In the Moors (4 page)

One evening, as I had been getting ready for my shift at the pub (which always meant a good deal of makeup and hair arrangement), Gloria had slammed a brochure down in front of me.

“Bristol City College?” I'd read. “Oh no, Gloria. You've got me wrong. I have no intention of going back to school.”

“You'd better have,” she'd growled. “I've just enrolled you in three evening courses. My treat for your nineteenth birthday.”

“Ta,” I said with heavy sarcasm. “What are they? Flower arranging? Yoga?”

“A levels,” said Gloria. “All your favourites: psychology, sociology, and biology.”

“
Ologies
?” I'd exploded. “How d'you expect me to do all this?”

“Because you're clever,” said Gloria. “You just don't know it. And because you're always banging on about these subjects.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered, turning the pages of the prospectus. “Like I actually know anything about any of them.”

“You'll surprise yourself,” said Gloria.

But the greatest surprise was the one still hiding up Gloria's sleeve. Because to my amazement, my exam results after the evening courses gained me a place at Bangor University, up in North Wales. While I'd been trying to work out if I could afford to study there, Gloria had presented me with a cheque for all the rent I'd paid her over the last three years. She had me weeping all over her soft, warm, loving shoulder.

I had thought it might be nice to stay in a bedroom like the one at Gloria's, so I'd phoned a few landladies, eventually speaking to Rhiannon Howell. “It is just me and Bren here now.” The slow richness of her North Welsh accent had powered down the phone line. “Both our girls have babies of their own, and we miss all the mess and loud music, we do.”

“Honestly?”

I heard her give a throaty chuckle down the phone and immediately warmed to her. “I hope you like countryside, Sabrina. We're out of the town. Out in the wild, like.”

“I'll be okay, I've got my Honda bike.” I had imagined that I'd be spending most of my time in the campus pubs. “Oh, and I'm Sabbie.”

I hated my full name back then. It reminded me of the mother who'd chosen to die rather than look after me. Plus I thought it was a stupid name to give a baby. I used to imagine that she'd looked down into the cot and called me the first thing that had come into her drug-fuzzed brain. I wanted to forget my earliest years, and I dealt with that by never answering to the name Sabrina.

The plan was that Philip would drive all my things up in the car, and I'd follow closely behind on my Honda. I'd been whizzing around Bristol for a couple of years and felt confident of the trip north. But we'd only just crossed the border into Wales when the rain started to bucket down in sheets.

Bloody typical
, I thought, and then I saw the brake lights on the lorry in front of me, and that thought was my last for a long while.

My first memory of recovery was a song in my head.

Later, Gloria had told me I'd been rushed straight to the operating theatre to relieve the haematoma that had caused pressure on my brain. The surgeons did everything they could but were cagey about the outcome. They wouldn't promise when I'd come round, or even if I would. My family sat round waiting. My first response was a lifted hand, as if I was reaching for something. The following morning, I opened my eyes and began a slow recovery.

That was the outside world's version of events. My internal story was quite different. I swam in a dream world. I had no knowledge of time or space. I heard a woman's voice. She sang, sweet and light, of waves and tides, although I never could remember the words or tune. Her song was accompanied by the rush and babble of water. I was floating in that water, high banks on either side, drifting along as if I was a piece of riverweed. No other thoughts were in my head at that time. I couldn't remember my past life and never once imagined any sort of future. I was in limbo, buoyed up by the woman's sweet humming.

Just once, I saw a face: a man's features, an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair that drifted down to his shoulders and a beard that drifted down to his chest. I still remember how his speedwell eyes caught my attention. When he smiled, I saw his teeth had a wide gap at the front and a gleam of gold at the back. Finally he spoke:

“You return to us, Sabrina. Make the effort, love. We're all waiting for you. It's going to be a good life, Sabrina, you'll see. You'll see.”

He went on whispering and smiling, and I know I tried to reach him, hang on to him because he was the only thing in my universe at that moment and I didn't want to lose him. I didn't even care that he called me Sabrina. I'd forgotten my name, and the word seemed enchanting on his tongue. When his image began to fade, I opened my eyes because I was so sick to lose the sight of him.

I had not known right then, but this was the strongest spirit world experience I'd had up until that point. I'd only begun to suspect anything at all, when, the following October, Philip once again drove me up to Bangor. The Howells had sent me a get-well card, promising to keep my room open until I made it. It was Bren who opened the door to my knock when we arrived.

“Sabbie!” he exclaimed and gave me a beaming smile—big gap between his front teeth and a gleam of gold at the back.

FIVE

Harold Street is a
narrow road filled with ex–local authority houses, built almost sixty years back in pairs. I'm the corner house, so I've got the biggest plot. There's actually room for a garage—somewhere I could put Mini Ha Ha, my dependable little car, instead of leaving her out on the road at night where she's all exposed and vulnerable. But no chance of that—my landlord's understanding of property improvement is a splash of cheap white paint each time someone new moves in.

Three years ago, this garden was nothing but a mass of unkempt grass, and the only things that grew out of it were rusting motorcycle parts. I've spent hours getting it how I want it. My front door is on the side wall, so that's where I laid enough flagstones to call a patio and put my patio table and chairs. There's a spinster's hanky lawn behind it and flower borders on each side of the path leading to the front gate. When I sit on my patio, I can see everyone walking up and down the street … and they can see me clearly over my low brick wall. So many neighbours gatecrashed last summer's parties that I thought about offering games and rides for ticket sales.

The things I'd bought at the boot sale were pulling at my arm sockets by the time I'd finished my mile walk home. I dug into my jacket pocket for keys as I sauntered down the side path. I was deep in thought, trying to work out just what impression I'd left on Rey. A brainless smile was hovering over my lips as I became aware of someone leaning on the side of my porch, and I returned to the real world with a bang.

“Ivan! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” said Ivan. He threw his half-smoked cigarette onto the path and twisted his left shoe over it several times. “Couldn't work out where you'd gone this early on a Sunday.”

“Car boot.” I lifted my bags as if pumping iron with them.

Ivan stared for several seconds. “You do have some odd hobbies.”

“Why didn't you phone?”

“Thought I'd surprise you.”

“Congrats, you succeeded.”

“You were daydreaming about something, that's for sure. Hope it was me.”

I dumped my boot sale booty in the porch but didn't go so far as to open the door. “Actually, Ivan, I didn't know where I stood with you when you left yesterday. I was wondering if I'd see you again.”

He grinned. “Babe! You take life way too seriously.”

“I do?”

He slid his arms around my waist, catching his kiss on the corner of my mouth. I put my hands gently on the sides of his face, and closed my eyes. Ivan's not the sort to drop a butterfly kiss. He starts out with full passion overdrive and moves up the scale. On Friday night that was a real turn-on, but something had gone missing. I shifted my mouth to his ear and whispered in it. “I'd love to do this, Ivan, but I can't, not right now.”

“
'Course you can.”

“I have to get ready for a client.”

He began nuzzling at my neck. I could feel his teeth pretend to bite, sharp as a puppy's. “Don't you ever take a break?”

“Not if I want to pay the rent.”

“Ring them up and cancel, sweetheart. I'll pay your rent.”

I laughed. “Nice try. But I actually love my work, rent or not.”

“When am I going to see you properly?”

“How about Wednesday evening? Come round, I'll cook something.”

“Are you telling me you're working every evening between now and then?”

“Yes, Ivan. My clients mostly work too. I'm busiest at weekends and after four in the afternoon.”

Ivan shrugged. He nestled his mobile in the palm of his hand. His fingers moved fast over the keys, like the fat legs of some intelligent insect, searching for his calendar. “Yeah, I can come straight from the office, if you like. Six-ish?”

“Make it seven,” I said. “I'll probably have to shop for food.”

He leaned into me and we kissed again. I wanted to ask him to not turn up without warning another time, but I didn't like to admit how uncomfortable I'd felt when I realized he'd been watching the stupid grin on my face.

“Seen any more of that copper?”

“No, of course not.” The denial was out of my mouth before I could stop to ask myself why I was lying.

“What did he want, in the end?”

“One of my clients got himself arrested. It's okay, he's not in any trouble. Mistaken identity, almost.”

“That's good. You got me worried. Thought my girlfriend was a known criminal, for a minute.”

“Yep, that's me. A price on my head in nine counties.”

I watched him lope along the path and waved as the gate clanged behind him. I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. Ivan's parting quip was ringing in my ears—not the
known criminal
part but the
my girlfriend
part
.
I wasn't ready to consider Ivan anything more than a casual date. We were as different as a ladybird is from a greenfly.

I grinned.
So long as I'm the ladybird
, I thought, munching on a radish.

“So pleased to see you, Sabbie,” exclaimed my four o'clock. “How are you doing today?”

Marianne Meyer had the faultless English accent of the Dutch, and she was always rather formal in her politeness. She towered over me as I let her in. She bordered on six feet in height, favouring well-cut slacks that glided against the concave curve of her abdomen and floated in a boot-cut around her stiletto heels. Her hair was as silky blond as mine is crinkly black and almost as long. She favoured small, tight tops that enhanced her beautiful breasts. At first I wondered about boob jobs, but now I'm sure that everything she displayed was real. She's just a lucky girl—and that extended to her life. She had a fit bloke who adored her, a big family back in the Netherlands that meant a lot to her, and until recently she'd been accelerating through the cut-throat world of public relations.

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 Marianne's in front of her. I took a quick sip of mine. Most of the ginger went up my nose, making me blink.