by Jess Ryder
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Jay says after a long silence. ‘They put me in the frame; they were gunning for me from the start. I never had a chance. If Becca hadn’t spoken up, I don’t know what would have happened. Maybe I’d still be in prison. Maybe I’d have hanged myself or had my throat cut.’ He’s welling up, voice trembling. Memories of those months on remand flash through his brain. The beatings. The weeks of isolation, fearing for his own safety. After he was acquitted, it was almost worse: anonymous death threats, malicious phone calls, old friends spitting on him in the street. When a flaming petrol-soaked cloth was stuffed through the letter box and almost burnt the house down, he had to admit defeat. The police did nothing to protect him, didn’t lift a finger to find out who’d nearly killed his mother. She was rehoused on the other side of the city and he was advised – no, instructed – to get out of town. If he didn’t, he would have to face the consequences. And now, thirty years on, the police have decided he was innocent after all, have they? Just want to eliminate him from their enquiries? Like fuck they do. He’s not stupid. He may have moved to London, but he’s kept abreast of developments at Heartlands. He knows Brian Durley is the big boss now and would like to tidy this case up once and for all.
DS Myles, Durley’s twenty-first-century replacement, hasn’t even looked up. He’s writing energetically on his pad, like a diligent student taking notes in a lecture. Jay breathes heavily, screwing his fists into tight, angry balls.
‘I swear I didn’t kill her, okay? You’re wasting your time here. If you think you’re going to be the hero, the one to break me down, get me to confess after all these years, give Cara’s family closure, yadda-yadda, then you can go fuck yourself!’ He bangs his fist on the coffee table. An electricity bill lying on top of a stack of magazines falls off and glides gracefully to the floor.
The detective barely flinches. ‘Did you know Rebecca Banks then?’ he says.
‘No,’ Jay replies quickly, wondering if his face is turning red. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘Because you called her Becca. A few moments ago, you said’ – he looks down at his notes – ‘ “If Becca hadn’t spoken up”.’
‘So? That’s her name, isn’t it?’ Thinking, fuck, fuck…
‘It’s what her friends called her, yes. Not Rebecca, or Becky, or Becs. Becca.’
‘That’s probably what was said at the trial, I don’t know,’ he mutters. ‘Does it matter?’
‘No. I just wondered, that’s all.’ The boy is studying him carefully, using all his detective training, no doubt. Looking for tells.
Jay stands up. ‘So is that it? Only I’m not feeling too great. I’m off work with stress.’
DS Myles picks up the DNA kit. ‘Sure you don’t want to help us?’
‘What, help you fit me up for a crime I didn’t commit? No thanks.’
The detective puts the kit back into his schoolboy satchel and buckles the straps. Then he stands up and walks towards the door. He puts his hand on the doorknob and turns around.
‘And you definitely didn’t know Rebecca Banks.’ Jay shakes his head slowly. ‘Well, thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.’
It seems to take forever for DS Myles to descend the stairs. Jay holds his breath until he hears the front door slam shut, then lets it out in an angry groan.
Chapter Twenty
Me
Isobel Dalliday is my new best friend. Although she seems to think I’m her old best friend. Her oldest and bestest, in fact. I’m not sure how this has happened – well, I know it was me that sought her out and told her about the videotape, so in that respect I’ve only myself to blame. What I mean is, how have I let this latest madness happen? And why do I now feel powerless to stop it?
I give my name to the girl at the desk and take a seat on the brown leather sofa. I’ve never been to a private clinic for anything before, and as a committed Labour voter (apart from that brief defection to the Lib Dems in 2010) it feels like a class betrayal. I look around at the characterless white furniture, the neutral rug, the water-torture feature tinkling in the softly illuminated alcove, the photos of calm seascapes and hazy sunsets. Pan pipes are playing gently through the speakers and the atmosphere is so peaceful and pleased with itself that I feel an urge to swear loudly or trash the place.
The girls at work think I’m at the dentist – no way could I tell them I was having past life regression; I’d be less embarrassed to admit I was having liposuction or laser hair removal. The ridiculousness of being here literally makes me guffaw – the sound just bursts out of my mouth and I have to turn it into a cough. The receptionist asks me if I’d like a drink of water. She’s wearing white scrubs, jet-black hair scraped off her heavily made-up face into a viciously tight ponytail, dragging her eyes upwards and making her look slightly oriental. Her body could have been created by an animator – tiny waist, oversized pointy boobs and pouty collagen lips; perks of the job no doubt.
I get a text. It’s from Isobel – who else? She’s ‘Nearly here’, followed by six kisses. I wish she wasn’t coming, but she’s organised this and she’s paying for it, so I couldn’t really say no. She’s aware that she’s not allowed to sit in on the session, but she thinks I might need some support. I can’t imagine what she thinks is going to happen; it’s only hypnotherapy, not like I’m having an operation. And we’re in Harley Street.
Yes, who would have thought you could have past life regression somewhere as reputable as Harley Street? I guess they’ll take anyone as long as they can afford the rent. I’m handed a tiny paper cone of icy water and sit there clutching it, studying the framed diplomas on the walls attesting to qualifications from educational institutions I’ve never heard of. It strikes me as ironic that hypnotherapist Emily Backhouse, fully trained in Neuro-linguistic Programming, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Emotional Freedom Technique, Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing, Inner Child Work, Soul Retrieval and Spiritual Healing, shares her clinic with a cosmetic surgeon. Aren’t they rivals – the good and bad angels? I was taught to believe it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
Another text from Isobel: ‘Moments away xx’. Only two kisses this time; she must be running at full speed. She texts me every day. Sweet, innocent messages, saying she’s thinking of me, sending me her love. Sometimes she phones on her way home, tramping down the hill from the tube. Tells me funny stories about hopeless publicity officers, impossible producers and spoilt, misbehaving actors – some of them famous. ‘I know you’d never betray me,’ she says, ‘but promise you won’t breathe it to a living soul.’
I haven’t told anyone, alive or dead. Mainly because I’m embarrassed. It’s like I’m having an affair with an older married woman. And although Isobel keeps insisting that Alice is ‘absolutely thrilled’ about our cosy little triangle, and is desperate for me to come over for supper very, very soon, I’m not sure I believe it. For example, Isobel invited me to the launch of her new book, then withdrew the invitation, saying it would be as boring as hell and not to bother coming. I detected some marital foot-putting-down. Not that I blame Alice. It is a bit worrying when your wife believes some girl in her twenties is the reincarnation of the love of her life.
I shouldn’t be going along with it, but I’ve quickly learnt that once Isobel gets an idea in her head, she’s like a dog with a bone. She thinks the regression will liberate me, that it will unblock channels in my psyche (or something like that) and that only by facing the traumas of my past life will I be able to deal with my present unresolved issues. I told her that I don’t really have any issues, unless you count a crap job, a £30,000 student loan debt and not having had sex for months, which made her shake her head sagely, as if to say that proved it. She says I use humour to deflect, because I’m uncomfortable with talking about my feelings – which is not surprising, in her view, because I was largely brought up by a man. But all is not lost, apparently. Isobel believes the tape emerged for a reason, which is a more palatable way of saying that i
t happened by magic. She is convinced that Cara’s angelic spirit has been watching over me, waiting for the right time to reappear in my life and guide me on my spiritual journey.
Such a load of rubbish. But I knew Isobel wasn’t going to give up unless I agreed to the regression. It won’t work. No way is it going to work. Hopefully, once it’s over, she’ll stop banging on about it. I let out a long, audible sigh, which the receptionist takes for impatience. I shouldn’t be so mean. Isobel is actually a lovely, warm, generous human being and I know she’s only trying to help. But if anyone has unresolved issues, it’s her.
The receptionist apologises and says that Emily Backhouse is running late with her current client. Isobel’s moments have turned into minutes, and I’m thinking that if I’m not called in soon, I’ll lose my nerve and go to Oxford Street for a spot of retail therapy instead. I need some new boots. I put down the copy of Vogue and give myself a silent talking-to. It’s just a hypnosis session, for God’s sake; people have them all the time for smoking or phobias. In a couple of hours it will all be over and done with, like having a tooth out. Come to think of it, I’d probably rather have a tooth out.
‘Sorry, darling, I misremembered the door number and went to the wrong end of the street,’ says Isobel, sweeping breathlessly into reception. She plants a sweaty kiss on my cheek. ‘I thought you’d have gone in by now.’
‘Running late,’ I tell her.
She pulls at her coat as if discarding a straitjacket and plonks herself down next to me, squeezing my hand. ‘How are you feeling? Nervous?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she reassures me. ‘I’m told she’s the best there is. Apparently she regressed Diana, although she refuses to confirm it.’ And look what happened to her, I think.
‘Um, Miss Banks? Emily’s ready for you now.’ The receptionist flicks her switch of glossy black hair in the direction of the stairs.
Isobel squeezes my hand again, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Best of luck, darling,’ she says, as if I’m a child about to sit a test.
The consulting room is very simple and non-medical, a bit tatty compared to front-of-house. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Emily says, holding out her hand. She’s not what I was expecting: in her late sixties, soft and motherly-looking, with large round features and a glossy silver-grey bob. A dark pink jumper over a white shirt and a full grey skirt. No wild hair or flowing scarves or large hooped earrings, which, actually, is a relief.
I move towards the couch but she redirects me to the upright chair next to the desk. ‘Let’s have a chat first.’ I sit down and Emily looks into my eyes, tunnelling into me, as if she’s already retrieving my soul. ‘I’ve had a chat with your friend Isobel and watched the tape,’ she says.
‘Really?’ I feel myself stiffen. ‘How come?’
‘She sent me a copy; I assumed she had your permission.’
I shrug. This feels to me like it’s compromising the experiment.
Emily takes my silence as approval. ‘I must say, I feel very honoured to be allowed to share in such a special experience.’
‘So you think it’s genuine?’
She puts her head on one side, considering. ‘Well, it wasn’t a spontaneous event; you were being asked to recall things you’d said before, and you needed prompting, so… hard to know for sure. But it’s difficult to coach a child that young, so, on balance, I’d say it was genuine, yes. A great number of children come out with memories of past lives, but very few are listened to, particularly in Western culture. Most people can’t accept reincarnation. But I’ve been doing this for many years, and I know.’
‘Well… if I’m honest, I’m a bit sceptical.’
Emily smiles. ‘I don’t have a problem with that. In many ways, it’s a better attitude to have. It means you won’t force it. A lot of my clients are desperate to discover their past lives and try too hard.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll even manage to get me under,’ I say, aware that I’m starting to sound a little aggressive.
‘Some people are more susceptible than others,’ she agrees, smiling. ‘But don’t worry, there’s nothing to be scared of; your emotional safety and well-being is my number one concern. You’ll remain in control the entire time. You’re not asleep, you’re fully aware that you’re under hypnosis, and if you want to stop, you can do so instantly. You’ll remember everything that you say, but the session will be recorded so you can listen to it at home. And Isobel has asked for a copy, is that okay?’ I nod, feeling more and more helpless. ‘When we finish, you’ll feel incredibly relaxed. And your body temperature will have dropped, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you keep warm. Any questions?’
‘No, I’d just like to get on with it.’
She settles me on the reclining couch and puts a grey blanket over my legs; clips a small microphone to my shirt and fiddles with the recording equipment for a few moments, then goes to her laptop and taps at the keys. I’m told to close my eyes and to take deep, slow breaths, which I do. Emily assures me that I’ll be put under hypnosis very slowly – she’s not going to rush me straight to my past life. No, we’re going to find a safe place first, somewhere I can return to if the feelings get too much to handle. I immediately think of a physical location – under the duvet, behind the curtains – but she means a memory of a time when I felt happy.
Happy times… There must be plenty to choose from, surely. My first thought is of my childhood, me and Dad, and I try to picture us together – reading a bedtime story, collecting shells on the beach, struggling over my maths homework. Such things definitely happened, but I can’t remember a specific place or time. A significant birthday, perhaps. My eighteenth? No, that was a disaster; I got extremely drunk and ended up in A & E. A university experience then… I try to conjure something up but my mind has gone blank. There’s only one more place to try. A happy memory of me and Eliot; there must be hundreds. What about when we moved into the flat above the greengrocer’s? But the happy thought is roughly pushed away by the sad one that he no longer cares about me, that he hasn’t called once since we fell out.
I’m starting to stress; the slow, deep breaths have turned quick and shallow. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. But then Emily pulls her chair across and sits at my side. She starts talking in her low, unhurried voice, counting me down…
And miraculously, we find the safe place without too much trouble, settling on the garden in the house where I spent most of my childhood, the old house I can’t go back to any more, so it’s comforting to visit it in my imagination. I put myself on the swing and an old song starts to play in my head: the green grass grew all around all around. That’s what I can see: the lawn stretching away from me, green grass apart from the patch of dusty bare earth beneath my feet, and above me solid blue sky, like the underside of a lid. I’m telling Emily I’m ten years old; it’s the school summer holidays. Dad’s sorting out the garage and I’m reading. One hand holding the book, the other holding on to the swing chain, rocking gently back and forth, back and forth, using my foot as a brake. Emily lets me swing: she lets the sun warm the back of my neck and the breeze cool my legs. Then she starts talking about doors.
There are five doors in the garden, each leading to one of my past lives. Because I haven’t just got one, she explains; that wouldn’t make any sense at all. There are hundreds, maybe thousands to choose from. It’s up to me which door I walk through today – she tells me I’m totally in control. If one of them leads to Cara, I’ll sense it, and if I feel ready, that’s where I’ll go. My limbs feel heavy. I sink further into the couch, my hands flopping at my sides. And I say – in a flat, neutral voice I barely recognise and yet know is mine – that I am ready. I choose the middle door.
Chapter Twenty-One
File 20140504. Banks, Meredith
Emily: How are you feeling?
Meredith: Fine.
E: Good. Where are you? Can you describe it?
M: Er… I’m looking a
t the sea. Standing on a cliff, looking out. I know this place, I’ve been here before.
E: Who are you…? (Pause) What do you look like?
M: Don’t know. I… er… I can’t see myself…
E: Look down at your feet. Can you see what you’re wearing on your feet?
M: Er… yes. Sandals… pink sandals with straps.
E: What else are you wearing? Try to describe your clothes.
M: A dress… no, shorts, red shorts, I can see my knees. And a yellow T-shirt. My mother’s calling out to me, telling me not to go too near the edge…
E: Can you hear her? What’s she saying?
M: For heaven’s sake, come away, you’ll fall… But I’m not going to fall. I’m going to fly. I want to step off, into the air. Swoop about the sky like a seagull. (Laughs) Mum’s coming to get me now, grabbing my hand, pulling me back. She’s cross.
E: Do you know what your name is?
M: I’m not sure…
E: Perhaps your mother’s calling to you. Is she saying your name?
M: I don’t know… Cara… I think I’m Cara…
E: Do you know how old you are at this moment?
M: No… Young.
E: Do you know where you are? The name of the place?
M: Um… it’s just sea and cliffs. We’re on holiday.
(Pause)
M: West Bay. Is there a place called West Bay?
E: Yes, in Dorset.
(Long pause)
E: Are you happy to leave West Bay now?
M: Yes, I think so.
(Long pause)
E: Good. So now I’m going to take you forward in your life… Is that all right with you?
