Beneath the Tor (6 page)

“I don't know your name, Lady.”

“Indeed?” She glanced towards the river, which, as always, tumbled along, breaking white as it hit surface boulders. “I am the river, Sabbie …” Her voice was fading. She was leaving me. All that remained was a shimmering, a rippling of blues and browns and foaming whites. I heard her voice in my head, and as I did so I realized that the
call-back
sign from the drumming CD had come and gone and that I was lying on cushions in my therapy room.

I am the river of cool, translucent waves and treacherous, violent tides. Only when you call me by my name can I truly be of aid …

Recording that journey in my journal gave me pause. I hadn't been expecting such specifics; the Lady of the River usually spoke in enigmas. I wrote down her suggestions, and it turned out they were enigmas after all.
Mirrors, masks … turn things on their heads
was her guidance for Laura Munroe, and she'd said Babette's sketchpad would help
in ways you cannot yet imagine
. She'd told me to confront my past,
insisted I called her by her true name.

I didn't know how to do either of those things. I stashed my journal away as I went to answer the doorbell.

Laura Munroe looked flustered as she stood on the doorstep, but I was used to that. People keep my card in their wallet for weeks, until they reach a peak of distress. On the phone I'd guessed she wasn't much out of her teens and now I could see I'd been right. I took her jacket, damp from the rain, and her motorbike helmet. She was almost entirely in blue denim, tight jeans perhaps a size too small, and a baggy shirt buttoned over a camisole. I showed her into the therapy room and directed her to the two wicker chairs by the desk.

“You got here without trouble, then.”

She managed a nod and a smile, but didn't speak. I held my hands steady in my lap as a calming gesture; her hands were wringing each other. Her fingers were plump, her face a little puffy, while her ankles and wrists were narrow, almost sinewy.

“You need to catch your breath. Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Oh, I'm okay, really.”

“Tell me what attracts you to shamanism.”

“Oh … er … well, I …” Her voice was soft. Her hair was parted in the centre, clipped to fall just below the nape of her neck and hang like open curtains at either side of her temples. She wore hoop earrings, the sort that are used as starters.

“Look, let's go and have a cuppa. I'm gasping, even if you aren't.”

I got up and led the way out of the therapy room. I could see Laura was not going to tell me why she was here until she felt more relaxed, and I reckoned the best place for that was the sofa in my kitchen.

“D'you live around here?” General questions were best, as if we were chatting in a pub.

“Weston.”

“
Weston-Super
-Mare?” She gave a nod and I added, “My family have a caravan at Brean Down.”

“Oh, right.”

“Been there long?”

“Yes, all my life. I live with my mum and dad.”

“No shame in that; my brother's only just moving out and he's older than me.”

“I did live away. For four years. I joined the Royal Navy when I was sixteen.”

“Sounds an interesting career.”

“Yeah. I loved it. I did all sorts. I got my able seaman certificate and saw loads of countries—the Philippines, Libya … seven seas, and all that. I left it a few months back.”

I thought navy life would suit her. She looked beefy enough to haul ropes around capstans, and smart enough to read sensors. “What made you leave?”

“I got ill. A virus, something a bit foreign, I think.”

“What was it?”

“It didn't really get, sort of
diagnosed
, you know? I just kept getting these symptoms. The Royal Navy don't like you being sick. I had to work twelve months notice.”

“If you were ill, surely they'd discharge you.”

“I dunno,” said Laura. I could feel the distress coming off her like a scent.

“Sorry—none of my business, I suppose. I'm just curious about how such things operate. What is it that makes you feel ill?”

“Sometimes, I just … can't breathe. It gets so bad I think I'm going to suffocate.”

“But you don't?”

“And this buzzing. Inside my head. It stopped me doing my job.”

A silence grew between us. We were at opposite ends of my sofa, leaning against the squidgy arms. My mind went back to Dennon's experience of PMA. “Laura,” I said, at last, “this didn't start with taking … something … like on shore somewhere, some night club?”

“Definitely not. We like our grog, us ratings.”

“Can you pinpoint a moment it all began?”

“No,” said Laura, and although I was sure she wasn't lying to me, for some reason I didn't think this was the entire truth, either.

“What's happened since you've been home? Are you feeling better now?”

“Not really. It's getting worse, if I'm honest.”

“More buzzing and shortness of breath?”

“Then there's the spinning. The room spins and I'm shaking.”

“Have you seen a doctor, Laura?”

“Er … yeah. They're rubbish, aren't they?” Laura held her mug like a child, two hands around it. She blew on the surface before drinking the coffee in one go. I reckoned that might be a sailor's habit; get it down you before it slides off the boat. It had also occurred to me that coffee might be the worst thing she could drink.

“Is this why you've come to me today?” I asked eventually. “Because the doctor couldn't help you?”

Her eyes filmed with tears, but she held her mouth firm.

“I'd better let you know my rates, and how I work. And I'll ask you to fill out the form I have, just a general info and health check. Okay?”

She managed a nod. I got up from the sofa to fetch the papers without looking back. I took my time doing this, because Laura had started crying properly; silent sobs were choking out of her.

I came back with a big box of tissues and the paperwork. I explained my fees to Laura as she mopped her eyes. She seemed calmer after her good cry; she concentrated on what I was saying and happily filled out my questionnaire.

“I won't ask for a fee this visit,” I said. “You were distraught when you made the decision to come today, and you may very well decide a more regular treatment is better for you.”

“What d'you mean?”

“Okay; I'm betting your doctor told you that you were having panic attacks.”

“I get pains in my chest, everything. I can feel my heart beating!” She tapped her hand on her breast bone, a fast rhythm that was close to the speed of the drumming on the Tor. “I get awful sick. I vomit, sometimes.”

“I know that sounds physical, but these things could still be related to a
full-blown
panic attack.”

“I don't have anything to panic over!”

We both thought about that. I asked her about life in the Royal Navy, how close to action she'd got, what sort of boats she'd been on. At some point in her career, I was betting, she'd been terrified and the feeling hadn't left her.

“I loved my job,” she said, in reply. “I was never afraid as a rating—not like this. Not sickening fear over nothing.”

“I'm just wondering if the fear comes after or before the rest of the attack. Perhaps there's an element of anticipation?”

She bowed her head. “That's what the doctor said.”

“Coming to me needn't interfere with what your doctor might recommend. There's medication, and some good techniques you can learn if you see a psychotherapist.” Laura had no job; she was probably not well off and she could ask for Cognitive Therapy on the NHS. I could teach Laura those techniques myself (my counselling certificate gave me plenty of practice), but I wouldn't want to take her money unless she was sure.

“My friend said you were good. She's had massages with you and said she'd really trust you.”

“That's kind.” I let out a long breath then explained how I would travel as a shaman into her otherworld to search for the deeper problems that had given rise to her symptoms. “Finding out what triggered this might be a tremendous help. And seeing as it started when you were abroad and at work, once you've discovered the trigger, you'll probably be able to totally dismiss the fears about it.”

“Do you think?”

I looked at her carefully. “That's one possible scenario, Laura. Only the spirits know what the others might be.”

“Okay.” She took her mobile out of her jeans' back pocket and examined it, as if it might ring at any second. It was switched off.

“If you want to call anyone, you could go into the therapy room to give you some privacy.”

“There's no one I want to ring.”

I had a sudden thought. “Did you tell you parents you were coming here?” I watched her gaze swivel away from me and knew I'd guessed right. “Do you think you should let them know?”

“I'm not a child.”

“No. 'Course not.” I gave her a broad grin and hoped it didn't look too false. “Maybe this is enough for one day, though. At our next appointment, we can start working properly. If you've got anything on you now that might help me journey into your otherworld, that would help us both.”

“On me?”

“Yeah, like anything you might carry that really means something to you, that you wouldn't mind me having for a while.”

“Like what?”

“Something that represents the inner you. A little object that has a nice memory, or something you wear constantly, perhaps.”

Laura looked at her hands. They were bare of rings, and her neck looked bare of chains The little hoop earrings were her only jewellery. “I might have something at home.”

“Okay, next time will do.”

“Could I come again tomorrow?”

“That seems rather quick, Laura.”

“Don't you have any appointment time tomorrow?”

I shifted my position, crossing my legs. I had plenty of time tomorrow. “Okay. We could say eleven, if you like.”

“Eleven it is. Thank you.”

I leaned and grasped her fidgeting hands. “You can see your doctor as well as me, Laura. It won't affect what we do together. Being calmer will only help. I'm more
long-term
. After all, you don't want to be on tablets for too long.”

“Yeah.” It was hard to catch Laura's gaze, but finally she looked at me. “Tracey was right; you're really nice.”

“But I'm not cheap, am I?”

“That's fine. I've got money saved.” She gave a proper smile. “It's easy to save when you're in the Royal Navy.”

Once Laura had gone, I went into the therapy room and started a notebook for her. I put down everything everything we'd talked through, but also the impressions I'd picked up; all those presentiments that passed through my mind. I sat, thinking about Laura Munroe. She'd managed to pack a lot of life into twenty years. At her age, I'd only just got going. Somewhere along the way, she'd encountered something that was making her life unbearable. It's always horrid if you don't know why you feel the way you do. When I'd squeezed her hands, I'd been hoping for a more subtle contact with her energies, but all I got was what I'd already worked out from her body language: tense, vaguely unhappy, defensive. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin.

I copied her next appointment into my phone and clipped her questionnaire into her file. She'd truthfully listed the symptoms she'd spoken of. Apart from that, she seemed perfectly healthy.

Like Alys.

My central candle was still flaming, strong and steady. I blew it out, thinking of Alys. She'd danced like a demon all night, full of vigour, exploding with joy. Then she'd dropped to the ground, as if she'd worn enchanted slippers which had danced away her life.

I picked up my phone and dialled for Wolfsbane. “Hi, Wolfs. How are things?”

“Things are shit. Brice phoned me. Apparently there will have to be an inquest and as next of kin, he can call witnesses.”

“That might be so.”

“He wants to call me.”

“Does he know about the problems with the flying tea?”

“There are no problems with the flying tea, right?”

“What about Stefan?”

“What about him?”

“Something went on between the two of you, after the Tor. You were at each other's—”

“Sabbie. Don't talk about that now. It's over. Forgotten.”

“Wasn't it about … you know … the tea?”

“It was about his rental fees. The man's crazy if he thinks he can charge over the odds at a time like this, when there's precious few bookings.”

“We ought to get together and talk about doing the workshop.”

“Okay, Sabbie. One thing will be different though.”

“What?”

“We won't be using Stonedown Farm.”

I wished I'd spent more time with Brice Hollingberry while he was at Stonedown Farm. Wished I hadn't been put off by his shiny new car and the way he'd carried a laptop bag up to his room, as if he didn't intend to leave work behind him. Now it almost felt too late, as if I shouldn't poke my nose into his desperate business.

In the end I put my reservations to one side and rang him.

“Hello?”

“It's Sabbie Dare here, Brice. How are you?”

“I'm … er … I'm good, thank you.”

“I just wanted to ring to say how dreadfully sorry I am about Alys.”

“Oh, I should say thanks to you. You were the one that phoned the ambulance, weren't you?”

“Yes. Brice … I hope you've got your family there, supporting you.”

“Yeah, my mum and dad are staying. And Alys's parents, well, they've gone back now, but they'll be, yeah, I guess, in touch, you know? There's a lot to sort out. A lot to do.”