Prisoner of Fire by Edmund Cooper

sir,” she said meekly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
    “Maintain that condition, by all means,” he responded icily. “I am here to do your thinking for you. But never,
never
disobey. That is my final warning…” He turned to the others. “Now why should Oliver be associated with Roland?”
    No one knew. Robert felt he ought to know; but he didn’t. Surreptitiously, he began to masturbate, out of sheer anxiety.
    “Charlemagne,” said Professor Raeder, “was king of the Franks about twelve centuries ago. He had two great knights, or generals, equally matched in fightingstrength. One was called Oliver, and the other—”
    “Roland” said Quasimodo helpfully.
    “Exactly. Let us suppose that this man Oliver Anderson—about whose identity Vanessa seems to have voluntarily or involuntarily created a deep block—is not really Oliver Anderson. Let us suppose also that he, like the rest of us mere mortals, is subject to the process known as association of ideas. If, in a stress situation, he had to quickly invent a new persona and, more important, a new name for himself, might he not choose something remotely connected with his real name?”
    “But if he did, if his real name is Roland, how can that help us?” Alfred was as puzzled as the rest of the group.
    “Ah!” Professor Raeder rubbed his hands together.
    “What else do we know about this mysterious Oliver who might or might not be a Roland?”
    “There is something wrong with his face.”
    “Yes, indeed. There is something wrong with his face. And that, my children, leads me to the not unreasonable conclusion that the man who is sheltering Vanessa Smith is Dr. Roland Badel, a psychologist who, I recall, was once attacked by a psychotic patient and badly disfigured. We will conduct our telepathic assault upon Vanessa; but if that fails, we shall begin to look for Dr. Roland Badel.”

12
    I T WAS A fine morning. Vanessawas out walking in the woods, taking some pleasure in the sunshine and trying to forget the terrors of the night. Oliver had showed her the places where she could go in comparative safety. His house was more than a mile from the next one, and that was only occupied by an elderly forester employed by the National Parks Commission.
    The valley in which Oliver Anderson lived was, so he assured Vanessa, well off the beaten track. Occasionally, tourists could be expected; but the whine of their hovercars gave ample warning of their arrival. Unless someone actually knew where Vanessa was, the chances of her being discovered by accident were remote.
    Vanessa was walking upon a carpet of bluebells, inhaling their scent gratefully, using it and the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the densely-packed trees to exorcise the phantoms of darkness. Oliver had gone into the nearest town to get supplies of food and to buy a portable tri-di. Now that he had Vanessa to look after, he felt he needed once more to know what was going on in the outside world.
    It had been an exhausting night. After a couple of hours of listening to music, which, besides giving pleasure, allowed her to relax her blocks, Vanessa had gone to bed early. She slept in a little attic room at thetop of the house, directly above Oliver’s bedroom.
    She had tried very hard to sleep. But, it seemed, the moment she closed her eyes and relaxed, she had been invaded.
    The invaders did not produce patterns she recognised. They were cold, demented patterns of thought, full of pressure, full of threat. They were like malignant worms, crawling into her, eating up her personality, implanting strange notions.
    One of them whispered: ‘I am Janine, you soft bitch. I know you. I can become you if I wish. You can fight against me, but in the end you will do what I want you to do… Leave him, Vanessa, leave him. He will betray you. We love you, we need you, we will never betray you.’
    Another said: ‘I can make you kill yourself, Vanessa. I can kill rats by willing them to die. I Can kill you. It