In the Moors (19 page)

I began to pull the protection around me that I draw on when I feel bombarded by threatening spirits—a silken, silvery cloak with a voluminous hood. Its imagined softness fell over my head and shoulders, and within its folds, I closed my eyes.

In the light of a dim lamp, someone was brushing their hair. They were brushing it from the back to the front, stroke upon stroke, getting rid of knots and tangles. Shoulder-length, mouse-brown locks fell over the person's face, masking their features, so that I could not see who this was, or even if it were man or woman. Except, a man wouldn't brush his hair with such care, would he? I stared at the hand that held the brush. It was strong and yellow in the lamplight. The brush I could see clearly; it was made of polished wood and fine, soft bristles. Each time it passed through the hair, it left a path of smoothness with a soft shine. When it passed through once, it caught at something and dragged it out, so that it clattered to the stone floor. It was a blue slide that glittered in the glow of lamplight.

The doorbell chimed for what might have been the second or third time. My heart thudded and I felt hot and sticky. My eyes were full of grit. I must have fallen into a deep sleep.

I moved down the passageway as if towards the cage of a wild beast, touching the wall for support as I crept closer. I imagined Ivan leaning on the porch, probably whistling a nonchalant tune, possibly even holding an overnight case.

The spy hole was in the door before I rented this house and until now, I'd only used it to play the infantile game of “turn your mate into a goldfish,” but now I put my eye to the glass lens in earnest.

Marianne was outside, as slim and grey as a heron in her trouser suit. She was here for her Sunday appointment. Flustered and heavy-eyed, I let her in, trying to remember what we'd done in her last session. Yes. We'd talked past-life regression, and I'd given her some shamanic starter exercises.

“Sabbie!” Marianne had never seen me in street clothes, and certainly never seen me look such a mess.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm feeling a bit out of sorts.”

Marianne smiled. “I know what I must do,” she said. “I will make tea.”

She moved around the kitchen, her linen slacks swinging at the hem. I watched her, unable to speak, my head still caught up with Kissie, Pinchie, Ivan, and the sorry feeling the hair-brushing dream had given me.

Two steaming mugs were placed on the breakfast bar. I pulled myself onto a stool in slow motion.

“You looked troubled, Sabbie,” said Marianne. “Can I help?”

I was touched. “It's mainly a chap I met a few weeks ago. I've seen him on and off. Well, that's the trouble. He's still full on while I want to call it off. Actually, I've just chucked him. Turns out he's overpossessive … jealous.” I stopped, unable to add
and aggressive
. I could feel tears behind my eyes. I tried not to blink because I didn't want them to run down my face. I turned from Marianne and shook them away, but she reached out and squeezed my hand, her pretty pinked nails hiding my grubby broken ones.

“Are you all right. Really?”

“Yes.” The more I thought about it, the more I became certain Ivan had only intended to make a rough sort of love. I'd started the pushing and shoving—really, all Ivan had done was respond in kind. Men are stronger than they know—that was all it had been. Less than an hour had gone by, but already the memories were beginning to grow hazy around the edges. I shook myself. “I'm fine, Marianne. I'm not hurt. Ivan can go boil his head for all I care.” I took a deep breath. “How are things with you?”

“I have been working very hard since last week,” said Marianne in her precise way. “You are a great teacher.”

Even in my fuzzy state, I was able to slam down on that. “The greatness is inside you,” I said. “It's what our spirit guides will show us if we allow ourselves to look.”

“I've enjoyed journeying for myself, rather than expecting you to do all the work. I have met some helpful allies.”

“Good,” I said, trying to keep my mind on what she was saying, forcing Ivan straight to the back.

Marianne drew a notebook out of her bag. Although I had, of course, given her one of my stockpile when she first arrived, that had soon been substituted for a far more feminine version. Her book was bound in pink faux suede with a pattern of glass jewels on the cover and smooth, ivory pages between. I could see that she had made an abundance of notes since she was last here.

“There is a long-haired cat with beautiful ginger fur who calls herself Slatterly.” She giggled. “Have you ever heard such a thing? Together, we've had many adventures.” She turned a page. “It is a lot of fun, is it not?”

I nodded. At that moment, I had almost forgotten what fun felt like, and it was good to be reminded. “What's this sketch here?” I asked, pointing.

“The last time I met Slatterly, she took me to such a peaceful place. We came to a still lake and on a tiny island in the middle was a baby—a foetus, really—all curled up with its umbilical cord feeding into the earth of the island. It felt calm and right.”

“What d'you think it might mean?”

Marianne looked down at her book, taking a moment to think. “I wondered if this baby was me. I asked Slatterly not to take me back into a previous life, not just yet anyhow, and she hasn't attempted to do so. But I thought perhaps she had taken me back to the beginning of this life, to show me how I had recovered from the previous one—how pleased I had been to be born again.”

I nodded. “That sounds good. Has it helped?”

“Yes. Things feel much better at work. The telephone no longer bothers me. And my boss.”

“Will Clyde?”

“Yes. I can hear him speak without a shudder. Even about documents.” She gave a little laugh. “Slatterly has been helping me feel more confident about my work. I can see that Simpson and Grouche is not the only firm I could work for. In a way, it may be time to move on, even before the redundancies are announced.”

“Sounds sensible,” I said. Her newfound energy was beginning to restore mine. “I ought to go and change, Marianne, so that we can move into the therapy room and have a proper session.”

“I think not. We should not work if you are feeling out of sorts. Instead, you can tell me all that is wrong with you.”

I let out a stifled laugh. “Apart from man trouble? Don't ask! I've got myself caught up in stuff that doesn't concern me, and I don't think I'm handling it well.”

“You know what you would advise me?” said Marianne.

“No,” I replied, struggling to keep the surprise out of my voice. “What would I advise?”

“Seek aid from your guardians.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, I've done that.” But I realized this wasn't completely true. Lately, I'd been so caught up with Cliff's awful inner world that I'd neglected my own. I grasped her hand. “But you're right, Marianne, that's great advice—tremendous wisdom. I'm so proud of you. You're clearly gaining skills that are going to help you time and again in the future.”

To my horror, Marianne's eyes filmed with tears. “You think I come towards the end of our work together?” Out of her elegant handbag came a pack of paper hankies. She extracted one and dabbed at her tears without unfolding it, carefully avoiding her mascara.

“One or two more Sunday sessions and then you'll only need an occasional checkup from me.”

She sniffed and placed the tissue neatly back in the cellophane pack. It seemed like a magic trick, but I saw it with my own eyes, so I had to believe it could be done. “Not only the work will I miss, but you. You have become like a friend.”

I grinned. Sometimes I'm rather relieved when I discharge a client, but I knew I'd miss Marianne. I just couldn't believe that a career girl with a model figure wanted to be bosom buddies with a woman whose only nail covering was dirt. “You can always pop in for a chat, when I'm not working.”

“I come and make you tea?”

“Please do.” We hugged. Swathes of warm affection passed from her into my chilled interior. It made me feel ready for anything.

After Marianne had gone, I took one of last year's aubergine moussakas out of the freezer and stuck it in the oven on a low heat, then got under the shower. I spent twenty minutes scrubbing as if I'd been in a nuclear zone, until Ivan was no longer sucking at my skin. As I threw my jeans into the wash, something fell from the pocket. It was the blue slide I'd found at Brokeltuft
Cottage
.
I turned it over in my hand. I had seen this slide in my dream. But nothing seemed to link it with anything I already knew about the cottage. On the other hand, the strand of hair was still caught up in it. I had to consider that this might be a valuable piece of evidence. Or it might just make DC Abbott wet himself with laughter.

Tomorrow I'd visit the police station, make a statement about what I'd seen, hand over the slide. See Rey, perhaps. Or Abbott, ready with his thumbscrew and his rack. But for now, I wanted to take my client's advice and journey just for myself.

The blackness of my closed lids filled with moving coloured shapes; spirals and twisted teardrops, convolutions of cream and white flecked with mud brown. I thought of paisley, or doodles on a telephone pad. The patterns swirled and whorled in time with the drumbeat that thudded at the back of my head. I could hear a roar, as if there was an open mouth within the coils and curls. The white streaks loosed themselves from the dark rolling core as the shapes thundered on, all hooves and flying mane. The smell of brackish water came into my nostrils … fish … damp autumn forests. I was tumbling over and over until my head spun.

“Trendle?” I asked. “What's going on?” I felt short, damp fur under my fingers and the warmth of his elongated body. “What is it? Galloping horses?”

“Almost.” He spoke into my ear. “White horses.”

Then I saw clearly. The roll of waves. “We're at sea?”

“Not sea.”

I tried to widen my vision. We were being swept along between high banks, pushed downstream at a great rate, carried along on a spring tide.

“Get me out of here, Trendle.”

“Hey,” cried my otter. “Just enjoy!” He leaped out of my arms and began to play, diving and leaping from above the rolling waves. “It's a bore!” he squealed. “It's a bore, but it's not boring!”

I know that we'd become a partnership, my otter and I, because by nature I am a playful person, just like Trendle, someone who tends to see the happy side of things. But sometimes his sunny nature is way too inappropriate. The water was rushing into my mouth and eyes, and he was being no help whatsoever. I splashed out,
trying to head for the bank. I could see low branches stretching into the river. I thrust out my arms as I was hurled along. A branch smashed into my ribs, knocking the air from me. I clung to it, coughing and spitting. I could feel the rush of the bore dragging at my legs and hips, working to loosen my hold. The force was persistent. I felt my grip slide away.

An arm, white and slender, came from nowhere. The fingers slid around my wrist. A woman was leaning out from the bank, supporting herself by the uprights of the tree. Her strength was enough to lift me clean out of surging waters. I felt myself dangle from her one arm, then my feet made contact with the slip of mud. I fell into her breast as I tried to scramble up the bank. She lifted me again and placed me on the path that ran alongside the riverbank. I gazed at the woman in awe.

She wore a diaphanous cloak that swirled around her body, covering her hands, feet, and most of her head. There were eddies of blues, greens, foamy creams, blacks, and browns within her coverings. The fine flowing cloth masked her features. Surely this was a goddess or other high guardian.

My heart fluttered. I made a deep bow. “You are the Lady of the river below us,” I hazarded.

“Did it persuade you of my might?”

I cast a glance towards that boiling body of water, racing against time, as if on a mission. “Too much. I came on this journey for healing and found myself battling for survival.”

“That is something I love well in Sabrina Dare. She is a survivor.”

“What are you saying? That I don't need to be healed? But Ivan—”

“Yes, Sabbie. There are threats in your life at the moment. More than one.”

I took a step forward, but without seeming to move, the Lady was the same distance from me as she had been. “What wisdom can you impart, Lady?”

Maybe the tone of my voice was just a little sarcastic. I hadn't meant it to be; I did know I was in the presence of an Old One. Still, she reacted in the instant. The shimmer of her cloak dazzled my eyes as she turned on the spot. When I could look again, she was gone, and with her, all the scene before me.

I was back in my dream. Only now I was not dreaming. I looked around. I was in that most hideous of places, the kitchen at Brokeltuft Cottage. The figure still sat bowed on a low chair, brushing and brushing at their hair, as if they had brushed without stopping since I left the dream.

“Who are you?” I asked, raising my voice, trying to gain control of this journey. My heart was racing as if I was still battling in the water; my breath was coming in fast gasps.

My words created a reaction. The hand stopped brushing. The figure parted the sheen of hair with both its hands. But it did not part. It fell, like a wig, to the floor, revealing what was beneath.

I cried out in revulsion. The obscene shine of the scalp was made more grotesque by scabs and blisters. The nose was blotched with red and so big that turned on itself until it hung over the mouth. It dripped slime.