by Peter James
Inside were two enquiry desks, a felt board with several blank forms pinned to it and some steps up to a large modern room filled with rows of metal bookshelves. Although teeming with people, the place had the studious quietness of a public library.
She joined a small queue for the desk marked ‘Enquiries only’, and waited her turn.
‘I’m adopted,’ she said, feeling as if she were saying I’m a leper. ‘I want to get a copy of my original birth certificate.’
The clerk, a small man with a cosy smile, pointed round to the right. ‘You’ll need the reference number,’ he said. ‘Those rows there are Adoptions.’
She walked along the brightly lit corridor between the rows of files. It was strange to have your identity hidden behind a reference number. There was a rack of metal shelves against the wall with ‘Adoptions 1927 onwards,’ printed above.
She half wanted to turn away, forget the whole thing. What if? If?
Lies death. If what her mother had told her had been a lie?
So what if it was? If the truth was different, would it matter? She had met an adopted woman who had traced her parents and discovered she was the product of a one-night stand in the rear of an army truck. But that hadn’t made any difference, had not brought her world crashing down. She always said she was pleased she knew, felt more comfortable with life for knowing.
And if she had been the product of a one-night stand she wouldn’t have to tell her children, or anyone else (unless, maybe, it had been a duke). And if she was the daughter of a hooker or (please not an escaped loony) a criminal, well, that would be a shock. And maybe a secret. But at least she would know.
‘1952.1953.1954.’
She lifted the ochre fabric-bound volume out. It was heavier than it looked. She laid it down on the flat writing surface and opened it. The pages were dry and turned with a sharp rustle; she was wary of tearing them. Boone. Boot. Booth.
There were about fifteen Booths, typed on old black typewriter ribbons. She ran her eyes down them, then stopped, feeling a sense almost of embarrassment at seeing her own maiden name there in print.
‘Booth. Charlotte Lesley. 12.8.53. No. of entry: 5A0712. Vol No. 388.’
That was all. Somehow she had expected there to be something more, something that might make it feel special. But there was nothing special. The ink was thicker on some entries than others, where errors had been corrected.
She read it several times, glanced at the rest of the Booths, wondering who they were and where they had ended up, wondered how many others had made the same journey here and had stared at the same page and felt the same flatness when they should have been excited.
She took the book back to the clerk’s desk.
‘You have to fill in one of those.’ He tapped a buff and yellow form on the felt noticeboard. ‘They’re out on the counters. Were you adopted before 12th November 1975?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have to send one of those to the CA section of the GRO. General Register Office,’ he translated, seeing her blank face. ‘The address is on the back. They’ll send you an adoptee’s application form and get in touch with you about counselling.’
‘Counselling?’
‘It’s the law, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be counselled. You can fill in the form I’ve given you here, if you like, and we’ll send it off for you.’
She went into a stall, pulled out the antique Sheaffer fountain pen Tom had given her for her birthday, and pressed the nib lightly against the form.
There was a sudden tang of musky perfume. She began to write. The smell became stronger, engulfing her, as if the wearer were leaning over her shoulder. She turned, but there was no one behind her; nothing but the empty stall across the narrow corridor.
Chapter Twenty
The remains of the simple picnic were spread beside them and she lay back contented, her head nestling against his chest, smelling the sweet scents of the flowers and grasses.
His fingers ran through her hair, and the sun beat down between the trees. She closed her eyes and watched warm red spots dancing in the darkness. The chattering of the birds felt lazy, too, and the breeze rustled the leaves like the sea lapping on a shore. The ground seemed to sway a little, and she imagined they were castaways on a raft on a flat blue ocean.
Somewhere in the distance she heard horses’ hooves.
The fingers touched her cheek and then her lips, and she bit one gently with her teeth. His stomach rumbled loudly and the baby inside her own belly made a few tiny jerks. She opened her eyes and saw a tortoiseshell butterfly skim the bluebells that were all around them.
He shifted his position and his face was over hers. He kissed her and she could taste the beer and sausage on his breath. She put her hand up to his chin, felt the rough stubble, and stroked it.
‘Your name? Can you tell me your name?’ a voice said.
He traced a line down her neck, then slid his hand inside her frock, inside her brassiere and began to fondle her breasts. He took hold of a nipple between his finger and thumb and she flinched.
‘Ow! Careful! It’s sore!’
‘Your name? Tell me your name!’
Not far away a horse whinnied.
‘Dunno.’
‘Who is the man you are with? Your boyfriend? Husband?’
A hand was on her knee, sliding up her thigh, coarse fingers moving up her bare flesh.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Bluebells,’ she murmured, irritated by the intrusion, wishing the voice would go away. The branches swayed above her, sunlight dappled through the leaves. A bee buzzed past them, a bird flew overhead, then the man’s face blocked out the light as his lips pressed down again, his tongue ran along her teeth and searched hungrily inside her mouth. His fingers slid inside her knickers, tugged their way through her pubic hair. She tightened, pushed his hand firmly back down, said, ‘No. The baby. We mustn’t.’
‘Course we can.’
The hand pushed its way back up.
‘No!’ She giggled. ‘Stop it.’
‘Won’t do any harm.’
‘It will. We mustn’t.’
‘Don’t be a stupid cow.’
‘Dick, please.’ She closed her knees together. He rolled away from her and she sensed his anger.
She lay still. Her heart felt heavy and she did not know why. She lifted the locket that lay on her chest and stared at it, the heart-shaped stone glinting in the sunlight, ruby red, the gold chain sparkling. Then a shadow fell across the locket. A horse stamped its right foot behind her.
She looked up.
A woman on a chestnut horse, silhouetted against the sky, stared down at them. She had fine features, handsome but severe, jet black hair tied back below her hat, and an elegant hacking jacket, smart breeches and shiny boots.
The woman’s eyes were shadowed by the peak of her velvet riding hat, but they seemed to burn like sun through a mist. She could feel scorn, disgust, and something else — something that made her afraid.
Before she could react the woman had turned and ridden off, but the stare of the eyes remained and burned into her own retinas like sun spots.
Her dress was up over her stomach, and she tugged it down and giggled, a solitary giggle that fell away into silence. ‘She must have seen. Why didn’t she say nothing?’
He stood up abruptly, brushing the grass from his trousers.
‘She was dressed fancy,’ she said. ‘I ain’t seen her before. She must be stayin’ at the manor.’
‘She’s from London,’ he said brusquely. ‘A lady. She’s rented old Markham’s place for the summer.’
‘The mill?’
‘Wants to buy it, I’m told.’
‘That’s ’er? The one they talkin’ about? She ain’t no lady from what they say.’ The venom in the woman’s eyes was vivid. ‘Was that Jemma she were ridin’?’
‘She’s paying good money for me to saddle her.’
‘Jemma’s my ’orse. You prom
ised.’
‘After the summer. Anyway, you shouldn’t be riding at the moment.’
‘They say she’s loose.’
‘She’s a lady,’ he said, his voice rising.
‘Do you think she’s pretty?’
He did not reply and she put out her hand to him. ‘Dick, you love me, don’t yer?’ It was dark suddenly. She was cold, shivering. ‘Dick?’ Dick?’
She smelled burning. Flames licked the darkness. Flames all around. Horses whinnied. There was a splintering crack above and a burning beam was tumbling down on her.
She screamed. Ran. Another beam fell in front of her, more beams were falling. Flames everywhere. A figure staggered towards her, a human being burning like a torch. She screamed again, turning, running, running into a wall of flame.
The flame dissolved into a red glow.
Eyes looked at her, myopic eyes through thick lenses. Anxious eyes. A voice intoned, ‘Charley, wake up now please. You are back in the present. You are no longer in trance. You are back with us. You are safe.’
She saw the sad hang-dog face, the centre parting, the mutton chop sideburns, the cardigan the colour of dried mustard. Ernest Gibbon’s crows’ feet crinkled into the hint of a smile and his baggy jowls heaved. The microphone in its foam padding peered down at her like an inquisitive bird.
‘You are quite safe, Charley,’ he said in his soporific monotone. ‘You’re back with us.’
Tight bands of anxiety seemed to be cutting into her skin. Her heart thumped and her pulses throbbed.
‘Dick,’ the hypnotist said. ‘You called him Dick. Can you remember your name?’
She lay motionless for some while, then shook her head.
‘Do you know where you were? Did you recognise it?’
She thought hard before answering, trying to clear her mind, trying to work up the energy to speak. ‘Woods near where we live. I think I was asleep — dreaming — just a bad dream. There’s a girlfriend who —’ She paused, partly from tiredness, partly from embarrassment, and smiled lamely. ‘I — I’m jealous of. Probably nothing in it. I keep thinking she’s making a beeline for my husband. I think I was dreaming about her.’
‘No, you were in a previous carnation,’ he said, as blandly as if he were talking about the weather. His jowls heaved up and down as if he were chewing a cud.
A vague smell of cooking was seeping into the room. Meat, potatoes, gravy. It made her feel queasy. Outside she could hear the wail of a siren and rain tapped on the window. Smells and sounds that should have been normal seemed alien.
‘What can you remember about the man you were with, Charley?’
‘I — I’ve seen him before.’
‘Would you like to tell me when?’
‘I told you I was regressed once before I came to you. I think it’s the same person.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Quite nice looking. Rugged. He had short brown hair. Stocky, wiry. A bit like — I suppose he looked like that actor Bruce Willis but rougher. He was attractive.’
Gibbon pulled out a large polka dot handkerchief and began wiping his glasses. ‘Was he a farmer?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘I’m not sure. I think so.’
‘Were you living with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have a wedding ring?’
‘I don’t know. Locket,’ she said. ‘I had the locket, the same locket I found in the tin I dug up. The tin I buried last time —’
He studied her. ‘And you were pregnant?’
She nodded.
‘Is there anything else you can remember about yourself? The clothes you were wearing?’
She thought. ‘A frock. A sort of muslin frock.’
He finished cleaning his glasses, and put them unhurriedly back on, settling them comfortably, adjusting first one side then the other. ‘Do you know what time period? Which century?’
‘It didn’t seem that long ago.’
‘How long ago?’
‘It felt quite recent.’
‘All past lives feel quite recent, Charley.’ He breathed slowly, steadily; the wheezing made him sound as if he were asleep.
‘It had to be recent,’ she said, hope dawning. ‘The woman was riding astride. She wore breeches. So I could have gone to the Wishing Rocks and watched someone bury it years ago and have forgotten. Cryptic something, isn’t it, when you’ve forgotten something you’ve done or read as a child?’
‘Cryptomnesia,’ he said, with a faintly glazed look, as if he were used to trotting out the same old defence against the same old hoary argument. ‘How much proof do you require?’ His voice sounded testy.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, deflated.
‘Are you frightened?’
‘A little.’
‘What of?’
‘I’m not sure.’
He smiled a smug teacher-knows-best smile. ‘Are you frightened of the idea of having lived before?’
‘I’ve always been sceptical about the supernatural. I still don’t believe that…’ The self-satisfied smile on his face distracted her, irritated her.
‘Don’t believe or don’t want to believe?’
She said nothing.
‘People who come to me are often full of traumas they don’t understand. These are caused by unpleasant happenings in previous carnations. Once people understand the reason for the trauma, the trauma goes.’ His dreary voice could as easily have been reading out the instructions on a washing machine. ‘You want to have children, and are not conceiving. Now in this previous carnation we find you have been pregnant and some trauma has occurred — something which frightens you so much you can’t face it and I have to bring you back out. It could be the memory of this trauma that’s blocking you from conceiving.’
The words stirred something. A tiny frisson of doubt tapped its way down her corridors of nerves.
‘I’ve regressed many thousands of people, Charley,’ the hypnotist continued. ‘There are others who have found some sort of evidence to prove their regressions have not just been cryptomnesia, names in books … landscapes … But to go out and find an object, a buried object … This hasn’t happened before, you see. We need to continue, to have another session. It’s very important.’
‘Do you think we might find more buried treasure?’ she said more cheerily than she felt. He did not smile back.
‘It’s not the locket, Charley. It’s what we’ve dug up inside you. It’s the connection.’ His face tightened into trembling concentration. ‘There’s something in your past that …’
‘That what?’ she prodded, his expression making her nervous.
‘That’s more than a memory.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s — it must be something malevolent you’ve done in that carnation and I believe you have brought it with you, into this present life.’
‘Brought what with me?’
‘It’s that we need to find out.’
‘I don’t want to go on any more.’
‘I don’t think it’s up to you to decide,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Anger arose at the smug, weird man. Creep.
‘You could bury the locket back on the hill, but you can’t bury this back in your mind. You see, it’s very strong. We had better make another appointment.’
You bastard, she thought. This is all a trick; a great con. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She opened her handbag and took out her purse. ‘Thirty-five pounds?’
He shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Give it to a charity. I support Guide Dogs for the Blind.’
She stared at him in amazement. ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want you to think I’m a confidence trickster.’ He smiled another teacher-knows-best smile, then stood up wearily and walked towards the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Surprise him! Greet him at the front door in a sexy negligee with a glass of his favourite drink in your
hand and music playing. Give him a candlelit dinner of his favourite foods; pamper him at the table; cherish him. Don’t break the spell … leave the washing up till morning!’
Charley glanced around the crowded train compartment, trying to keep the cover of the magazine as low in her lap as possible so that no one could see the lurid teaser that had made her buy it at the bookstall.
HOW TO KEEP YOUR MAN TURNED ON!
The train rattled south, rain streaking the windows, through Gatwick Airport, backpackers waiting on the platform like refugees, past the hangars, the parked aircraft. A Jumbo was coming in overhead and she watched it until a tall warehouse blocked her view, regretting they’d cancelled their holiday in Greece because of moving; holidays were the only times these days she and Tom seemed to get remotely close.
She had played the tapes of her regression over and over when Tom had not been around, not wanting him to know she had been again, had spent more money. Each time she played them, part of her grew a little more sceptical and part of her a little more afraid.
She had worked in the boutique today, but had not seen Laura who had gone to France for two days, buying. They had not seen each other since her phone call to Laura which Tom had answered; when they had spoken on the phone a couple of days ago, Laura had chatted gaily; too gaily.
She had left the boutique at four, leaving another part-timer there, and gone to the nursing home to visit her adoptive mother. She had told her she had started the procedure for finding her real parents, and had half expected some angry reaction, but that had not happened. If anything (although she knew she might have imagined it) she thought she noticed a small expression of relief.
Sussex countryside was sliding by, and darkness was falling fast. A good-looking man in his mid-twenties was eyeing her. Being eyed always made her feel good, boosted her confidence. Right now it needed boosting.
Then she wondered if he had seen the cover of the magazine, if that was why he was smiling.
Her heart felt heavy again. She and Tom had made love once since they’d moved in, on the first night. For a long while they had only made love once a month, but that had been deliberate, on the instructions of her acupuncturist. The acupuncturist Laura had recommended, whose needles hurt like hell (even though Laura insisted they didn’t), who assured her she would become pregnant very quickly.
