Beneath the Tor (16 page)

“
Voolay voo cooshay avay mwah, saaaay swah,”
he warbled in a terrible French accent.

The party sparked into a new dimension; we all lobbed about over the carpet, arms aloft, yelling out the words to the anthem. It had become a competition. The longer Freaky danced like a windmill, the more everyone else had to keep up. The entire flat was rocking. Ricky had moved away from Shell and was showing off a technique, jumping on the spot to the beat of the music, his knees bent like a Russian dancer with each
lift-off
.

The tracks blended into each other so that there was no time to stop, no moment to catch your breath, and Freaky knew the words to every song.

It seemed as if we'd been dancing forever when Ricky came to an abrupt halt. Sweat was running down his temples and his face was tomato in shade. I heard him cry out, anguish that could be heard over all the other noise.

“No! Nooo!”

He pushed through the dancers. The front door was ajar and he fled through it.

We all came to a halt, but Shell was the only one to pursue Ricky. Dennon turned the sound down a bit, and people renewed their drinks.

“What was that about?” asked Dennon, coming into the kitchen area.

“He's been messin' with his mind,” said Eijaz, looking at me as if to say it was all my fault. He scratched at the back of his knee. “You wanna check him out?”

I looked out into the corridor, but no one was there, so I took the stairs. Ricky and Shell were sitting on the little patch of lawn that came with the apartment block. They weren't smooching or anything, so I waved and went over.

“Are you all right, Ricky?”

“I'm fine. I'll have to go in and apologize for wrecking everyone's good time, won't I?”

“Don't be daft. To be honest, I think people were really glad to get a break. Freaky can get high with not much help.”

“That was the trouble.” Ricky picked at the grass, almost orange under the streetlights. “It reminded me … you know?”

Then I saw. “Alys,” I said.

Ricky took a great sniff of air. “It took me right back there.”

I sat beside them, the grass cool on my bare legs.

“All that panic came into my mind—trying to revive her. Hopeless.”

“I don't think either of us are in a party mood anymore,” said Shell.

I'd half forgotten that Shell was also sorrowing for her lost friend. I wondered if Ricky was trying to share some of the burden of grieving.

Shell stood and put out her hand. Ricky levered himself up from the grass. “We'll walk back home,” she said. “The moon'll be up in a minute. It's a waning quarter. I love that phase.”

I wandered back to the main door of the apartment block and was halfway up the stairs when I heard my name, called softly behind me.

It was Ricky, standing in the shadow of the stairwell. His shoulders were bent low. I came back down.

“You think I'm stealing her away, don't you? Like chocolate bars.”

“Uh?” I wasn't sure if Ricky was comparing Shell to chocolate or recalling a teenaged
nick-fest
. “Is she …”

“I told her I was going for a pee.” He moved slightly, checking Shell was still where he'd left her. I could see her on the grass, staring at the stars. “I won't hurt her, you know.”

“Trust me, Ricky, that was not my first thought.” I was far more worried about what Wolfsbane might do if he found out. “Have you got time to talk about Babe's sketchpad?”

“Oh.” He faded from me, his
still-pink
face turning grey. He fell back against the corridor wall.

“So far, I have one strong image. A female red deer. The ones with the whitish rumps. Do you have them in the New Forest?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Did Babe ever sketch one?”

“Probably. That wasn't her only sketchbook, it's the one that has survived through the years. Because I clung on to it.”

“I guess they searched the forest when she went missing.”

He took such a deep breath through his nose that his chest juddered with it. “We all did. We searched the entire countryside.”

“Ricky … this must be hard to talk about … but can you remember the time around her disappearance?”

“I only want to know if she's okay. That she survived. I think that would help my parents too. Just to know …” He was staring at his
lace-up
boots, which were shiny black patent leather. “I haven't told Shell about her.”

“Okay.”

“It's something my family don't talk about much. It used to upset my mother so badly. I got out of the habit.” He raised his head. The rims of his eyes were inflamed where he'd been rubbing them hard. His kohl makeup was smeared. “Doesn't mean I don't think about her.”

“I'll get that sketchpad back to you as soon as I can. It must mean so much.”

“I should pay you. A fee or something.”

I shook my head. I didn't want money. Ricky was a friend. Besides that, I wanted the freedom to hand the sketchpad back and tell him I'd made no progress. I increasingly believed the project to find Babe was a poison chalice.

Ricky walked out on the grass, triggering the powerful security lights. Shell turned, smiled. She lifted her arms above her head and did a short, graceful imitation of Freaky's dance. Ricky seemed to grow in stature, as he went towards her. His shoulders came up and his footsteps lost the
flat-soled
shuffle they often had. It was as if he was shaking off the bad dreams of the past.

There on the lawn, they danced to silent music.

sixteen

laura

By Tuesday morning, Freaky's
established status at Harold Street had moved from temporary houseguest to something worryingly permanent. When I shuffled out into the early morning air to feed the hens, they were already strutting round their run and Freaky was scattering corn in every direction. He waved at me. “I know you like them up with the sun.”

“You found their food, then.”

“Just nosed about until I did.”

“Okay … only the corn is their supper treat. They have layers' pellets first thing. Anyway … thanks.”

F
reaky was next to no trouble. On Saturday, we had spent all day in the garden, and Freaky had put his back into things, weeding and pricking out the rows of vegetables now bursting from the soil. I'd stood him a couple Wild Cossacks at the Curate's Egg, and he seemed to think that was payment in advance because on Sunday he'd cleared and tidied the greenhouse to give the tomato plants more room, and he was back out in the sunshine yesterday. While I was seeing clients, he'd used his skills to build me a firepit in the centre of the lawn, where our group, the Temple of Elphame, met in ritual circle.

Freaky and I had a grand
fire-pit
opening ceremony. We cooked a
fresh-picked
garden paella—broad beans, peas in their shells, baby beets, carrots, chopped spring cabbage, a mix of herbs, the first of the shallots, and some canned tomatoes from the store cupboard all bubbling away with short grain rice, served with a tossed salad. We were into early July, and the strength of the sun played on our backs right into the evening.

Freaky let himself out of the chicken run with a basket. “There's eggs … still warm. And I put flour, yeast, and water in the machine too.”

“Freaky, you're a star. Whatever time did you get up?”

“With the sun, Sabbie.”

“I suppose in the caravan you have to take advantage of the light hours.”

“Up with the rising sun and to bed when it sets.”

“I try to follow the same adage, but that's not much sleep during summer.”

“It's more than enough in winter. I'm hibernating by then. Like a bear.” He bent, pulled a dandelion from the cabbage patch, and smiled at its sunny face. I went over to the standpipe and unwound the hose. There had been no rain for days. Freaky handed me the egg basket and took the hose. “Allow me.”

“You don't have to do everything!”

“I only respond with gratitude. Your bed is of the Ritz and your food is of the Fay.”

“Let's hope not. You get stuck in fairyland if you eat the food of the Fay.”

I was enjoying Freaky's company, but I'd only invited him for one night's stay. It was over a week now, and as I watched him create rainbow prisms with the water spray, I knew I didn't want him in a routine that meant he'd never leave.

“Any sign of Florence?”

“Sorry … no.”

I turned away. It was surely daft to be this upset over the disappearance of one hen.

At seven fifty, Rey pulled up in his Citro
ë
n. I spun out of the front door.

“Only stopping for breakfast, I'm afraid.”

I snatched at his hand. “Come and meet Freaky.”

I'd always known that my game of
tease-the
-boyfriend would be up as soon as Rey clapped eyes on Freaky's reedy frame and lined features. In fact, they got on well enough. Rey could be charming, when it suited him, and he tolerated Freaky's orations with halfhearted laughs.

As the three of us ate breakfast together, the conversation stayed neutral, chatty. Actually, the conversation seemed to revolve entirely around me. We'd discussed the thankless task I'd been allocated by Wolfsbane—unpicking the mess of the
shape-shifter
workshop.

“Why do it, if you don't want to?” Rey asked.

“Only do it if the stars are in the right places,” said Freaky, who always knew what his chart advised.

Then they started advising me on my visit to Grandma Dare.

“Why go, if you don't want to?” Rey asked, like an echo.

“Don't go,” said Freaky. “The conjunctions in your houses are all wrong for looking back into the past.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because families always mean trouble. Wouldn't you agree, my friend?”

In answer, Rey turned his eggshell upside down and tapped its empty bottom with his spoon. “My dad always did that when I was kid,” he said. “He'd pretend he'd been given extra rations and be all disappointed when there was nothing inside.”

Rey mostly kept his childhood to himself, and I dived in while I had the opportunity. “You father sounds great fun.”

“They're good people, my mum and dad. In comparison, I'm a very bad son.”

“Oh, I'm sure you're not …”

Rey stood to clear the breakfast bar, as if talking about his family was something best done on the run. “I haven't seen them since Christmas. Didn't mean for that to happen, it just did. When I was with Lesley, we'd spend every third or fourth weekend with them, but since the
break-up
… .”

“Where do they live?”

“North Petherton.”

“A hop away!”

“I know. Okay, at the moment, Mum and Dad have each other, they have their neighbours, and my brother and his wife live in the village. They don't nag me.”

I chuckled. “You're busy, that's the trouble. You should make an appointment with yourself to go and see them.”

“I'm not keen to do that now …”

“Why?” I asked as he trailed off.

“Like you said, I'm busy.” He ran hot water into a bowl.

Freaky twisted on his bar stool. “Rey, you'd probably know where I'd have to go to talk about finding accommodation.”

“I'd start with Citizen's Advice. They're the people with all the answers. They'll point you in the right direction. There's a branch on the High Street.”

Freaky patted his few pockets. “I'll be off, then. Bus due any minute, might as well be on it, get things sorted. Nice bumping into you, my friend.”

“You too.” Rey watched him go, his hands held fast in the washing up bowl. “Interesting character,” he said at last.

“I bet you say that about your snitches too.”

“My what?”

His tone alerted me. “Sorry. Whatever you call them, your informers.”

“He's effectively homeless, isn't he?”

“If you like.”

“That means he'll be hanging round here for months, doesn't it?”

“He wouldn't be on his way to Citizen's Advice, if he was thinking like that!”

“Okay, wind your neck in, Sabbie.” He turned and began scrubbing at the yolky egg cups.

“Have you told them about me?” I asked, quietly.

“What're you talking about now?”

“Your parents. Do they know you have a girlfriend?”

“Not as such.”

“Any reason why?”

“No! No, really. I should tell them.”

“You're not … you don't think I'd embarrass you? Like, you don't want to tell them you're seeing a shaman?”

“I'm not embarrassed,” Rey barked. “I'm proud of you. I'll phone soon. It would be good. Something positive.” He balanced the egg cups on the drainer. The sight of them reminded me that I had one less laying hen. “Florence is dead; I told you, didn't I?”

“Sabbie! That is awful! I'm sorry—I'm so sorry. After this Alys thing and all.” He snatch my hand. His was covered in soap bubbles. “What a blow. How did it happen?”

It was wonderful to know he empathized so deeply with the pain I felt. He'd never taken much notice of my hens.“She went missing while I was in Glastonbury. Not a fox. He would have left carnage behind. Like the day we met, remember?”

“Sorry? Met? Fox? Who is Florence?”

“One of my Sussex hens.”

“God, Sabbie! Heck—I was thinking of—what's her name? The Dutch girl.”

“Marianne,” I said, my voice flat. “That's Marianne, Rey. She's alive and kicking. It's Florence who's dead.” I felt my eyes water up. I snatched my hand from his to rub at them. “Why on earth would I think you'd remember the names of my hens?”

“I do know you're attached to them.”

“Good. Good. I'm glad you know that.”

“Look—sorry. I'm tired, that's all. My brain's fucked up. Didn't get to sleep until almost three.”

“Is it this case you're working on with DS Chaisey?”

He didn't reply. Suddenly, I wish I hadn't asked. Perhaps he'd been getting to sleep at three a.m. after a night out with Pippa. Worse, a night
in
with Pippa. I got off my stool and went to put my arms around him, desperately thinking of some neutral territory I could use to move the subject on. “Did you ring
Marty-Mac
, Rey?”

He shrugged.

“Only, yesterday afternoon, I popped into Facebook for five minutes and found a friend request from him.”

“You what?”

“I declined, of course.”

“I bloody well hope you did. The man is trouble. And I know what you're like with trouble. It usually blows up on you.”

“Is he a …” I struggled for the right word. “A felon?”

“He should not be hounding you.”

“Stop it!” I tried to laugh. “You're scaring me.”

“That'll be the day.” He put damp palms on my cheeks. “Marty-
Mac plus Sabbie Dare equals disaster. If you hear from him again, contact me directly.”

“Okay.” My voice sounded unsure—I'd have liked a bit more explanation, but dared not interrogate him further. I was rewarded with a kiss. It wasn't as deep or as long or as passionate as I'd hoped, but I knew I should be grateful for that kiss; that I should savour it.

Laura arrived for her fourth appointment a little harassed round the edges, as if the scooter ride had blown her about. “It's not such a nice day, is it?”

“It wasn't going to last forever,” I said. “This is an English summer after all.”

“Yeah.” She huffed, catching her breath. “I do forget, sometimes.”

We sat across from each other in the wicker chairs. “I want to start with those bits of homework, Laura. Are you managing recording your dreams?”

“Right. I did have a good think about dreams. I honestly can't remember having any dreams since last Tuesday.”

“It would help to keep the book beside your bed.”

“I guess.” She turned down her mouth, suggesting she wasn't keen on the dream diary.

“What about coping with your panic attacks?”

“They haven't been so bad. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to your Community Psychiatric Nurse!”

“I think the medication is helping, but mostly, it is down to you. I would never have faced up to Daniel if you hadn't held my hand like you did.”

“We should keep moving on with our work too. I'd like to start some soul retrieval. Would you be up for that?”

She gave an energetic nod, but I couldn't help notice that her cheeks paled, as if the idea of soul retrieval made her slightly faint.

With the silken cord connecting us, and the Pokémon toy in my hand, I knew that I would find Laura's otherworld again.

“Trendle, my faithful companion. How will we do this?”

“By fishing in the dark,” he said, reminding me of how I'd detected a net around Laura as I'd rattled over her body.

We pushed through the willows, passing the fingerpost. Trendle slipped into the mouth of the cave and I followed, taking judicious footstep across the gritty floor until even the last glimmers of daylight were left behind. As I turned the bend in the cave, I began trac
ing the cave wall with my fingers. I could feel the warmth of my own fast breathing. I screwed my inner eyes up, searching the blackness, and saw a jagged crack shining brilliantly in the distance—a space in the cave wall large enough for the sun to shine through. A shadow moved on the cave walls, as if there was activity just outside the narrow exit. I heard the sound of waves. Of course. There would be sea in Laura's otherworld. I watched the shadow and made out limbs, a blurred head. I was watching the reflection of some sort of spirit being.

“Please! May I ask you, are you Laura Munroe's guardian?”

The shadow moved on the wall in a kind of dance. “I am guardian to many. I have watched over Laura since she came into this soultime.” The voice was buoyant, like the song of a boat.

“I saw a kind of caul around her. Was that a true vision?”

“Human souls are crippled with misunderstandings and obsessions,” said the shadow. “They have many and varied burdens.”

I let out a sigh. “Laura is burdened. I can tell. I just don't know how, or why.”

“Laura's affliction jolted her soul from its axis. This judders every thought and wipes away peace of mind.”

“Her soul is out of kilter?” I asked. “Like a dislocated shoulder?”

I heard the being laugh. It was a shocking but glorious sound. It was like choirs; like symphonies of laughter. It was almost more than I could bear. I kept my eyes away from the blaze of light outside the cave and concentrated on the shadow form.

“A wonderful correspondence, Sabrina Dare. It will hold good for you. Yes, dislocation and a jail of netting.”

“Please … you know my name … can you tell me yours?”

“I have many. Ask Laura what she calls me.”

I felt my eyes grow wide. “You are Raichu! How … bizarre!”

There was silence. I felt the spirit distance itself, but only when the brilliant light faded completely from the cave exit did I lurch outside. There was sand beneath my feet, the chill of a breeze on my skin. High summer, and Trendle and I were on a beach, leaving trails of footprints in wet sand.