In the dead of night, Pip is plucked from an orphanage and hired as a farm hand. But Pip is black. The farmer and his wife are white. And this is 1960s America, where race defines you.
Jack Morrow has left his native Ireland dreaming of a new life in the American South. He has certain skills that he mostly keeps hidden. Skills in hypnotism and mind control . . .
Pip and Jack’s lives become inextricably linked as the heat of racial tension builds to a terrifying storm.
This extraordinary debut novel looks at where life and love can take you when your expectations are great.
‘The Hypnotist explores what it is to be kind, to be curious, to love and to express yourself – to be human, in other words – in the face of intense racial and sexual bigotry, cruelty and violence. It’s a passionate, important novel’
Amnesty International
‘Full of suspense and heartbreak, this is a powerful account of survival amid irrational, omnipresent hatred’
Guardian
‘A beautifully written story’
Scottish Book Trust
‘I was absolutely gripped: compelling storytelling with a powerful anti-racist message’
The Bookseller
‘A thought-provoking read’
Evening Post
Winner of the Historical Association Young Quills Award
Longlisted for the CILIP Carnegie Medal 2018
RHCP DIGITAL
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
www.penguin.co.uk
www.puffin.co.uk
www.ladybird.co.uk
First published 2016
Text copyright © Laurence Anholt, 2016
Cover artwork copyright © Christopher Worker, 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–19666–1
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
For Cathy
‘I’m counting back now, Hannah . . . eight, seven, six . . . Your breathing slows . . . Your eyes fall deep into their sockets . . . five, four, three, two . . . You are deeply, deeply relaxed . . .’
‘It’s so hot tonight.’
‘Where are you, Hannah? Tell me what you see.’
‘I’m in my bed above the tool store. There’s a strange light keeps flashing . . . No, no, it’s the storm brewin’ outside and lightning crackling in the sky.’
‘Go deeper now . . . You can remember everything. Tell me, how old are you, Hannah?’
‘I’m thirteen or fourteen years old – and I’m so afraid!’
‘You know how to wake if you need to . . .’
‘I’m kneeling on my bed. Here’s my dreamcatcher blowin’ at the window an’ I stare through its web at the yard below. There’s a whole lot of noise out there, and suddenly I see a Jeep drivin’ fast through the gates. I hear doors slammin’. The dog is barking in the doghouse . . . and now it’s yelping – maybe he’s kicked it.’
‘Who is it? Who has returned so late?’
‘Erwin. It’s Erwin. Oh God! He’s comin’ into the tool store below. I hear him crashin’ about downstairs. He’s drunk – I can tell because he’s stumblin’ and cussin’. Now . . . Oh my Lord! He’s treading up my stairs . . .’
‘You remember everything, but you are quite, quite safe . . .’
‘I always knew he would come – that’s why I never go to my bed without heavin’ the chest of drawers against the door.’
‘Take it steady, Hannah . . .’
‘I’m out of my bed, shivering in my nightgown, and outside the thunder is crashin’. Now I’m piling chairs and the laundry basket against the door – I need to stop him getting in. I’m trying to drag the bed, but he’s so strong, the door is already opening . . . Oh Lord! I see one huge hand reachin’ at me, and he’s saying, “Ah’m cummin’ for ya, gal. Ah always tol’ ya ah would.”
‘I’m whimperin’ like the dog in the yard an’ I’m callin’, “Pip, Pip, I need you now!”
‘Then I’m climbin’ back into bed ’cos there’s nowhere else to go. I’m pullin’ the blankets way up to my eyes. Suddenly there’s an almighty CRASH! – and Erwin is here! Right here in my room! Nearly seven feet tall. No matter how many times I see that man, I am shocked and terrified. I’m tryin’ to disappear into the bed and he’s lookin’ down at me, bent beneath the ceiling, like . . . like a shrunken head on a stick.’
‘Keep breathing, Hannah. Remember you can wake if you want to . . .’
‘And now he’s bendin’ down, and my heart is beatin’ so fast it may bust my rib cage. The smell of whiskey makes me wanna puke. His long fingers are tuggin’ at my blankets, he’s pushin’ that tombstone face right up to mine, and he whispers, “Ah ’magine yer ’bout the purtiest li’l woman ah ever seen.”
‘Now he’s untyin’ his laces and pullin’ down his dungaree straps – then he trips and hits the bed so hard it knocks the breath out of me. My mouth is dry – I can’t find a sound, but my eyes – my eyes are . . . screaming!’
‘But you remembered the words, Hannah? The words I taught you?’
‘I’m trying to find the words, because I know they can save me. But I been silent for so long . . . I been mute for years now, and my jaw is frozen and my tongue don’t work.
‘Erwin’s naked and slimy with sweat. There’s a big ugly tattoo on his back: a blood-drop on a white cross.
‘He’s kneelin’ on my bed, which almost gives way, and he’s pressin’ his mouth against mine and pushin’ his tongue inside – I can taste the chicken and onions he had for his supper.
‘I feel his stubble scrapin’ my skin. I’m tryin’ to twist my head away. Then he says, “Ah ain’t gonna hurcha, gal. Wal, not too much anyways.”
‘And I know I’m gonna die . . . Right here. Right now . . .’
‘That’s grand, Hannah. You’ve done well. I’m going to wake you now. I’m going to bring you slowly back . . . and when you awake, you will remember everything, but you will feel calm and strong. I’m counting from one to ten.
‘One, two, three . . . slowly awakening . . .
‘Four, five, six . . . opening your eyes . . .
‘Seven, eight, nine . . . Wake up now, Hannah, and join me back in the room.’
Pip had been awake for hours when the flashlight snaked across the dormitory floor and picked out his bed and his face on the pillow.
‘Pip, git yer clothes on. I wanna innerduce you to someone.’
While the other boys slept, Pip pulled on his clothes and walked across the linoleum into the corridor. He carried his book in one hand and his boots by their laces in the other. There was a cluttered office outside the dormitory with windows on three sides, where a TV crackled and the two men were drinking whiskey.
‘Pip, this here is Mr Zachery. He’s looking to foster a boy—’
‘But it cain’t be jes’ any boy. Ah need a strong boy. Also, ah need a boy who cin read. Ah see ye got a book, son. Ye able t’ read?’
‘He’s the only boy on the premises who truly can.’
Pip stood blinking in the flickering light as Mr Zachery turned him about by the shoulder like a cut of beef. The old man’s beard was yellow with nicotine and the teeth were black within. It reminded Pip of something foul – a piss-hole in the snow.
‘Pip, Mr Zach askin’ if you can read. Why don’t you tell him ’bout your book?’
‘My mama give it me. It was her book. She tol’ me I was named after the boy in the story.’
‘What’s the book, son?’
‘Great Ex’tations, sir. Charl’ Dickens.’
‘Wal, ah don’ know ’bout that, but if ye cin read, ah gotta place for yer. Lemme feel yer muscles, son.’
Pip rolled up his sleeve and flexed his bicep. Both men laughed – ‘Snee, hee, hee!’ and ‘Hur, hur, hur!’
‘He’s small for his age, but he’ll grow. He’s a good kid. Edercated too. You wanna take him, Zach?’
‘He’ll do.’
‘But listen, Zach, you gotta look after this one or the poh-leece will be knockin’ on mah door. That’s three o’ my boys you misplaced now. I ain’t forgettin’ them twins a few years back.’
‘Twins . . .? Ah must have disremembered. Wal, ah cain’t help it if the little critters run away. Anyways, ah ’preciate the drink. Me ’n Pip gotta long drave ahid of us.’
Chairs scraped the floor.
‘Now then, Zach, here’s a pey-un. I need a signature, right here . . . and another one here.’
When he had signed, the man named Zachery pulled out a wad of dirty dollars. Licking his fingers theatrically, he began to count – ‘Twenny, twenny-farve, thurty, thurty-farve, fawty, fawty-farve . . .’ – until there was a jumbled hillock on the table. Then there was more counting and recounting until the men shook hands and the money was shovelled into a drawer.
Finally Pip was pushed gently but firmly from one man to the other, as casually as you might pass on a pair of discarded corduroys.
‘So long, Pip. You jes’ do what Mr Zach says and be a credit to St Joseph. I hope you’ll allus ’member the good times we had.’
Pip squatted on the office floor, his thin legs trembling as he worked on his bootlaces. Then he rose to his feet and followed Mr Zachery like a gangly calf at an abattoir along the silent corridors which he had mopped so often; down the granite steps, thirty-eight in all, each spangled like a starry universe, and into the courtyard of the St Joseph Poor Boys’ Orphanage, where they were consumed by the drizzle of the night.
Pip carried no bag but he shoved his precious book deep inside his jacket. He watched Zachery climb into the cab of a battered brown truck. The engine chuntered, then the old man leaned across to push open the passenger door. But Pip did not move.
‘What’s troublin’ you? Oh, the dawg. He won’t hurt you none. Name’s Amigo – bought him off a Mexie fer farve dollars. Jes’ push him aside and climb on up. Best git acquainted, we three.’
The inside of the cab reeked of tobacco and dog and old man.
Zachery peered through the murky windshield and the truck jolted forward, through the great iron gates, past blind tenement buildings and black warehouses, trundling through slumbering clapboard suburbs and into the lonely countryside.
Pip tried to settle but the seat was cold and rough, with ripped leather and horsehair stuffing, and all the while the hound, Amigo, inspected each part of his body in turn, finishing by thrusting a wet nose deep within his ear.
As they drove, Pip’s fingers stroked the cover of his mother’s book, soft and worn by years of his unconscious caress. The only sound was the groaning and thumping of the wipers and a sniffing and coughing from Zachery.
After an hour the small truck entered a huge forest, where the weary headlights created dancing shapes amongst the foggy trees. In Pip’s imagination the shadows took on the forms of dead men concealed behind every trunk, who lurched violently towards the windshield waving their elastic arms before disappearing again and again into the blackness. Why could Zachery not see them? Pip stared at the old man’s cadaverous face, illuminated by the glow of a cigarette, and imagined that he was one of them – driving deeper and deeper to his dead man’s lair.
‘Wal?’
‘Wal what, sir?’
‘Wal, the dawg tawk more ’n you . . . Ye know how t’ roll a cig’rette?’
‘No, sir.’
Zachery hauled on the brake and, with blackened thumbnails, prised open a battered tin containing a wad of tobacco and a scrap of apple to keep it moist. Then he patiently showed Pip how to roll a cigarette. ‘Pinch o’ baccy, lay it ’long the paper, roll it real neat. You watchin’ me, boy? Lick it here . . . Not too wet, dog darn it . . .’
Pip was a fast learner and glad of a diversion. With some pride he handed his effort over for inspection. Zachery turned the cigarette in his hands, sniffed at it, struck a match, exhaled a vast cloud of blue smoke, and they lurched on into the sodden night.
‘Wish ah could fill the truck with some o’ this rain. Don’t git too much where we’re headed. Now, ye gonna tell me how ye ended up in the Poor Boys’ home – or ’m ah gonna guess yer daddy ran off with someone ails, an’ yer mammy don’t wan’ ye no more?’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘Sho it’s a lie. That’s why ah’m standin’ in need of an explanation.’
Pip had never spoken of that fateful Sunday. Not to a soul at the orphanage, or to the childcare officers who had taken him there. But something about this strange night opened him up and he began to relate the tale of the drive to church, which started so happily, with hymns in the car and excited talk of his baby brother or sister curled snugly within Mama’s belly.
Pip heard his own voice far away, describing the details of how he had crawled into the very back of the station wagon to retrieve his book, so that when the signals failed and Papa drove straight into the path of a speeding train, Pip had miraculously survived, while his mama and papa had died in an instant, taking with them the sibling he would never know.
Having no other relatives, Pip had been passed by the preacher to St Joseph’s where, although he had not been mistreated, he had waited and waited for something to happen, never knowing exactly what it would be.
If he had been older than ten years when he arrived at the Poor Boys’ Orphanage, he might have been aware of some injustice at being labelled poor. Pip’s parents had not been poor – his father ran a busy general store and they had lived in comfortable rooms at the back of the schoolhouse where his beloved mother was head teacher.
Pip’s father had never trusted banks, and after his death, although the people searched and searched, no savings could be found. The store and eventually the schoolhouse were sold, but a number of parties came out of the woodwork claiming ‘evidence of unpaid bills’ or debts, which had ‘accumulated interest’. By the time they had taken their share and the pastor had paid the triple funeral bill, there was nothing left, and young Pip had been sent away with only the clothes he stood up in and Great Expectations in his hands.
And now he was almost fourteen years old, and when he looked back in later life, Pip would realize that he had entered a kind of limbo in the orphanage years, like a chrysalis wintering in an attic.
‘Dang burn it,’ Zachery whistled. ‘Sometimes life jus’ iden right.’
In the brief moment before he fell asleep, Pip imagined how he would tell the story to his father, getting every detail just right, and how sorry they would be for that poor family.
Pip dreamed of rumbling and jolting and an ever-increasing weight on his legs. He awoke to a ghostly dawn and the horrible realization that the story was true and he was that orphan, and that the weight on his legs was the sleeping dog, Amigo, who had drooled a copious quantity of saliva across his knees. His body ached, his throat was dry, his belly groaned for food. Then it came to him that the bearded man at the wheel, with drooping eyelids and cigarette hanging from lip, was named Zachery, and that for ‘severnty-farve dollars’ he had bought his life.
They lumbered to a stop at a gas station next to an all-night diner, seemingly nailed together with advertising signs. The rain had evaporated and a fierce heat was building like a threat.
‘Ah need some aigs and grits,’ muttered Zachery. ‘You sit right here with the dawg and don’t think about going noplace. Ye need t’ piss, ye step over to them bushes, y’ hear?’ He climbed down, slammed the door, stretched himself and spat on the ground. Then, seeming to soften a little, he wandered round to Pip’s side of the truck and thrust his bristly head through the windowframe. ‘Listen, boy, y’ know ah would take yer in if ah could. But see the sign? Clear as day, ain’t it?’
It was indeed as clear as day:
NO COLORED ALLOWED BY ORDER OF MANAGEMENT
Pip waited with the panting dog. He figured he could jump down and head cross-country and he might not be caught. But the fact was, old Mr Zachery was pretty much the only person he knew in the world. He watched the old man take a seat in the bright diner, smoking more cigarettes over steaming mugs of coffee as the waitress brought him huge trays of food. As new customers arrived or left, Pip caught faint snatches of Country music from the jukebox inside.
A memory came to him of his father in a checked shirt on a holiday morning, singing loudly and breaking into little dance moves as he fried pancakes for the three of them. Pip’s father was always cheerful, but that was a special day when father and son were heading off with a packed lunch to fish in their secret place near an old stone bridge. ‘Pop and Pip time’, his mama called it. It seemed then that the future would keep running on for ever like the endless water beneath his toes.
In the hot truck, with Amigo smouldering against his body, it suddenly struck Pip that if he looked at the big map of America pinned to his mother’s classroom wall, he would not have the slightest idea where he might be. And even less idea of where he was headed.
‘All righty, boy. What’s that? Y’ been cryin’? Jes’ when ah got yer a bacon roll with ketchup ’n everthang. Yer wan’ Co-Cola or Sebmup?’
He handed Pip a cold soda and a bag of steaming food, and tossed a scrap to the dog. Then Pip became aware of his hunger, which was the ravenous hunger that only a teenager knows.
Zachery refuelled and the old truck clattered on mile after mile, swallowing the endless ribbon of the road. Now they were in sparsely populated cotton country, where skinny dogs barked from dusty yards and skinnier kids swung from tyres in trees, and endless fields were spotted with the upturned buttocks of migrant workers.
‘Ah bin thinkin’,’ said Zachery. ‘Seems ah owe yer some expl’nation ‘bout what ah got in store for ye. Me ’n mah family live ’bout four more hours from here. Ain’t nuttin’ special ’bout Dead River Farm – fawty-farve acres of thirst an’ dust. My wife, Lilybelle, ain’t in good health. Ah mean she cain’t raise from her bed. That’s why ah need a good strong boy laike you, see? We give ye a place to lay yer heed ’n all the food ye want. In return, you look after Lilybelle like she’s yer own momma, Gawd rest her soul.’
He hawked and spat out of the window. ‘Mah poor Lilybelle cain’t do nothin’ fer herself no more, so you gotta clean her, an’ lift her, an’ help her do all the things any human needs t’ do. Way it works at Dead River – if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Most ’f all you gotta read t’ her, y’ hear? Tha’s why ah picked you outta all the kids ah coulda chose. If there’s one thing Lilybelle love, it’s a story. She laikes romance ’n all that, or ye cin start right away with that book yourn.’
‘Dickens.’
‘Yeah, Dickends . . . Things work out, y’ cin help out on the yard, then ah might even roll a few nickels yer way. How’s that sound, boy? Partners?’
He spat on his palm and reached out a mustard-coloured hand. Pip said nothing.
‘Cain’t hear ya, boy.’
Pip thought he detected a faint twinkle around the old man’s eyes. What choice did he have? Surely life with Zachery and Lilybelle and Amigo would be better than the hard regime of the orphanage. However, that damaged boy was a long way off trusting another adult. He kept on staring at the outstretched hand, gnarled and leathery as a coalman’s glove. But he would not shake it.
Zachery chuckled. ‘Snee, hee, hee! Ah laikes a fella who knows his maind. You shake when yer ready t’ shake an’ not a day before.’
He brought his hand sharply back to the wheel, swerving violently to avoid a blaring eighteen-wheeler. The stream of curses from the old man’s mouth would have cleared a church in an instant. When he had recovered, he lit the freshly rolled cigarette that Pip handed him.
‘One last thang ah gotta tell ye,’ said the voice within the smoke. ‘Kinda warning, ah guess. You best stay clear of mah son. He’s nainteen years now and . . . wal, ah don’t rightly know what goes on in that gallumpin’ head o’ his. He don’t do nuthin’ for his momma. He’s got hisself in with a crowd ah don’t care for – too much liquor, too many guns. Heed mah warnin’, boy . . . You jes’ stay outta his way and Erwin won’t do ye no harm.’
From the deck of my bungalow I watched the truck shudder to a halt at Dead River Farm. I raised my hand, but Zachery ignored me.
I had lived at the end of that track for several months and I was beginning to get a picture of my neighbour: old Zachery could be spectacularly rude, but beneath that bristly surface I reckoned he was as decent as the next fellow. It was clear that he had been driving all night because he almost fell from the cab and limped across the yard towards the farmhouse, coughing like he was expelling his lungs. Then he kicked open the screen door and disappeared inside.
Zachery was followed as usual by his dog – a lovely flea-bitten old thing. The mutt knew better than to enter the house; he paused to quench his thirst from a bucket and crawled into the shade of his kennel by the porch.
Nothing unusual about any of this, you might say. But a moment later the passenger door opened a crack and I realized there was someone else inside the truck. Out he stepped – a lost-looking Black boy in huge boots, with bright eyes in his round face and sticky-up hair like a scrawny little angel. Even stranger, the lad was holding nothing but a large leather book.
He stood right in the centre of the cobbled yard, shielding his eyes from the raging sun. Then he began to turn slowly round and round, staring in bewilderment, but never once looking to where I sat, not two hundred yards across the way. The lad seemed to be taking in the small sounds – the shuffling chickens and the post-mortem contractions of the truck.
I’m not sure why, but I felt awful sorry for the tiny man, whoever he might be. I’d seen several farm workers come and go at Dead River, but there was something different about this fellow – an intelligence perhaps . . . I can’t quite describe it. I was about to call out and see if I could help when he set off in Zachery’s footsteps across the chaotic yard. He paused for a moment on the porch, with the book clutched tightly to his chest, and then he let himself nervously into the house.
But wait a minute! My ma would kill me . . . I should have started with the introductions! My name is Jack – Dr Jack Morrow, to use my full moniker, originally a native of Dublin. The reason I found myself so far from the Fair City is easy enough to explain – I had taken a job at the new university on the outskirts of town.
When I arrived fresh off the plane, a pretty young leasing agent brought me to see that bungalow, the last in a line of identical properties – all newly built in whitewashed clapboard, with a deck and a yard at the front. My rent would be slightly lower than my neighbours’, she told me. No, she was not doing me a favour on account of my winning Irish charm; the fact was that my neighbours enjoyed sweeping views across the fields to the distant mauve mountains, whereas my bungalow looked straight into the rustic shambles of Dead River Farm. Every evening, when I had finished at the university, I sat with a cold beer and my feet up on the rails and gazed into that remnant of American history: the rickety farm buildings, the rusting motorcars, the spindly windmill on stilts, the skeleton of a tractor and the posse of poultry pecking amongst the weeds.
To tell you the truth, the view didn’t bother me at all. I’ve always been more interested in people than fields. Besides, it gave me plenty of stories for the folks back home. Once a week I called my family, expensive as it was, and the many Morrows gathered around the phone to hear the latest instalment from Dead River Farm. They thought I was making it all up until I sent them a set of Polaroids – I even managed to get a sneaky shot of Zachery plucking a chicken wearing long johns . . . that’s Zachery in the long johns, not the chicken!
Zachery made no secret of what he thought of the scholars and academics who were settling into his neighbourhood. I will never forget our very first encounter: the old man shuffled across the track, vigorously scratching his groin. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he spat in the general direction of my car, stared long and hard into my eyes and said – if I can recall the expression – ‘You look like y’ wuz born at the top o’ the ugly tree an’ hit each branch face first on th’ way down!’
So much for Southern hospitality! But as far as I was concerned, the old man and his funny farm were nothing to do with me – I was an outsider; an accidental observer, if you like. Mine was a different world altogether; my world was the bright, new, pioneering America of the 1960s. Yes indeed, the times were definitely a-changin’.
I’ll tell you what . . . to get the full picture, why don’t you join me on a little drive to my place of work? It won’t take long. Hop in and I’ll give you a tour.
You’ve not said anything about my car. What you’re looking at is a limited edition silver Alfa Romeo 2600 ‘Spider’ with a reclining sunroof and all the trimmings. I’m not one to brag, but this beauty cost me half my first year’s salary – not bad for a fellow from a Dublin terrace! I’ll admit that one or two Polaroids of the Spider might have found their way across the Atlantic, and my youngest sister, Caitlin, described it as ‘totally groovy’. All I can tell you is you’ll get a smoother ride than you would in Zachery’s old tin bucket.
I expect you’d like some music while we drive. The soundtrack of those years was the Beach Boys, Joan Baez and – especially exciting for me – a young British band called The Beatles . . . perhaps you’ve heard of them.
Now we’re off . . . along the rutted dirt track, with the chaos of Dead River receding in the mirror and the warm wind blowing in your hair. To your right are the Toytown bungalows, each with a neat little lawn and a station wagon in the driveway. My neighbours are friendly enough, but you’d think their goal in life was to live in identical houses, watch the same TV channels and save their salary for a food mixer! As we pass, we are greeted with nice waves and friendly smiles . . . Did you ever see such white teeth?
To your left are the endless parched fields I mentioned, broken only by a colossal army of electricity towers marching towards the horizon. After a few minutes we reach the copse of poplar trees at the end of the dirt track, with the sweet smell of magnolia in the air. When there’s a pause in the traffic, we turn right and soon we are cruising along Main Street. It’s a brave new world all right! Here’s a Drive-Thru McDonald’s; and should you need it, there’s a KFC next door. If you’re still peckish, we’ve not one, but three supermarkets! And if you’re looking for a place to take your lover on a Saturday night, why, there’s the drive-in movie house, showing Hitchcock’s The Birds. I went a fortnight ago and saw the new James Bond movie, Dr No, which was marvellous.
Would you look around at the bright and confident people? Of course, there are old timers in wrinkled suits, but what I notice is the young women with big hair, pillbox hats and oversized sunglasses. I see handsome men sporting paisley shirts with butterfly collars, flared trousers and white Stetson hats. Some of them have huge sideburns like the earwarmers Ma made us wear back home in winter.
You won’t find many here in the South, but we’re hearing about a new species called the hippies, or flower children, who go about with bare feet and ragged clothes – I’ve heard they remove their clothing altogether at the pop festivals!
But that’s not the whole picture: while half of America’s men are growing their hair, their stubble-headed brothers are preparing for the bloody, wasteful war in Vietnam. Over the next decade many would return draped in the Stars and Stripes.
After a couple of miles we leave the town, and now you get your first view of the university . . . do you see it up there on the grassy hill? It’s what the poet might call a citadel of concrete and glass, sparkling and gleaming like a ship from another galaxy. This is where I belong! For I am Dr Jack Morrow, Head of Neurological Research. Just thirty-two years old and I have my own designated parking space!
Without doubt this first year here in America has been the most exciting of my life. Why wouldn’t it be, when I have free run of these state-of-the-art laboratories with the softly whirring machines and all the wires and monitors? I’m like a child in a sweetie shop and I get paid for the privilege! I think you could safely say that we’ve created the finest Neurology Department on the planet.
Right along here you’ll find my office, with my name – DR JACK MORROW – on the door. My specialism is the astonishing field of Neuro-Linguistic Programming and Hypnotherapy, pioneered by a fellow named Milton Erickson, who is a bit of an idol of mine. The work that goes on here is – if you’ll excuse the pun – mind-bending!
When I first arrived at the university I dare say I was a source of great amusement. I certainly heard a few nicknames – ‘HypnoPaddy’ was a good one, or simply ‘The Leprechaun’; but they soon changed their tune when they saw me at work. One year on, it’s standing room only in Dr Morrow’s lectures!
To give a couple of examples, my team and I are currently investigating hypnosis as a means of pain control . . . Like the fellow under full hypnosis who had his appendix removed in front of two hundred people in the lecture theatre. Not so much as a squeak of anaesthetic and he was grinning like a babby throughout! And I’ve been known to do the same trick with dentistry, childbirth and even surgical amputations.
Another subject I’m interested in is the use of hypnosis with psychological problems. My team have done great work with deeply traumatized soldiers. We use a technique called regression, which takes them right back to the battlefield, so that we can release the anger or the fear. Ah, the look of gratitude on their faces when we liberate them from that absolute hell . . .
So you can see why I’m getting something of a reputation on the campus. When students see my demonstrations for the first time, it seems like sorcery . . . Morrow the Magician, they call me!
But of course the thing that has always set me apart – and led to so much teasing back at school – is my eyes. I suppose that’s what old man Zachery was referring to when he said I was born at the top of the ugly tree. At home in Ireland, a straight-talking girlfriend once broke off our relationship by saying, ‘Jack, you’re a lovely gentle guy with the sweetest smile and you’re not at all bad looking with that mop of curly hair, but all my friends tease me about . . . you know, your eyes! They give me the heebie-jeebies, Jack Morrow, so they do. Could you not see yourself wearing some sunglasses or something?’
Ah, my eyes! I suppose they are rather curious. Useful for my work, of course, but . . . take a look . . .
. . . and just relax for a moment while I slip on the old white coat. Now, if you know nothing about hypnosis, you are missing out on one of the true wonders of the human mind. Would you care to sit while I’m talking? The big chair reclines back like this . . . and feel free to pull off your shoes and give your toes a little wiggle. That’s right . . . we keep things very informal in Neurological Research.
Just let my words float about in your mind, and although you may not understand every detail, the curious thing is that you’ll retain everything that’s important. Are you feeling a little drowsy . . .? I can open a window if you want me to . . .
Where were we now? Ah yes . . . hypnosis. Hypnosis ranges from ‘light trance’ to ‘deep induction’. Now, light trance is a part of your everyday life, although by its very nature you are not very aware of it. All that’s happening is your brain is resting from all that activity. For example, we’ve just seen old Zachery and the boy returning from a long journey, remember? Along the way, the little fellow would certainly have glazed over as he stared out of the cab, just like the dog beside him. Zachery at the wheel would have fallen into trance too – just enough alertness to keep the wheels on the freeway (I’d like to think), but his brain patterns would have been very suppressed.
Light trance feels warm and pleasant, doesn’t it now? Like drifting about on a fuzzy cloud of love! So don’t hesitate to relax and enjoy the sensation as Dr Morrow dims the lights . . . It’ll do you no harm and you look like you could do with a nice little relax, if you don’t mind me saying.
It’s as if you keep drifting away, but the point I’m trying to make is that the incredible state that we call ‘deep hypnotic induction’ is a heightened version of the light trance you may be experiencing now. As the hypnotist talks, the subject (that’s you, for the sake of argument) becomes deeply relaxed . . . Perhaps you notice your limbs relaxing and the warm sensation of drifting down . . . down . . . down like riding in a velvety elevator . . . Now why would you want to fight that?
Deep induction is a unique mental state – I mean, it’s not sleep (although some of my students might disagree) but it’s very different from normal waking consciousness. I have found clear similarities between subjects in deep hypnotic trance and yogis in meditation. We had one in the laboratory a while ago – extraordinary fellow, he was!
Just for fun, imagine I am hypnotizing you now . . . Do you notice that my voice seems rather distant? And after a while you become susceptible to my suggestions, so if I tell you to focus your attention on the tip of your right index finger, which is feeling a little twitchy, well, it’s difficult to ignore it.
Here’s a question for you . . . Have you considered that every time you watch a movie or get lost in a book, you allow the filmmaker or the author to weave a hypnotic spell and carry you into trance? Perhaps you experience real fear, or even cry real tears. To give a random example, you may feel the stirrings of empathy when you hear of the hardships of a lonely orphan boy. Without even realizing, you have allowed the storyteller to enter your mind. This is the incredible power of suggestion. I could argue that at this very moment you have given permission for me to enter your mind . . . You barely noticed, but Jack has ‘hijacked your brain’!
Hello, Jack Morrow calling . . . I’m inside your head . . . Thanks for the invitation. I’ve had a look about, and apart from a few murky corners, everything seems in pretty good order!
Do you see how it works? And you’ve probably realized by now that I’m no run-of-the-mill scientist. Although my colleagues in Neurology are clever with the wires and the sensors and the brain scans, the thing they can’t seem to grasp is that hypnosis is more of an art than a science. My colleagues are smart – brilliant even – but not one of them has what my ma would call ‘The Gift’. She and Da both had it, and the minute I was born they looked at my eyes and said, ‘Ah now! Do you see that? The little fellow has it written all across his face, so he has. It’ll make him or it’ll break him, but little Jack has The Gift . . .’
That’s why they need a fellow like Jack Morrow in this new university – it’s not something you advertise, but I have The Gift, see. Here in the laboratories amongst the dials and the machines, I am employing the ancient skills of my Celtic ancestors. So don’t be too surprised if you hear old Jack using the old dreamy-voice technique, which hypnotists have employed since the dawn of time. Don’t be at all alarmed if you hear me say that my voice is the voice of the wind in the trees, or the soft whisper of waves on the shores of Kerry . . . You have nothing to fear because I will be your guide . . . Just let my words settle in your mind as you drift deeper and deeper . . . until you are quite, quite relaxed . . .
And as I relaxed on the deck of my bungalow on that balmy summer’s evening, the never-ending sky above Dead River Farm might have been a metaphor for the endless possibilities I sensed within my work. What I was beginning to understand in the spring of ’sixty-three is that there are truly no limits to the potential of the human mind.
But I was wrong about one thing – I thought that Dead River Farm was a relic of a forgotten age that had nothing to do with me. What I failed to realize was that the bewildered young passenger letting himself so fearfully into the farmhouse was Pip, the extraordinary young fellow who would change my life, and the lives of all he met . . .
And now I’ll ask you to keep looking into my eyes . . .
Come with me now as I take you deeper and deeper into the hypnotist’s tale . . .
The ragged curtains of the farmhouse were drawn permanently against the sun, so it took a while for Pip to adjust to the gloom within.
A deep silence sat in the house and yet he felt watched. Above his head a motionless fan was festooned with cobwebs, and on a mantelpiece stood a broken clock – the hands stopped at twenty to nine.
At the orphanage, every surface had been scrubbed and polished – ‘shipshape’, they called it – so the neglected state of Dead River Farm troubled him.
Then Pip noticed the eyes – dozens of black eyes staring down at him. They were the glassy eyes of mounted animal heads. Each dead beast and every object in the room was thick with dust.
In spite of the heat, he felt a shudder run through his body; he caught a movement from a side room and found Zachery, slumped in exhaustion, in a stifling kitchen where fat flies feasted on unwashed pans. When he saw the boy, the old man rose silently, tossed some cold meat and bread onto the table and handed Pip a mug of creamy milk. They ate side by side and did not speak, although Zachery carried out a noisy ritual of tearing and sucking and gasping. Pip realized that with his mutilated teeth, the old man was unable to chew, and this also accounted for the pile of discarded crusts on his plate.