In the Moors (3 page)

I felt the silence grow in the room. Cliff appeared to be the world expert on both these crimes.

“How did it all end?”

“I can remember seeing it on the telly. They found bodies buried on the moors. Matthew, Joanna, Nicolas, and John. Everyone poring over the gruesome details like ghouls.” Cliff shifted on his seat, almost tipping the metal frame. He was perched right on the edge of the chair like some flightless bird. It's better to rest back on the lounger, but he seemed unable to relax. “They never found the murderer,” he went on, “but after a while, the kids round my way were let back out to play. I guess people thought it was over.”

“I wonder what makes someone do something so evil and then stop, all of a sudden?”

“Their consciences, I hope.”

I was silent for a while. “You remember it very well. The names and details.”

“You could say the whole year is burned on my memory. Dad was sick around then, then he died, and I never felt the same again.”

I could see that Josh's death might very well have brought back memories of Cliff's own pain and loss, confusing past with present in his mind.

“In our first session, you said you felt as if something was making you depressed.”

“Yeah, well, the doctor calls it depression. But to be honest, none of the tablets he's given me has done anything. It's the mornings, mostly. At least, it always starts as I wake. I feel so … afraid … for no reason. Getting out of bed is impossible. That's why I shelf-stack in Morrison's. I do the night sessions. I don't have to wake up till the evening, and if I'm lucky, the feeling of dread goes away more quickly.”

“Can you remember your dreams?”

“No. Never. I don't have dreams.”

“Dreams often slip out of sight, but if we write down all the tiny fragments we remember, we can nudge our ‘dream memory
'
.”

I took a new softbound A5 book of unlined pages from a pile I keep in a drawer and wrote Cliff's full name in the front. I flicked a few pages in and sketched out the room I'd visited on my journey. I belong to the Mickey Mouse school of art, but even I could draw a cartoon sack. Then I sellotaped the copy of my journey in beside it and dated the entry. I showed him the notebook.

“Each session, I'll describe what I've seen in your spirit world in this book, and I want you to use it as a memory jogger in between sessions. If any thoughts or coincidences happen that take you back to the description of my journeys, I want you to put them down. Add all the dreams you remember. Leave the notebook by your bed and jot down even the tiniest scrap as soon as you wake.”

Cliff gave a snort. “Why should I to do that?”

“You've come here because you want to know why you feel so wretched all the time. Dreams are part of the shamanic work we'll do together.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“I want to see you next Saturday,” I said, writing the date in the notebook and passing it to Cliff. He flapped it in his hand as if he needed extra air.

“What will you tell the police?” he asked.

“What did
you
tell them?”

He grimaced. “I see your point. I told them mostly everything I've just told you. They've allocated me a solicitor—Miss Smith. She's insisting I should be careful what I say, but I hope I won't have to say anything to them again. Surely they've done with me.”

I checked the time on my mobile, which was lying on the desk. I usually leave a good space between appointments—I never know just what's going to happen in a shamanic consultation—but the doorbell for my next client was going to chime at any moment. I offered Cliff a handshake. His palm was hot with sweat. When he pulled away, I felt his hand tremble, as if he'd just received bad news.

It wasn't until after he'd left that I realized he'd forgotten the sovereign—or maybe he'd thought I would need it again.

I reached out and laid one index finger on its cool, indented surface. Sometime during this next week, I would have to travel into Cliff's spirit world again, and I was not looking forward to it one little bit.

FOUR

The following morning, I
indulged an impulse and went to the Sunday car boot sale they always hold on Plum Lane—Bridgwater's finest. I had appointments back-to-back from two until seven in the evening, so I reckoned I deserved the morning off. I fed my three sad hens. Juniper, Ginger, and Melissa peered nervously at me from their fox fortress. They reminded me forcefully of Cliff—how he'd turn his lips into a beak and the way the dark pupils of his eyes were tiny, bright dots.

I made the one-mile walk through the houses to Plum Lane, letting the sharp wind blow my cobwebs away. The sale was already buzzing when I got there. I pushed into the browsing, haggling crowds and began to trawl for bargains. Some of my favourite stalls are those I never buy from. I love the philatelist who turns up with albums and cellophane packets of brilliantly coloured foreign stamps, and the chap who sells rusty, archaic, and seemingly useless tools from a blanket laid on the ground, which is constantly surrounded by men of a certain age.

I sifted through the second-hand clothes, treated myself to a Will Smith DVD (he is on my “want to marry” list), almost won a fight over a cut-glass salad bowl, then made a beeline for my favourite stall, a chap who comes once a fortnight to sell CDs at amazing cut prices. Barty (as he's called) will put a CD into his player and let you listen to something new. A beat pounded out and his stall was deep in punters.

I elbowed my way through the crowd and ran my hands along the racks, searching out artists I liked. I felt the close proximity of a sharp warm aura behind me just as my hand lighted on a Pet Shop Boys album. People do that at boot sales—breathe all over you as they try to snatch the bargain you spotted first.

“Bit before your time, aren't they?”

I jumped, despite my early warning device. The CD flew up in the air. With a certain panache, Rey caught it like a discus.

I had no intention of ever clapping my eyes on Detective Sergeant Buckley again, but I'd forgotten how often the hand of fate takes a leading role in my productions.

“Have you been following me?”

He laughed. “We don't have the manpower for that. I like coming here.”

I didn't believe him for a moment. I had a feeling that our exchange yesterday had rankled with him. He'd gone out on a limb, despite what he'd told me about hunches, and it hadn't paid off because I wasn't prepared to play his sort of games.

“Want this?” He brought a fiver from his pocket and waved it at Barty.

“Will you stop?”

“Go on, let me treat you.”

I snatched back the CD, stuffed it onto the stand, and stormed off through the crowd. I knew he was following; he caught me up, sneaked in front, and held up his hands in defeat. “You really take this self-sufficiency thing seriously, don't you?”

I couldn't help smile at that, or help taking it as a compliment, either.

“Fancy a drink?” said Rey. “There's a couple of tables by the burger van.”

It was a sure bet Rey would spend all his time trying to needle information out of me, but I did like his new-mown hair and the eyes that, in daylight, veered on the greenish side of hazel, so I gave a half nod. “Just a tea, please.”

“Come on then.” Rey hugged himself. “It's cold work, car booting.”

He strode ahead. Today he was wearing a worn leather jacket that skimmed the belt of bleached, deliciously tight, unironed jeans. He scrubbed down well, did Rey Buckley. By the time I'd plonked onto one of the cheap plastic seats, he was on his way back from the van, both hands occupied with paper cups. I noticed that he'd left a carrier bag full of purchases next to his seat, an old clock resting on the top. Maybe he did car boot, after all.

I stretched out as he sat down, and under the tiny bistro table my foot nudged against his thick-soled boot. I snatched it back as if Rey were a live cable, which indeed, he must have been—a spark flew from him and shot through the centre of my body. I hid my warming cheeks behind my paper cup while I foolishly focused my gaze on his left ring finger. Naked skin, all the way down to the hairy back of his hand, which meant, in my calculating mind, that DS Buckley was either (a) single, (b) divorced, or (c) a man who chose not to wear rings.

“So, what's your preference in music?” said Rey as he diligently poured packets of sugar into his black coffee.

“That has to be reggae. I have everything Bob Marley ever released.”

“Because he's dead?” said Rey.

“What? Why d'you say that?”

“I'd just been wondering what this spirit world you were on about was like. Is it filled with dead people like Marley and Sid Vicious?”

His question surprised me. I'd expected him to badger me about Cliff, not start a philosophical discussion.

“It isn't like that. A lot of spirits have never even been human.”

“Whatever do they look like then?”

“Mostly what I encounter is symbolic. Sometimes I see abstract patterns, sometimes stories play themselves out, like allegories. Most of my spirit guardians look as if they come from another world, but sometimes they turn up in jeans and a baseball cap. They usually bring messages I have to interpret. Sometimes what they give me seems complex and coded; other times things fit together through coincidences that jump up and smack you in the eye.”

“I can't see how it works. How come I don't bump into these spirits when I close my eyes?”

“Good question.” I paused, because the chap from the burger bar had arrived with a sausage and bacon buttie on a paper plate and I was fascinated by the variation in sauces and dressings Rey was lavishing over it. “Most people can enter a trance. Actually we do it all the time. It's that state of mind where we shut off from what's going on around us even though we're not asleep.”

“Oh, I've got that one off to a tee,” said Rey. “I use it when my mates start banging on about their wives.”

I bit back an overpowering desire to ask if Rey had a wife to bang on about. “Part of my job is introducing my clients to their own spirit worlds.”

“Could I do it?” said Rey, taking an oversized bite of his burger.

“Yes, sir, if you'd care to book an appointment …”

“I wouldn't have to be ill or something, then?”

“Not necessarily. But I do do a lot of therapeutic work. Most of my clients are hoping I'll solve their problems.”

“And do you solve them?”

I thought about Cliff—the enigma that seemed impenetrable and the cryptic symbols I'd been offered. Maybe this time I'd bitten off more than I'd be able to chew. “I guess clients are happy with what they get. A lot of my work is by recommendation.”

“So,” said Rey, keeping his voice all laid-back, “are drugs involved?”

I grinned. “Not by me. In some places maybe. South America, for instance, or in ancient times, but I like to keep my head crystal-ball clear.”

“Strange way to earn a crust.”

“That's what it generally is—a crust! But I get by. Lucky I've got a garden full of vegetables.”

“And hens,” Rey reminded me.

“I fancy getting a goat, but I'm not sure I've got room.”

To my surprise, our conversation took off, flapping here and there as conversations do, and finally perching on a fence as we argued the ultimate question.

“Boy bands are sad,” said Rey. “They're all adolescents, hoping never to grow up and do proper jobs.” There was tomato ketchup on his chin and I weighed up telling him about it or simply leaning over to wipe it off with the flimsy paper napkin.

“Girl bands can't even sing, let alone compose their own tracks,” I argued back. “They're fine if all you plan to do is fantasize as you watch them.”

“So what do girls do with boy bands, then? No sneaky little fantasies about getting hitched?”

I tried not to look down at my Will Smith DVD. “No, we go and watch them. Gives you a real buzz. I've still got the pics from the Live Earth concert on my laptop to prove it.”

“Laptop!” said Rey, wiping his mouth and screwing the last bits of sausage bun into his napkin. “What happened to scrape-a-carrot-from-the-soil?”

“I've got a very generous family. It was my going-to-university gift.”

“They do degrees in
shamanism
?”

“Not exactly. You need to study with a master; it's a practical subject. A skill. A gift, I suppose.”

We might have gone on all day, but the booters were packing up around us.

“You ever thought about selling things here?” Rey asked as we walked towards the entrance.

“Come early May, I'll be behind a pasting table, offloading my surplus seedlings.”

Rey put the flat of his hand on my arm. “I knew I'd seen you somewhere before.”

“What, are you saying you've purchased my Pelargonium cuttings?”

“I might, if I knew what they were.”

We'd stopped walking. Frankly, my legs were in no state to carry me along the pavement while Rey's hand laid on my arm. It was strong, with straight-cut nails that had no dirt under them. For some reason it seemed to have a built-in device that weakened the person it touched, body and mind. Useful if you're arresting someone, I supposed. I looked into Rey's face and saw the change in the curve of his mouth, the softness there suddenly. I was sure that any second, he would dip his head to my level and kiss me. Then someone jogged against my shoulder as they passed us. I turned to give an automatic apology and when I turned back, he was walking on, the moment broken. Maybe I imagined it altogether.

“Did he turn up, then, yesterday?”

I knew Rey had been choking on that question from the moment he'd spotted me. But he'd managed to keep it nailed down, and I felt he deserved a little reward.

“He did. We had a good session.”

“Go away all cured and happy, did he?”

“He had a wretched time when he was a boy—”

“If you ask me, some people just can't cope with life.” Rey snorted. “My dad walked out on us, you know, left me to ‘be the man', but I didn't see that as something that would affect my life badly. Not then, and not now. Actually, I think it was the making of me.”

“
You're right.” Just for a second, I was tempted to trade “tough times,” but I was not in the mood. “Some people can cope with things others can't. We're all different. I have to accept that my client's anguish is how he tells me it is. Otherwise it would be like a surgeon telling a patient he can't possibly be in that much pain from his op, wouldn't it?”

“I'll give you that.” Rey fished out his car keys and zapped them at a natty-looking Nissan with sporty wheels. It winked back at us. “I just wondered about your gut reaction about Cliff Houghton.”

By the time I was ready to answer the question, we'd reached the car.

“I don't know,” I said, and it was the perfect truth. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Rey repeated, in an optimistic tone.

“You think these are copycat killings, don't you?”

“Whatever that is.”

“Don't dismiss my questions,” I said, riled, “and expect me to answer yours.”

“I asked you for a gut reaction. Hardly the Inquisition.”

“I told you, I can't talk about clients.”

“Same thing applies to a case—can't say a word.”

“Apart from giving me the third degree.”

“You'd know if you were having that.”

We stood, inches away from each other, seething.

Rey opened the passenger door of his car. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

“I'll walk. I need the exercise.” I strode off, heading towards home.

“See ya!” Rey called after me.

I put my hand in the air but didn't look back.

I suppose you could say that my fascination with the spirit world can be traced back nine years, to the day my foster mum, Gloria, persuaded me to go to university. I wasn't keen, although I had been trying to sort my future out. I was nineteen, living in the smallest bedroom in her house and running two jobs—bar assistant at Badass and care assistant at a local residential home for the elderly. Neither of my jobs paid above the minimum wage, although I did enjoy them—especially the evening one, which I'd had since the day I'd hit eighteen. I spent most of my evenings leaning against the Badass bar, and I did backflips at the idea that they'd
pay
me to spend time behind it.

I had left school in a great hurry, fed up with the way they kept putting me on suspension for trumped-up mini-crimes they'd got their knickers in a mess over. I'd hated school, especially its petty rules and the way imaginative thinking was stifled (well, my imaginative thinking, anyway). I'd told Gloria I didn't need stupid exam certificates; I could earn my own living and pay her back for the years I'd been eating out of her fridge.

“I don't want nothing,” she'd said, “except to see you happy, girl.”

“I am happy,” I'd said, my eyes smarting with hot brine.

“Bein' angry is not the same as bein' happy,” said Gloria, one of her many maxims.

Nevertheless, she had helped me find the job at the residential home. I soon had money in my pocket for most of each week, despite the fact I was the only person I knew who paid rent to live at home. After all, it was the only place I'd ever called home and the cooking was great—except on Sundays, when my foster dad, Philip, made us trail the countryside byways around Bristol with sandwiches in our backpacks. He's still a believer in fresh air and exercise, is Philip, even though he's gone sixty-six and retired.