“Nothing.” I told him. He waited long enough that I felt I had to fill the pause. “Just all the normal stuff. Brenda on the phone, traffic outside, an ambulance siren, just now.” He didn’t say anything. I sighed, it was that sort of conversation, lots of sighing.
“Try again.” He said. I didn’t know exactly what he was after, but I knew what he meant. Perhaps the sooner I did what he wanted, the sooner he’d get the hell out. I reluctantly reached out, past his own smooth brown silence and into the office.
Brenda and Kitty in the next room, Brenda, being unctuously polite to one of our stroppier clients, whilst listing in her head, all the things she didn’t like about him and what she’d really like to say. Kitty, focused on figures, pleased, but determined not to let me know how much, in case I thought we were home and dry and got too big for my boots. Hilary and Martin downstairs, Martin with clients, Hilary having a crafty fag and blowing the smoke out the kitchen window, because she’d assured Martin she was cutting down.
Further afield; so many streams and different levels of thought, feelings, irritations, anxieties, emotions and all the physical stuff too, headache, back pain, too hot, too cold, too tired. A woman in the supermarket next door, sweaty palmed, did she have enough in her purse to pay for what she had in her basket? The assistant at the till, griping period pains, accompanied by overwhelming relief it had arrived. Someone on their way to the dentist with toothache, already walked past the door three times, scared to go in, too much of an ache not to. A woman and her teenage son, heading into the undertakers down the road, thankful beyond words that the drunken violence would now stop and that through the years, no-one else had ever guessed, how right they’d been, never to have washed their dirty linen in public. New mother, baby in pram, screaming, screaming, how could something so small, stay awake for so long and cry so constantly, without wearing itself into silence. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be, God she was frightened, couldn’t cope, scared of what she might do to find that silence. Much farther away, someone was muttering paranoia as they walked… I pulled back abruptly, shutting down. He watched me, moving the aniseed ball reflectively from one cheek to the other.
“All that,” I said, “Is why I deliberately ‘don’t hear’.”
“All that,” he said, “Is why we want you.” Curiosity got the better of me.
“Isn’t it the same for you?” I asked. He shook his head,
“I have to work at it, look for it. You open up and it floods in. But it’s not a mixed bag is it?”
“Mixed bag?” I said and he snorted an aniseed-breath laugh,
“Glory said you’d do that echo thing, can see why it drives her mad. The things you hear, what do they have in common?”
“No idea.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you don’t like it – it’s the emotion. You home in on strong emotion.” I frowned, but it clicked into place the way accurate statements always do. “Will you go and talk to Ruth?” He asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
There is absolutely no question, I should have sent Boris off with a flea in his ear, and it was very much against my better judgement, but the following week, when Ruth was back in London, I drove over to see her. It was seven years, since I’d last been at the house in St. John’s Wood. Little seemed to have altered, except Ruth.
Ed let me in, inclining his head gently, which was about as effusive as he got and Hamlet appeared from behind him and gamely tried to knock me down. There was the remembered progression along the narrow hallway, before the door opened into the astonishing light of the cluttered living room, which ran the width of the house. It had an almost entire wall of glass doors, overlooking the lushly overgrown garden, and there was a profusion of flourishing indoor plants on every surface, creating an almost seamless blending of outside and in. There were, it seemed, even more books and teetering, slightly dusty, piles of magazines than ever before. The comfort and intrinsic welcome of that room had always lingered in my memory and I was glad to see, I hadn’t embroidered it over the years, nothing had changed.
The changes were all in the woman on the sofa. Comfortable plumpness had sunken in on itself, curly brown hair was liberally silver-streaked and the knotted fuchsia scarf, holding it back from her face, was a splash of colour that only underlined her pallor. For a moment, a stranger looked back at me, then she smiled and held out her hands, her unique scent filled my mind and I bent to hug her, long and hard. She felt so much smaller in my arms. Was that because I’d grown or she was diminished?
“A bit of both, I suspect.” she laughed, as she hugged me back with surprising force, and the familiar, purple lavender Ruthness of her, surrounded me. She shifted her legs on the sofa, so I could slip in on the end, and we took stock. She was wearing one of her trademark jumpers, bright red with a headache-inducing, angular white pattern woven across the bosom. Her eyes, with their sharp hazel intelligence, so like her sister’s, hadn’t dulled, they were though, deeply violet under-shadowed. She chuckled again,
“Stella, for goodness sake, don’t look so panic stricken, I’m not half as bad as I look, just a bit under the weather.”
“What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” I demanded, “What’s wrong with you?” She shook her head, absently brushing back a curl that had evaded the scarf, the gesture so familiar, it seemed days not years since we’d been together. Ed was behind her, plumping up the cushions she was leaning against.
“Oh, Ed, stop making like a mother hen.” She patted his hand with affection, then flapped a go-away gesture, “Do me a favour, go cluck somewhere else.” She turned back to me. “I’ve probably just overdone things a bit. Sam can’t find anything physically wrong.” I laughed, couldn’t help it. Sam was the little boy we’d rescued from the ministrations of the Newcombe Foundation. He had some highly unusual aptitudes, one of which was an unerring accuracy of diagnosis.
“You still see him?”
“Well, of course, we do.”
“He must be what? Twelve – thirteen?” I asked. She smiled, nodding towards a framed picture, fighting for its own bit of space on the windowsill, amongst the greenery. A dark-haired, deep-brown eyed boy with the solemn expression I remembered so well. The chubbiness of childhood was already pulling back, to reveal the shape of the face he would grow into. I opened my mouth, I had a whole host of questions; how was he? Where was he living? Who was he living with? Most importantly, was he well, after all, he hadn’t exactly had a brilliant time during his early years. She forestalled me.
“Not now Stella dear, we have other stuff to talk about. What’s Boris told you?”
“Not much. And honestly Ruth, I agreed to come today, but I really don’t want to get caught up in things again, you know I don’t.” Under any other circumstances, I’d have given a brief run-down of all the things I’d been doing, why I’d done them, why I didn’t want to do them anymore and why I was chasing normal – with increasing determination – because life was complicated enough. It wasn’t necessary. She knew and she nodded,
“Sweetheart, you know we’d never force you into anything.” I laughed again at that, at the sheer hypocrisy, it wasn’t force they’d ever had to use, emotional blackmail being far more effective. She grinned too, sharing the thought and I relaxed a little. Somehow, Ruth reading me, was never as irritating as the others and I appreciated she’d let down her own mental guards, though not completely.
“You and I,” she said, “Are alike in certain ways, and it’s because of that, we want you to help out again, just until I get back on my feet. I know, I know,” she raised a hand as I made to interrupt. “You don’t want to, but be a good girl and hear me out. I think we’re all agreed, you’re not necessarily best suited to nip in and out of anywhere to sort anything quietly.” Her grin took any sting out of her words. “This is different, no risks to you, all we want is information, no real inv
olvement. Nothing you could possibly object to.” I opened my mouth, to point out their ideas on what I’d object to, almost certainly didn’t tie in with mine, but she carried on before I could.
“Look, we don’t have too much time, because I get ridiculously tired and then I’m no use to man nor beast. So, quickest way is best?” I nodded, not hiding my reluctance, pointless hiding anything. She extended her hand and I moved closer. As I folded my fingers round hers, she grasped me, her grip tight and firm. For an instant, I flashed back to another time we’d done this and what I’d seen then. I pulled back fractionally. She tightened her hold,
“Don’t be silly, this is nothing you can’t handle. You’re not a child anymore.” I wasn’t that reassured. Again, I felt there might be sizeable gaps between my assessment and hers of what I could, or indeed wanted to handle.
What she gave me, arrived in my head in an indescribable rush of intensity – images, sounds, smells, tastes, emotions – overwhelming, undiluted and seemingly in no order whatsoever. I jerked back again, but she didn’t let go, for someone so apparently enfeebled, she still had a mighty fine grip. Gradually, the swirl swirled more slowly, until it settled in my mind, as if it had been there always.
“Bloody Norah!” I said.
“As you so aptly put it, bloody Norah,” she said. “Now do you see? What I do, is such a small part of what needs to be done, but while I can’t do it so well, I’m asking you to help.” I let go her hand and sat back against the sofa cushions. “Look,” she said, “Don’t overdramatise and get this out of proportion. It’s not something that takes over your life in any way. Sometimes weeks go past and you hear nothing at all.”
“And when I do hear?” I asked. She shrugged.
“Then you simply pass it along to Boris, he has contacts he works with – the police and other agencies, although obviously, that’s not anything they’d admit to in a million years. They take what you give, deal with it if they can. You’ve done your part.”
“But why you?” I said, “Why me?” She shook her head,
“Just the way we’re made my dear, just what we’re good at picking up on. It’s not half so strong in the others, although I think Sam is already probably a good way there.” I opened my mouth to say – well, let Sam do it – then shut it abruptly, even I could see how bad that sounded. Ruth grinned,
“Indeed!”
“But Ruth, it makes no sense.” I frowned. “Hundreds of people go missing every year, don’t they? It can’t be possible to ‘hear’ everyone who’s in trouble.” She tutted impatiently.
“Well, of course not, but some people ‘shout’ louder, it’s those people we pick up on.” I suddenly spotted the missing piece of the jigsaw which, when I did, slotted into place perfectly with an almost audible click. I sat up straighter and glared at her.
“Wait a minute. We’re not talking about people who go missing of their own accord, are we?” I demanded. She adjusted the scarf, tucking another section of stray hair into protective custody and didn’t answer immediately. I continued, thinking it through, “You’re talking about violence – kidnap, abduction, whatever it’s called. Aren’t you? That’s why the emotion’s so intense – it’s the level of fear we hear, isn’t it?” Her mouth tightened and for a second or so she looked more like Rachael than Rachael.
“Stella dear, don’t be more naïve than you have to, of course that’s what we’re talking about.” Dear reader, knowing what you know about me by now, you might well be baffled as to why I didn’t leave, there and then, sticking my fingers in my ears and la, la, laaing my way loudly out the door. No, me neither!
“Look,” she said, “Don’t make more of an issue of this than you have to. This isn’t like the Martha Vee intervention, and we only let you get involved in that, because she couldn’t really hurt you. All we’re asking you to do now, is keep an ear open, understand what you hear, and whatever it is, pass it along. You’ll always be two steps removed from any risk or danger. Apart from which, you’ll only hear if it’s within range.”
“In range?”
“Well, you’re not going to hear world-wide are you? This isn’t magic dear, it’s science, it’s simply science they don’t yet have a name or explanation for. One day they will. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
Part Three
WHAT’S ROUND THE CORNER IS OFTEN A SURPRISE
The curtain between normal and not normal is an exceedingly flimsy divider
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Other than the reason for which I’d gone there, everything else about my visit to Ruth was delightful. We’d spent a good couple of hours together, sometimes talking, sometimes not. In their odd domestic set up, not one of the three women, Ruth, Rachael nor Glory ever went near the kitchen if they could possibly help it, and certainly not to do any cooking. No, that was Ed’s domain and from there, during the course of the afternoon, came sailing, mugs of his deliciously milky coffee and slices of the melt-in-the-mouth lemon drizzle cake he’d just produced. Mugs and plates, landed gently on the table in front of us, complete with spoons for stirring and forks for digging in. It was relaxing, the only place other than my own home, where these sorts of goings on were entirely normal. No wonder, despite everything, I felt so comfortable.
When I eventually did bid Ruth an affectionate goodbye, I hadn’t changed my mind-set one jot and I certainly hadn’t agreed to do any hard listening, any time soon. She of course knew that, she also knew, devious woman, that once something’s in your head, making up your mind not to think about it is a bit like someone telling you to not think of a pink elephant. Go on, tell me that right now, you don’t have one extremely solid, pink item, swishing a lazy trunk in your head?
Devlin was out of hospital, but didn’t want anything to do with me. I’d called, once I heard he was home, to say I wanted to drop by, with some comics and a couple of the sticker books he loved. Susan answered the door and despite the warmth of her hug and enthusiasm of her welcome, I knew she was mortified. We chatted in the kitchen, with a nervous Celine hovering in the background. I could clearly read that Devlin, incapacitated by his leg in a cast, was several times more problematical than Devlin without his leg in a cast, and the new situation was doing nothing for Celine’s nerves. Susan said he’d be so upset to have missed me, but he’d slept terribly last night, his leg was bothering him a lot, he’d fallen asleep after lunch today and she really didn’t want to wake him.
He wasn’t asleep, he was watching television on the small set they’d moved into his room and he’d been adamant, when she’d said I was popping in. He didn’t like me, he said, had never liked me, he didn’t want to see me, never wanted to ever, ever see me again and then he’d abruptly stopped shouting and started crying.
All this wasn’t as big a surprise to me, as it obviously was to Susan. I suspected Devlin had no real recollection of what I’d done, but somewhere, deep down, was a trace of memory that would forever link me with fright and fear. I didn’t blame him in the slightest, under the circumstances, I wouldn’t have wanted much to do with me either. I had no regrets though, even as we sipped a cup of tea, and I mentally crossed the McCraes off the ongoing client list. We parted with several more hugs and mutual assurances we’d speak soon, which both of us knew to be a fair old way from the truth.
Poor old Professor Lowbell had been stricken with a bout of the nasty flu that was doing the rounds that winter. He was laid up in bed for nearly two weeks which, Dorothy said, when we spoke on the phone, was unheard of and, she reported, he’d spent most of that time moaning like blue blazes. When he did finally shake off the high fever, it was another week or so before he felt up to doing any work, so things were piling up a bit on the correspondence front.
He finally called to say he was feeling a bit better, but weak as a kitten and would I mind awfully, coming to him for our catch-up session? It was no problem, although I ma
de sure I dressed extra warmly. The Lowbells never seemed to feel the cold in that draughty old house and although there were fiercely efficient-looking, gilded radiators in every room, they fought a losing battle against winds which, at one of the highest points in London, were always spitefully rattling the old-fashioned sash windows in their frames. The greeting, when I got there was warm, even if nothing else was and they wanted to know all about Devlin. I was able to report he was well on the mend and thank them for their help, when I’d needed it.
“Oh, go along now,” said Dorothy, “What are friends for?” She was in an unusually jovial mood, which I put down to her husband’s recovery. She didn’t strike me as being the Florence Nightingale type, and I could well imagine she might have begrudged trudging up and down with hot drinks and sympathy, when she’d rather be doing doll stuff.
The Professor still looked a little peaky, but there was a palpable air of excitement about him. He was delighted to have been invited to be key speaker, at a highly prestigious psychology symposium in Oxford later in the year. They wanted him to talk about the impact and origins of the stories we’re all fed during childhood. He was looking, he said, chuckling, for a killer title to knock ‘em dead. A great line, on the pre-publicity always helped bump up numbers, and he wanted his talk well attended. We had some fun, batting ideas back and forth, Fairy Tales, Red and Raw; Happy Ever Horrors; Sleep Tight Frights, and finally settled on a working title of Once Upon A Time Terrors, subject to further thoughts occurring. He was concerned about the stammer, but we agreed he might comfortably get round that by pre-warning the audience, they might be in as much for a musical recital as a lecture. That way there’d be no element of surprise or embarrassment in the event of a problem.
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