The Bergamese Sect (11 page)

‘
Is it possible this scenario is some sort of cultural icon for your patients; that what they believe they experienced is tainted by a myth already part of the psyche?’

‘
I don’t think so. The mind is very powerful. It can create visions that appear very real, but it’s limited to non-physical effects. Many, if not all of these people show some physical signs of the experience. They often suffer from a condition called
fibromyalgia
; a sleeping disorder coupled with severe musculoskeletal pain and fatigue. They may have marks on the body or suffer a period of lost time. Those things can’t be explained away as a cultural icon.’

Castro took another sip of wine. He’d heard it all before. The psychiatrist’s answers were right out of chapter one. He’d never admit to the possibility that he was as much a part of the alien myth as his patients; that his work propagated, even created the modern-day incubus of abduction. Kennedy reached into the subconscious minds of his subjects, pulling free their repressed memories and then refused to accept the slightest possibility that they weren’t real events. His methods were widely criticised, even within his own profession. The hypnotic state is not well understood and the distinction between memory and imagination far from defined. Most psychiatrists regarded it as a fringe practice, better suited to the fairground or TV magic show. Some critics had even claimed Kennedy’s stories were moulded from childhood nightmares, suppressed fears, hidden desires, but mostly by Kennedy’s own suggestive interrogation. Whether they knew it or not, the process was a conspiracy between hypnotist and subject. But no amount of argument, no amount of logical debate could convert the converted.

And what about the fools Kennedy represented? Castro’s mistrust was almost physical. He was a lawyer, just as much concerned with logic as the scientist. Rational thought, scientific methodology; both were paramount, in the courtroom as well as the laboratory. Kennedy’s people weren’t interested in the truth. At least, not the kind he was after. He felt no empathy for them whatsoever. Whatever they were suffering from, it had little to do with his experiences, whatever the similarities.

His life was in tatters and that was all that mattered. He just wanted to put it back together again, to be reunited with the people he loved. But the rational man in him prevented him from accepting the improbable; it was no quick fix for his broken life. That’s why he’d spent the last six months following dead ends.

Castro fiddled with his pen and watched the psychiatrist move the food gingerly around the plate with the tip of his knife. He decided to change tack.

‘
Is there anything in your research that points to a definite link between separate cases?’ he asked. ‘I mean anything that couldn’t be independently imagined by your subjects which proves that both events actually happened. Corroboration.’

Kennedy smiled with a degree of disdain. ‘Well, there’s the crux of the matter. Because these experiences survive only in the subconscious, it’s difficult to prove they actually happened. It’s like trying to prove you had the dream you say you had. That’s why critics insist these people just dreamt it all. So, no, there isn’t a definite physical link between cases, but the nature of the experience precludes such a link.’

The psychiatrist was being truthful but to Castro he’d just summed up why his work should be dismissed as crackpot hysteria. If real evidence were beyond the investigation, any good scientist would shut his notebook and go home.

Castro grimaced across the table. ‘If there’s no evidence available, couldn’t your interpretation be wrong?’ he asked.

‘
I didn’t say there was no evidence. I said that cases of abduction had little physical evidence to link them. There’s plenty of evidence from individual cases.’

Castro ignored the claim. ‘Have you considered the possibility that these experiences, although real, may have another explanation? I mean, does the explanation have to involve alien intelligence?’

‘
Well, of course, all these cases are secondary sources. They’re not what a court of law would call conclusive proof. But I believe most of these experiences point to alien involvement. All these people have interacted with beings that appear very different from us. What other explanation could there be? Sure, it may not be aliens, but I can’t suggest anything else, can you?’

‘
I guess not. An elaborate hoax?’ Castro offered.

Kennedy smiled.

For a few minutes they ate and drank, Castro inspecting the psychiatrist’s every movement. He wondered if, one day, Kennedy would catch up with Campbell; if he’d turn Campbell into another statistic to be ridiculed. Somehow, he doubted it.

It wasn’t until that sunrise on Campbell’s farm, sitting over coffee and waffles, that Castro had had a revelation. The farmer had led him to a startling realisation. It had really happened, and not only to him, but to others too. Strangely, though, the experience had made him a sceptic, not a believer. The possibilities were so utterly insane; even more terrifying than the memories themselves. It made him want to explore, not languish in self-doubt or psychotic depression, nor accept every crazy theory surfacing from the underground culture.

He wondered whether the psychiatrist’s attitude would change if he’d seen what Castro had seen. What Campbell had witnessed. Would Kennedy be more willing to find the truth if all his patients’ nightmares suddenly became his own?

Castro stopped fiddling with the bowl of green salad and looked up at his guest again. ‘What about the claim that these experiences involve the government?’ he said, suddenly breaking the silence that had surrounded them. ‘What’s your opinion there?’

Kennedy took a deep breath, his brow rising above wide eyes as he contemplated the suggestion. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve never really expressed an opinion. My work has involved investigating abduction claims as a psychiatrist.’

‘
What do you think, off the record?’

‘
Well, why not? Perhaps there is some collusion involved. It’s possible.’

‘
Have you ever heard anything from your patients that would suggest that?’

‘
No, never,’ Kennedy answered deliberately.

‘
Well, have you ever come across anything that seemed ‘human’? I mean, not implying government collusion, but something that perhaps only a human could imagine or perceive. Government involvement seems to be such a big part of the myth that I wonder whether this would be evident. You’d expect something in these experiences to give it away, wouldn’t you?’

‘
Not necessarily. If the government is involved I’m sure they’d do a pretty good job of covering their tracks, don’t you?’

‘
Sure, but you’ve never come across anything that seemed strangely out-of-place?’

Kennedy broke into a huge smile and chuckled slightly. ‘Out-of-place?’ he repeated.

‘
Yeah.’

He laughed again. ‘Something ‘out-of-place’ in an alien abduction episode?’

Castro saw the irony of the question. ‘Okay, badly phrased question.’

Kennedy returned to the meal in front of him. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever come across anything like that,’ he said. Then his face screwed up, his ruddy cheeks compressing as he remembered something. ‘Except once, perhaps,’ he said looking across the restaurant in thought.

‘
Yes,’ said Castro, ‘what was that?’

‘
Well, I’ve never really considered this before. You see, abductees don’t usually recall hearing voices. Aliens don’t talk, apparently. But once, a woman I treated remembered a single word being spoken. The context was missing from her memory and I thought she’d just substituted this word for something else, something that had been erased. But she strongly associated this word with her experiences. It scared her. Disturbed her. I dismissed it because it seemed so out-of-place, as you say. I’m still not convinced it was a real memory. But a few years later, another subject recalled exactly the same word under similar circumstances. Again I dismissed it.’

‘
You dismissed it? Why?’

‘
I didn’t think it had any significance. I still don’t.’

‘
Why not?’

‘
Well, what does it tell us? Nothing, as far as I can see. It’s probably just a coincidence.’

‘
What was the word?’

‘
It was ‘
metusor’
. It’s a term used in some obscure manuscripts from the fifteenth century. It means a person who teaches by inflicting suffering.’

‘
What manuscripts?’ Castro said, writing the word on his notepad.

‘
Monastic records from Italy.’

Castro shifted position, leaning over the table. ‘Italy? Where?’

‘
In Bergamo.’

Staring at the psychiatrist, mouth agape, Castro’s head gave a spasmodic jolt. ‘Bergamo?’

‘
Yes. A linguist friend of mine looked into it. It’s Latin. It’s not a common word. He found it used a few times in these obscure manuscripts.’

‘
What were these manuscripts about?’

‘
Nothing important. They were really just books of sales, nominations, powers of attorney, that sort of thing.’

‘
And in what context was this word used?’

‘
I really don’t know. As I said, I didn’t pursue it.’

‘
Okay.’ Castro turned away briefly, his eyes glazed. He turned back. ‘One more question. Do you remember which monastery it was?’

‘
Er…
Santo Stefano
, I think it was called.’

Castro didn’t react, though his mind was awash with possibilities, connections. The image of Alfonso de Morillo wandered into his thoughts – the forlorn, pleading eyes, the silver symbol shining on the man’s chest.

Kennedy noticed the pause in the conversation, looked up again from his meal. ‘I really don’t think there’s any significance to it. It’s too obscure. They were remembering something else, I’m sure. They even admitted they didn’t know the word. Or what it meant.’

Castro shook his head. ‘Still, it’s very odd,’ he said.

‘
Yes, but probably irrelevant.’

‘
You don’t think it’s important in any way?’

‘
No, otherwise I’d have pursued it. They probably heard the word somewhere and got it mixed up with their abduction memories.’

‘
That’s a pretty obscure word. What are the chances of two of your patients knowing it?’

‘
Small, I imagine. You can read what you like into it, but it’s not the sort of thing I can investigate. The human mind is a complex beast, David. We can’t always rely on what the subconscious tells us.’

Castro stared at the psychiatrist, his expression revealing the implications of what Kennedy had just said. An admission of doubt.

Kennedy realised what he was thinking. ‘Mr Johnson,’ he said, ‘I get the impression you’re less than convinced about my work. I’m not surprised at that, but why are you writing about this if you’re not willing to explore the possibility? It would be easy to trash me in whatever publication you’re writing for, but it’s been done many times before. It would be nothing new. It’s unlikely to change anything.’

Kennedy looked down again.

Castro took a mouthful of salad and crunched it. A disturbing uneasiness came over him. He wanted to jump up and shout at the psychiatrist. Reveal himself. Argue with the man for being so sure. Demand certainty for his own convictions. It wasn’t so much Kennedy’s claims themselves that rattled him, more the way Kennedy and his kind went about their business. The psychiatrist blatantly used his academic freedom to validate his claims. As a tenured physician at a major university, he was completely free to publicise his opinions, however controversial. To prevent him from doing so would make Princeton a denouncer of free thought, something even the tenured ‘real’ scientists would find hard to bare. They remained silent and in return, Kennedy tightened his grip on the public with unscrupulous references to his academic credentials and the praise of his peers. Peers that weren’t walking the corridors of Princeton, that’s for sure. As long as Kennedy’s work harmed only the intellects of his critics, he was safe to dream up anything he liked. And to sell his books, this is exactly what he did, in many people’s opinion, including Castro’s.

‘
Allan, you’re right,’ Castro said. ‘I’m not a convert, I’m a sceptic. I don’t think you’ve proved any of this beyond reasonable doubt. What you’ve told me all seems a bit flat, like you don’t actually have any answers at all.’

Kennedy’s smile showed that air of superiority Castro disliked. ‘David, I’m a man with many opponents and critics,’ he said. ‘I’m well aware of that. But I’ve spent many years studying this and all I can say is that, based on my investigation, abduction is a very real phenomenon. I believe that alien intelligence is responsible, though I have no idea about motives or possible collusion. I don’t have definitive evidence, but I’m still convinced. Before I began studying this phenomenon, I used to think like you, you know?’

Castro spoke before the psychiatrist could go on. ‘Don’t try and convince me you were once a sceptic, Allan,’ he said. ‘That’s a tactic I’ve heard before.
I used to be a sceptic, but now I believe, therefore, I must be genuine.
That won’t wash with me.’

‘
You don’t talk much like a journalist,’ Kennedy answered, a definite shift in his tone. ‘Is there some other reason you’re here?’

‘
No, Allan,’ Castro replied. ‘I
am
writing about your work. But I have my own opinions. I disagree with most of what you believe. But mostly I don’t like the way you make a living duping the public.’

‘
I see. Well, yes, I’ve made a lot of money from my work. Controversy generates income, as a journalist you’re well aware of that. It’s how I survive. But don’t accuse me of duping the public. They are quite able to make up their own minds. Remember, I’m fundamentally driven by scientific curiosity and I’m limited to the one tool at my disposal – psychiatry. I want to know what’s going on, just like the next man. I may seem stubborn in my opinions, I may suggest things that other people find difficult to accept, or that may not seem substantiated, but I don’t do it simply for financial gain. I’m only reporting what I’ve found. You come up with a best seller explaining why I’m wrong and I’ll gladly buy a copy.’