie's hand: " I give you my word: Be faithful to me and I won't let you down, whatever the case." Those were words he would later wish he had never pronounced.
He missed Angus' stunned look because his eyes were riveted to Bodie's. The boy relaxed and smiled, with plain trust. "I'll do everything I can."
"So, we have a deal," MacFarlane stated. "When do you want to start?"
"As soon as possible," replied Cowley, "tomorrow morning".
Bodie said nothing and MacFarlane watched him attentively.
"I see no reason to rush things. You need a rest; I need preparation. I suggest two days off: the weather is fine; go for a walk, go fishing, go boating; just don't worry, don't think about the forthcoming job if you can help it, enjoy your free time and relax."
Bodie grinned, Cowley frowned. As pleasant as this program was, or would have been in other circumstances, he was worried about the waste of time. But maybe Angus was right: Bodie didn't look tired (ah, to be twenty four again!); he had gone through a lot though, and his good will deserved a reward.
"All right, Angus, we'll be here on Monday morning, nine sharp."
MacFarlane laughed. "Did I misread something, George? I thought I was the man in charge."
"No, you're only Captain."
"Still the same impetuous, disrespectful imp of old, eh? OK, major. But I want something from Bodie in the meantime."
"What?" asked Bodie and Cowley at the same time.
"He must take four or five cups a day of a special herb tea I'll order Martha to fix upon my prescription."
Herb tea? MacFarlane had always been an eccentric and a seeker of long-lost knowledge. Had he turned into a village healer in his old age?
"I don't want to take drugs."
"Yes, Angus; I promised he wouldn't have to absorb any other psycho-active substance as long as I assume the responsibility for his treatment. And the responsibility, I do keep it.
"Well, any substance is psychoactive, beginning with the caffeine and the carbohydrates you just took in; but I can certify that my mixture is totally innocuous; its only purpose is to relax, soothe the tensions of body and mind, appease the bouts of anxiety. For, it's evident that no effective work can be achieved if the subject's consciousness is fighting the process, out of fear and distrust.
"I want to know the components."
"You can have the recipe, no problem. You can also share the potion with Bodie if you want to experiment the effects on you." Angus chuckled; "maybe you should. I feel you very tense, cousin. It would do you a world of good!"
End of Chapter Five