In the Moors (5 page)

“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 …”

“What sort of mood? Can you explain?”

He shook his head. He wasn't wearing his hair in a ponytail today, and hanks the colour and shape of rats' tails fell over his face. He brushed them back and tucked them behind his ears. Cliff liked his hair anything but shorn.

“Have you been writing down your dreams?” I was expecting an obstinate response and was taken aback to see the pain on his face as he yanked the notebook out of an inner jacket pocket.

“It's not much. I was half asleep.”

“That's good,” I said. “Best time to write down dreams, really.” I flipped through the pages and came to a double-spread of huge, black writing that sloped down the unlined pages. It was hard to decipher, but not impossible.

Man in my front garden,
it began
. Shirley tied him to the rose bushes with garden twine. I walked on up the street, scared the neighbours would think it was anything to do with me. When I went into Mrs. Harvard's house, there was a hole in her kitchen floor …

I looked up, a huge, artificial smile covering my face.

“It's a muddle,” Cliff said. “Shirley was a girl in my school. Haven't seen her in years. The garden was hers—we used to go round there in a gang.” His cheeks darkened. “You know, play ‘mummies and daddies'. But Mrs. Harvard lives up the road from me. She runs a greasy spoon. I've never seen her kitchen.”

“Health and Safety'll be after her, if she's got a hole in it,” I said, hoping for a smile I didn't get. “Be easy on yourself, Cliff, this is a pretty typical dream. Anyone could have had it.” I put the book on my desk. “The real breakthrough is that you had a dream and recorded it.”

“I guess,” said Cliff.

“How far away from your childhood neighbourhood do you live?” I asked.

“The other side of Finchbury.”

“You never fancied moving on?”

Cliff shrugged. “Where would I go?”

“Does your mum live there?”

“Yes, Mum's still in the house I grew up in. She has her friends—Women's Institute, Church Council, that sort of thing. My baby sister's long gone; she's a teacher in Guildford.”

“Tell me about your dad,” I said, thinking back to the sovereign.

“We had some brilliant times together, until he was taken down by leukaemia. He'd worked at Hinckley Point after he'd finished his apprenticeship in engineering. He left to start his own business. Mum was convinced that the power station caused his cancer. Not that they ever admitted liability.” He shifted his position until he was on the very edge of the tubular frame of the sun lounger, his
bony elbows digging into his knees. The lounger creaked.

“You miss him still, don't you?” When he didn't answer, I moved quickly on. “We've agreed this is your Saturday appointment, Cliff. And as I haven't yet journeyed for that session, I'm going to do that now, with you in the room. Usually, I get excellent results that way, so it can't be anything but beneficial. Are you up for that?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

I motioned for Cliff to get up so that I could lower the head of the lounger. “Okay, if you could just stretch out, Cliff, I'll cover you with a rug. I'd like you to be warm and relaxed.”

“I can't lie down on that.”

I was caught off guard, struggling with the ratchets of the lounger. I straightened up and looked at him. His hand was pulling at his mouth. His eyes were wide and suspiciously wet. Hanks of his hair had fallen over his face again.

“Don't worry, I'll talk you through the process before we begin. You don't have to do anything—I'm going to be doing all the shamanic stuff.”

“It's not the process. It's that thing.” He pointed at my lounger. “I had an accident with one when I was a kid. I fell off. Had to be taken to casualty. It's given me a bit of a phobia.”

I stretched my mouth into a smile. My lips felt numb. I had no idea why Cliff's phobia made me feel so uncomfortable. “When you sit on it,” I observed, “you almost tip yourself off, you're so close to the edge.”

“They're easily unbalanced,” Cliff said, reasonably. “Quite dangerous, really.”

Yeah
, I thought,
just like escaped tigers or shifting sands
. But all I said was, “It'll be a shame if you can't make yourself comfortable.”

“I'll lie on the floor.” Instantly, Cliff let his lanky body down onto the laminate, seeming not to care that it would be hard and chilled.

I brought over some floor cushions, and he shifted to lie on those. He hadn't taken off his trainers, and I could see grass and mud on the soles. Maybe he'd walked over my lawn. I covered him with the rug.

“Are you sure you're all right down there?” I picked up his right wrist and wound a plaited cord around it.

“What's that?” he asked, staring at the white, brown, and green strands of silk.

“It will join us shamanically,” I said. “It symbolises the three otherworlds—higher, lower, and middle planes of existence. All of which I can explore to find solutions.”

I turned off the lights but left the candle flickering on the central table, then pressed Play on the CD player. The disc was a recording of myself beating a goatskin drum over and over. Since the lounger was free, I settled myself onto it. The more relaxed I was, the better I would journey. I wound the other end of the cord around my own wrist. Now Cliff and I were so tightly linked, there was no doubt in my mind I would find his spirit world.

“Cliff,” I said. “Are you all right about this?”

“I expected them to come for me. I suppose that's the reason I got in the car and came over here. I thought the police would take me in.”

“Why—” I broke off, because my throat closed over, paralysed for a moment. “Why d'you say that?”

“Morganswick is less than five miles from Finchbury.”

I nodded, trying to stay calm and clear-headed. The thump of the pulse in my ears didn't help matters. “So,” I said, grasping the nettle, “where were you at three
o'clo
ck this afternoon?”

“Still in bed. I'm working tonight. I didn't get up till four.”

“I don't suppose anyone saw you?”

“No one sees you when you live alone.”

A grisly thought struck me. Cliff was genuinely obsessed with the murder of little Josh. Was that because his subconscious remembered his part in it? Had Cliff woken up at four, or had he been
coming round
after doing whatever it was he'd done to Aidan Rodderick?

As I struggled with this, I began to wonder if Rey and his chums were moving along the same line of supposition. Why hadn't they already called on Cliff? Had he been watched since he was released on Saturday? Perhaps the police already knew that he'd not left his flat all day. I was sincere in hoping this was the case. As I lay down beside him, a dark scarf over my eyes, my heart cracked like a flag in a gale.

The drumming hit my ears, but the singing centre of its note entered my body through my solar plexus. For a moment or two, I could feel my client floating alongside, coupled to me by the silken umbilicus. I let the drumbeat reverberate around my mind and suddenly I felt the soles of my bare feet touch cool grass. I could hear the lullaby of the brook even before I saw it.

My spirit portal. The grass is tightly cropped by rabbits, which are shy, but I often spot them loping out of sight. The heather has a dusty, light floral scent. If I stay still, the choristers—blackcaps, robins, and thrushes—belt out their tunes. At night, when there is usually a cloudless sky showing the moon, a nightingale sings. On the opposite bank of the brook runs a thick line of wild hedge, always ablaze with colour. There is hawthorn, blackthorn, and the autumn gold of field maple. In winter sun, the dogwood glows like amber. I've been starting out from here since I first journeyed with my shaman teacher years ago. The paths that stretch from this place in every direction have been forged by me on many journeys, and I never know when a new one will appear.