In the Moors

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In the Moors Page 5

by Nina Milton


  Yet she came to me over a month ago in quite a state. She’d taken weeks off work, lying in bed for most of the day, swallowing pills her doctor had prescribed, and trying to puzzle out the extreme reaction she’d had to the news that the firm was downsizing. Yes, everyone had become jumpy about re-interviewing for their jobs, but Marianne could happily tell me she felt quite confident that she’d keep hers. At first I couldn’t offer a crumb of help. I’d been completely stumped. Whenever I had journeyed into Marianne’s spirit world, everything seemed calm, well ordered. Cheerful, even. Nothing my guides offered me to take back to Marianne had rung any bells with her at all, and her meticulously kept dream diary looked as benign and mellow as Ovaltine, just as her life had been—until the day she’d taken the phone call about the threat of redundancies and suffered a complete emotional breakdown right there in the office.

  There were no gaps in her life into which this trauma could have fallen—no messy relationships, no wicked stepfather, no previous job losses, no reason at all that her psyche might have taken this knock. Four weeks into our contract, I was wondering if I’d ever be able to help. I’d cut some old greetings cards into a pile of data sheets and noted down every scrap of information I had on her, setting my record cards out over the desk, trying to make sense of it: the stages of her life, the people she knew, the events of the last year, the symbols I’d brought back from my journeys, details of Marianne’s dreams, conversations, memories, repetitions. I’d shuffled them randomly then tried them in various orders, but it wasn’t until I laid them in columns that I saw the weight I’d put on Marianne’s past—her childhood, her lovers—rather than looking at her workplace. My gut feeling was that her problems had little to do with her job, but I was more than happy to be proved wrong.

  I had taken time to spiritually journey to Marianne’s office. I had left my brook with Trendle trotting at my side and walked in my mind until I’d suddenly found myself in a confined space no bigger than a box room, nearly filled with a desk of dark polished wood. In the centre of the desk a black telephone sat up proudly as if begging to be answered. It had to half a century old, with a circular dial and a fabric cord. It shrieked an outmoded ring tone … brum, brum … brum brum … that echoed inside my head like a constant cry of pain.

  “Answer it,” Trendle had said. I’d lifted the receiver. It was as heavy and cool as a stone. It smelt of chemicals and dust.

  “Hello?” I said, feeling foolish.

  “Your name is on this document.” It was a man’s voice, cultured but gruff, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes.

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell anyone I called you.”

  “What?” My voice rose. “Are you a spirit?”

  “I suggest you try to stay calm. Panic is your enemy.”

  “I’m not panicking,” I threw back, but suddenly that wasn’t true. The receiver was sticky with sweat under my hand.

  “Don’t bother packing your things.”

  The lined clicked dead and buzzed in my ear.

  I had stood in the silent, close room and felt it revolve around me until it faded from my sight. At last I had something different, something with an edge. I had no idea what I’d been given, but I was eager to tell Marianne.

  I gave her a spontaneous hug as we settled down in the therapy room. “How’s work going, now you’re back?” I asked, as I retrieved the notes of that last journey.

  “Things are all right. I feel sometimes wobbly.”

  “But you manage.”

  Marianne nodded. I wouldn’t have noticed in normal lighting, but in the flickering glow of the candle, I could see that her cheeks were covered with a fine layer of perspiration. “I get through the day.”

  “Have you heard anything further about the redundancies?”

  “Rumours are still flying around the building. But there are many people affected, not just me.” She examined her delicately pinked nails. “I don’t know why I took it that bad. No one else on the list had such a reaction. I did not know how pathetic I could be.”

  “Rubbish. You come across as a strong person.”

  “No longer. When they re-interview the posts, going off sick like that will count against me.” Marianne sat on the lounger with her hands folded like tidy napkins in her lap. They didn’t fidget, those hands, ever. They exuded utter composure.

  “We are going to discover what this is about. Then you can walk into work like the old Marianne and knock ’em flat.”

  She shook her head. “I lost my nerve. You should never lose your nerve. At Simpson and Grouche, if you lose your nerve, you are as good as dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Dead in the water, as they say. Washed up.”

  “Marianne, could you describe your office to me?”

  She didn’t even blink at my sudden change of direction. She’d gotten used to my often-bizarre questions. “Oh, it is good. Very light, you know. We grow plants in the windows.”

  I nodded. “You’re not cramped for space?”

  “No, it is open plan.”

  I beat a tattoo with my pen on the paper. “Remind me who phoned you that afternoon?”

  “My line manager, Will Clyde. He is a nice guy. He sent me flowers when I was off.”

  “What’s his voice like?”

  She frowned briefly. “Like … any man’s.”

  “No distinguishing features?”

  “Yes, he is Scottish, he has a slight accent.”

  “Can you remember his exact words?”

  Marianne shook her head. “I can’t remember much about what happened, Sabbie.”

  “Yes. Of course. You were in shock—”

  “Fit. It was like a fit.”

  “You collapsed.”

  “I could not move. Like Lot’s wife.”

  I tried to cast my mind back to my years with Gloria. She’d had a strict Pentecostal upbringing and was always quoting things from the Bible. “Like a pillar of salt?” I hazarded. “Like you’d been petrified?”

  “Petrified is a good word,” Marianne agreed.

  “You don’t recall anything?”

  “No. Strange, that is, as I generally have a good memory.”

  I placed the writeup of my last journey in her lap. “Just look at the words in capital letters.”

  She glanced down. Almost instantly, she gave a sort of hiccup, as though forcing back tears.

  “Do the words make you feel a particular way?”

  “The same.” Her breath was scraping through her throat as if it were closing over. “The very same, Sabbie. The words he used … the list for re-interviewing … that is what he said, more or less.”

  “Phones are funny things, sometimes,” I said. “You can’t see the person. It’s easy to muddle voices or mix one turn of phrase with another. In the end, it’s the words that will have an effect.”

  She trained her gaze on me. The only indication that I’d rattled her was the way the paper quivered in her hand. “What do you mean, Sabbie?”

  “I just want you to consider the possibility that you didn’t have that dreadful reaction because your job was on the line. Maybe, sometime in the past, you heard a similar voice, or similar words that really were a threat. To your life, even.”

  “But, I know that cannot be so.”

  “You were never mugged, or anything like that?”

  “Nothing, Sabbie.”

  “I’d like you to read the whole report of my last journey. I’ll go and make us drinks to give you a moment. The usual for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Already, her head was bent. I left her to it and went to put the kettle on. I knew every word of my report almost by heart. It had been the shortest journey I’d taken for her, but it was pivotal. I carried two lemon and ginger teas back in and set Marian
ne’s in front of her. I took a quick sip of mine. Most of the ginger went up my nose, making me blink.

  “What do you think?”

  “I do not think this is my office. But this man on the phone. The words make me tremble.”

  I was sipping away at my too-hot tea, as if I wanted to be in sympathetic pain with my client. “It’s not your office, of course not. It belongs in the Fifties, or even before. I’ve been wondering if the reason you can’t remember these words is because they didn’t happen in this lifetime.”

  I watched her mouth fall open in slow motion. I waited for her to reject my suggestion out of hand, but she was thinking about it in her usual unruffled manner.

  “You think I lost my job in a previous life?”

  “No, Marianne. I think you lost your life. Because you were on a document.”

  “How would I ever know?” she asked. “How would I ever remember such a thing?”

  “You don’t remember. Maybe you never will. But if a voice said the exact words to you for a second time, that might have made you feel as dreadful … as petrified … as it did the first time.”

  She gave a slow nod. “I see.”

  “Naturally, you might not believe that people have more than one life.”

  “Not believe, perhaps. But I would consider it.” She gave me a smile that almost reached her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You know, there are therapists who specializing in taking people back into their former lives under hypnosis. I could do this in a shamanic way, teach you to journey for yourself, so your guides can show you some of your previous pasts. But it’s up to you whether you go for either of these options.”

  “I don’t want to change my therapist. I like what you are doing.”

  “That’s reasonable.” I touched her hand. “Maybe we should concentrate on healing the knock you’ve taken, so you get back to feeling whole and balanced. I’d like to explain the rudiments of experiencing a trance state. Then, as well as keeping a dream diary, you can enter your shamanic consciousness and work with your own guides and guardians.”

  “It sounds exciting.”

  “Hope so. It may be scary too—I’ll show you how to deal with anything too difficult.”

  “I think this will suit me better than hypnotherapy. I like to be in control.”

  “I’d noticed,” I said, smiling at her. “The entire point is to empower you. Get that power you had back inside you.” I stood up. “Are you ready for the first step?”

  She stood too. “Yes. I am ready.”

  “See? You’re up for anything. S&G would be crazy to let you go.” I altered the shape of the sun lounger so that Marianne could fully relax on it. “I’m going to ask you to lay a scarf over your eyes.”

  Marianne dipped down and unzipped her cherry-red boots. It was like watching a gymnast perform a floor exercise. As she sank back onto the lounger, she said, “You think I will be a good student, Sabbie? I don’t believe I have any psychic powers in me.”

  “You won’t need any more than you naturally have. We all have spirit world guides, whether we know it or not. Just let your mind go where they bid it go. You’ll surprise yourself.” I draped a fleecy rug over her knees and went about setting up a gentle drumming CD. I pulled the wicker chair closer so that I could guide her through her first journey.

  “This is encouraging, is it not?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “We’ve moved on today. That’s good.”

  The scarf was over her eyes and her breath was already calming. For the first time since she had walked into my house, I began to feel positive about Marianne and the work we could do together. And that gave me the confidence to believe I could eventually help Cliff.

  SIX

  “Sabbie, is that you?”

  “Cliff!” I barely recognised my client’s voice on the phone. It sounded like the guts had been taken out of it.

  “I need to see you, Sabbie. Now.”

  “Cliff, it’s Wednesday evening. Can it wait for your Saturday appointment?”

  “You haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Another child’s gone missing.”

  “What? A child?”

  “Yes. Someone has kidnapped a child. Today. They’re already saying it’s like the Josh Sutton case.”

  I closed my eyes against his words, as if that would make them less sickening.

  “Sabbie? Can I see you? I need to talk to someone.”

  “Are you sure that should be me?”

  “I saw my solicitor earlier and she advised me to carry on as normal. So I plan to go to work. But if I came over now, we’d have a couple of hours.”

  So many of my clients are vulnerable … needy. When I first set up my practice, I would spend hours with them over the teapot in my kitchen, but now I charge for all my time. This makes me feel like a money-grabbing bitch sometimes, but I force myself to stick to my rule. “Okay, Cliff. We could bring forward your Saturday session. Is that acceptable?”

  “That’s great, Sabbie. I can’t thank you enough.”

  After he’d rung off, I speed-dialled Ivan’s number.

  “Babe!” he cried down the phone.

  “Ivan, I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to cancel tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Client in crisis.”

  “Tell them to get lost.”

  “Big crisis, Ivan. I can’t do that.”

  “Bloody well can. It’s principles, Sabbie. You shouldn’t put work above us, just when things are hotting up so good …” I heard kissing noises. They did not make me want to squirm, except from embarrassment.

  “I’m gutted too, Ivan,” I said, and this was true, but mainly, I recognised, because I’d already started to prepare the meal we were supposed to be sharing and now it was going to get ruined.

  “I’d cancel a client for you,” said Ivan. “Like a shot.”

  “I honestly don’t think somebody’s financial portfolio can compare. I won’t go into details, but this chap’s pretty desperate.”

  “Right. It is a he then?”

  I wasn’t going to give that remark any sort of credence. “Sorry, I can’t do tonight—end of story.”

  “When can I see you? I’m gagging, Sabbie.”

  I scanned my plans for the weekend. “What about Sunday evening? We could meet for a drink?”

  “I’ll have to be satisfied with that, won’t I?” Ivan’s breathing echoed in my ear, as if he was jogging in an empty room.

  “Yes.” I tried to make my voice sound encouraging. “What about the Curate’s Egg? Eightish?”

  As soon as I got Ivan off the phone, I zapped the TV remote. The first feature on the local news was about the missing child. I turned the volume up on the reporter.

  Five-year-old Aidan Rodderick disappeared from his school in the village of Morganswick this afternoon. When his mum Stella came to pick him up, staff realized he was no longer on the premises. A police hunt has already been initiated.

  Avon and Somerset police say that the boy may have simply wandered off, but they’re asking the public to be vigilant and to report any odd occurrences they’ve witnessed in the last three to four hours. The number to contact is …

  A photo of a boy with a rascal’s smile and a mess of blond hair popped up on the screen as the number rolled by underneath. Trusting eyes, I thought, knowing it to be hindsight’s intuition.

  The news items moved on. I sat on the sofa, unable to get going, feeling generally out of sorts. At first I thought the news report was affecting me. But when I analysed it, I realized I was still smarting over the phone call with Ivan. Why was I giving this guy houseroom? He had a complete lack of respect for my work and my independence. I punched at a cushion. I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t fancy him,
with his shaggy-dog hair and Italian suits, but I never can trust my intuition when it comes to men who have the hots for me. I sighed, smoothed the cushion out, and placed it at the corner of the sofa with a pat. I was pleased I’d chosen the Egg as a meeting place. There were quiet corners where the live music didn’t overpower conversation. I’d be as gentle as I could about it, but on Sunday evening, I was going to have to ditch Ivan.

  The doorbell tinkled its song, and I went to let Cliff Houghton in.

  If Cliff had sounded in a bad way over the phone, he looked a hundred percent worse in the flesh. I took him directly into my therapy room and sat to face him.

  There was a silence. I wasn’t sure what to say to the man, and Cliff seemed to have lost the power of speech. Finally, I decided to be more forceful than I felt.

  “Why are you so frightened, Cliff?”

  “I don’t know.” His hand worked at his mouth.

  “Have you got something you’re hiding? Something you’re not telling me?”

  I was expecting—hoping at least—for an instant denial, but instead, Cliff gaped at me, his long legs crossing and recrossing. “Something to hide.” His voice was as tight as a wrung-out cloth. “I must have, mustn’t I?”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I came to you. To find out.”

  I didn’t reply. A disturbing thought was busy crossing my mind. I should have phoned the police, as well as Ivan, while Cliff was still on his way. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  “I’ve been thinking about the sack of hair,” said Cliff.

  “Good. Anything come up?”

  “Bits of hair? That’s not exactly scary stuff is it? But the picture you drew. It brings on a mood …”

 

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