She opened her eyes, the voice still shouting in her ears. Her t-shirt was damp under the arms and she felt twitchy. Sometimes the past and the future crowded out the present so effectively that she began to question which of these was real. She looked around the café and tried to return herself to the present. It was getting late and she wanted to go home, but she knew from experience that she would not be able to settle for hours. She picked up her phone.
‘I’ve found some more stuff,’ she said when Harrison answered.
‘So have I,’ he replied. ‘Do you want to come over?’
She could hear street noises behind him. ‘Where are you?’
‘Almost home.’
‘I’ll hop on the bus,’ she said, and pulled on her coat.
Harrison had cleared the clutter from his kitchen table and replaced it with paper from a heavy roll. He tore off a long piece and picked up a black marker. ‘What do we know and what do we only think we know?’
Amy didn’t want to make a fool of herself by jumping in with assumptions. He was playing the professor again, asking her to demonstrate some level of intelligence that she wasn’t convinced she had. At eighteen she had talked herself out of going to university because she didn’t believe she would cut it there, among the middle-class people and their fancy words. From somewhere far away, she could hear her dad’s tenacious ghost asking, What do you need with a degree, wee girl? Who do you think you are, anyway?
Who did she think she was? All this week, she’d been questioning the wisdom of her involvement in this case, and her friendship with Harrison. Was friendship even the right word?
It is, and stop worrying about it, said Harrison’s voice in her head.
She met his eyes and he gave her a strange smile, cheeks flushing. He was embarrassed at being caught in the act. Amy cleared her throat and looked down at the paper again. ‘Here’s what I found out about Kostas.’
Harrison scribbled out the details that she recounted. Quickly, the blank sheet filled with names and notes, circles and connecting lines. It was a web of twisted relationships and hidden intentions.
‘Good research,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh, so there’s more. Tim Cartwright’s mother reported him missing six weeks ago. She last heard from him on the twelfth of September.’
‘Which is the same date he emailed Nessa.’
‘Yeah. Harrison, I had one of my premonitions, and I saw something. Somebody was being chased, and then he came to the end of a pier or something, and in front of him, there was just water.’
‘You think it was Tim?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘You think something’s happened to him?’
‘Usually I see the future, not the past.’
Harrison sat down. ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. Shit. I feel like I should send him a private message or something, and let him know, for all the good it would do. Nobody ever believes me anyway.’
‘I believe you.’
Amy took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, but you’re not the one being hunted down.’
‘Did you find him on Facebook?’
‘Yeah, but I can’t see past his privacy settings.’
‘Okay, well let’s think about that while I tell you about Quentin Merriweather. I’m pretty sure he’s a psychopath, and he has money worries, bad enough to try to bully Elizabeth out of the house.’
‘By having her dog killed.’
‘Yes. Let’s hope it’s only the dog. He doesn’t appear to know where Lucy is, but he’s afraid of her coming back.’
‘Afraid enough to hurt her?’
‘Possibly. The way he thought about Lucy was sexual.’
‘God.’ Amy paused to let this sink in, and realised that she wasn’t particularly surprised. ‘Filthy bastard. Did he do anything, or did he just fill his sick mind with it?’
‘I don’t know what he’s done, but he’s thought about plenty. He used her when he was negotiating deals. He brought her out to sing and flirt like a fucking show pony.’
She glanced at him, unused to hearing him swear. ‘Can’t we just phone the cops and get the man locked up now?’
‘Not without hard evidence. What we know isn’t provable by any means that the justice system recognises.’
Amy considered his words. ‘How confident are you, Harrison?’
‘About what?’
‘About what you do. Your abilities.’
‘I’ve learned to be confident. It’s taken most of my life. I’ve experimented a lot, and I’ve met people who have taught me things.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like…my friend Tomas in Bolivia, he was like me. There’s a mountain right at the centre of the city of Potosí, called Cerro Rico. Once upon a time, it was the largest silver mine in the world. It’s also known as the mountain that eats men, because of the numbers of people who have died there over the centuries. Tomas had psychic abilities. They used him to find missing miners when there were collapses. He taught me how to focus and listen, and he taught me how to journey.’
‘Journey?’
‘You put yourself into a kind of a trance. You can travel to other places or into the world of the spirits.’
‘You talk to the dead?’
‘Spirits. Death is just our construct’
Amy breathed out. ‘Did you know you’re batshit crazy?’
‘It’s been said before. Do you want me to show you?’
‘Show me what?’
A flicker of a smile crossed his face. ‘Come on.’
Amy followed him to the far end of the corridor, to a room she hadn’t seen into before. It was just a small, square bedroom, except that there was no bed in it. There was no furniture at all, only dark blue walls, a plush red rug covering the bare floorboards, and a lot of candles. The only other contents of the room were several large plant pots sprouting some kind of herb.
Harrison touched one of the bright green leaves. ‘This is Salvia divinorum. It’s a hallucinogen, sometimes called Seer’s Sage. Let’s just say it helps me on my way.’
‘So, it’s a drug? You get high and see things that aren’t real?’
‘Who says they aren’t real?’
‘They’re hallucinations.’
‘I saw you, didn’t I? I knew where to find you.’
‘The drug showed you where to find me. Right. Are you addicted to this stuff?’
‘No,’ he replied, but didn’t addicts always say no? It was unnatural enough to trust the things he said without knowing that his so-called vision came from a narcotic plant. And yet, he did see her.
‘Is it even legal?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Do you take other stuff?’
‘I’ve tried a few things,’ he said vaguely.
‘What things,’ she asked, although she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.
‘Oh, just … the usual. Acid. Mushrooms. Coca leaves. Ayahuasca, which was crazy. Salvia isn’t for everyone, but I find it works best for me.’
‘It works best for you, does it?’ Outside, the bare fronds of a willow whipped like snakes. ‘Jesus, Harrison.’ She turned briskly away from him, went back to the kitchen and filled the kettle. ‘If we’re done, I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and then get a taxi. Is that alright?’
‘I can take you home.’
‘Honestly, a taxi is fine.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ She opened his cupboards, took down a mug and searched through boxes of green teas, chai and herbals. ‘You have any black tea, or is that too normal for you?’
He stepped up beside her and took the lid off a metal tin beside the microwave. ‘Here. You know you might as well say it, Amy.’
She took out a teabag and dropped it into the mug. ‘Say what?’ It felt like the beginning of their first argument. Deflecting a fight with denial would never work with Harrison; he would always have an unfair disadvantage. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, s
o he stepped in.
‘You’re disappointed in me. You think I might be a bit of a charlatan after all.’
‘The word I was thinking of was quack, but charlatan works. I even know what it means.’
He pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers into his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve thought it often enough. I would give this all up in a heartbeat. All I know is that the Salvia helps me make something useful out of it.’
‘If I smoke that plant, what will I see?’
Surprise crossed his face. ‘I chew it. You can smoke the leaves or the extract, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I don’t know what you’ll see.’
‘But what’s it like?’ she pressed.
‘You dissociate, your senses work differently. You might go into surreal places or really dark places. You might feel like you’re leaving your body. You can feel a bit sick afterwards.’
Amy put down the mug and switched the kettle off. ‘Can I try it? I want to see where you go.’
‘That’s not how it works. Everyone’s trip is their own. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, Amy. Not after…’
‘Not after I almost jumped off a bridge?’ She faced him defiantly. Caroline had talked her through a lot of history she never wanted to remember, but this was different. She would have no control over where she went or what she saw. The plant could take her back to Afghanistan. It could take her home. It could take her into another horrific future that she had no power to prevent. She summoned her resolve. She’d gone unarmed into worse places than the depths of her own mind. ‘I want to do it.’
Harrison paused before sighing deeply and whispering, ‘Okay.’ He led her back to the little room. ‘It can be scary, but I promise I’ll be with you the whole time.’
She bent down and sniffed the plants. ‘You’ll stay with me?’
‘I’ll be right here. I won’t let you fly away, I promise.’
‘Tell me what to do.’
‘Take off your shoes and sit down on the rug.’
Amy took off her boots and sat down, watching as he closed the wooden blinds, blocking out the hammering storm, replacing it with yellow candlelight.
He picked a handful of leaves and sat beside her. ‘Lie down. Breathe in.’
She breathed in, filling her lungs slowly as she counted to ten.
‘I want you to think about being safe. You’re in a place where nothing can hurt you. Breathe out. Let your body relax down into the floor.’ His voice became low and toneless. ‘Now, take the leaves, one at a time. Chew them as long as you can but try not to swallow them.’
He pressed a handful of the leaves into her hand. She raised one to her lips, nibbled the tip of it. It was bitter but earthy, like wet foliage after a rain. She chewed a second leaf and then a third, holding the wad in her mouth like tobacco. The juices ran down her throat. The taste grew more bitter, but she forced herself to keep chewing the fibrous leaves.
Harrison spoke slowly, a whisper barely breaking into voice. ‘Imagine yourself walking. You’re following a path through a forest. The trees are thick around you, and you can’t see what’s on the other side of them. Just keep walking. Let the path take you wherever it goes.’
She could see the winter-bare branches, a red-gold light shining through them.
This whole performance felt silly and she began to laugh. The more she tried to stifle it, the funnier it became and her body shook with laughter. Then it stopped and she lay still again, returning to the forest. A drum played in the distance. There was a march. She could hear the flutes, playing the same old cheery tunes that heralded violence and death. The notes bit her face and arms like horseflies, and she tried to brush them off but couldn’t.
Then came the sound of breaking glass, except it seemed to be within her, like someone inside her body was throwing stones and shattering her ribcage. She saw fragments exploding out of her chest in slow motion. It didn’t hurt, but she didn’t have to listen to this shit anymore.
She began to run. The drums urged her on, half a beat ahead of her footsteps, making her faster. The trees were gone and she was running along her street. She was on the road and there were people watching as if it was a race, except that she was the only runner. There was Ricky, standing on the pavement, waving his arms and shouting.
She couldn’t tell if he was shouting her over or cheering her on, but she ran past him. She ran past all the buildings and then the tarmac disappeared and she was running on dirt. Hard-packed, sandy earth. Barren, rocky hills rose steeply on both sides. The valley narrowed. A thin line of darker, damp earth snaked along it but there was no water in the stream. Everything was dry, scorched by sun and by human hand. She knew this place. It was dangerous to be here, at the bottom of this draw with the hillsides above her. Taliban hid among those rocks. They had caves up there, caches of weapons, the perfect view down to anyone moving along the bottom. In her peripheral vision she saw them sliding over the rocks like shadows. She ran faster, expecting the crack of rifle fire to echo out above her.
But it didn’t come. Instead, other runners appeared. They gathered alongside her, mostly men but also a few women. She saw her mates, Sonny Wilson, Cameron Brown and Ryan McGann. But you’re dead, she thought. She saw others she’d only known for a few hours or minutes. She knew each of their faces because she had knelt beside them. She had held them as they screamed in pain and died. But here they were in all their glory, running on limbs that had been reduced to shreds of flesh and exposed, broken bone. She could taste their blood as it splattered her skin.
Some overtook her, some stayed behind. They were in formation, running as a single troop, and she was in the middle, safe inside the pack. Nobody was armed. They didn’t speak but it felt like they were leading her somewhere. She trusted them, and followed.
The dry, scrubby draw widened out and the landscape became greener. Grassy fields spread to her right and left, bounded by hedgerows. She was running through a field of ripening, waist-high barley, which shimmered and parted in front of her as the force of her movement had created a whirlwind. She held her arms out wide, hands skimming along the barley heads, and as she moved, more people rose from the ground. She could see them dusting themselves off and looking around, briefly confused. Then they too began to run with her.
Abruptly, she came to the edge of the land and stopped dead. In front of her was black water, and the sun had disappeared. It was night. All of the dead people stood behind her, gathered in a tightly-packed crowd. They were urging her on, into the water, but they were not coming with her. She looked down and saw only the opaque depths.
A large form began to rise up to the surface. It was a man, floating slowly up from below, his eyes wide open and staring at her through the water. His face was familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He reached up toward her and spoke, but his voice was distorted by water and she couldn’t understand him. His hand reached out of the water and closed around hers, and his touch was ice cold. She resisted. He was going to pull her under, and all of those people who she thought were here to protect her were just going to watch. Amy dragged herself backwards, but his fingers were clamped around her wrist. Her feet slipped toward the edge. She struggled, but her limbs felt weak. The ghosts behind her began to move toward her. They were going to push her in. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.
The man raised his face from the water and shouted, ‘I have to tell you! Listen to me! Please!’
They were pulling against each other, evenly weighted, deadlocked. She called for the ghosts over her shoulder. They stood close but didn’t help. She screamed again, as her feet slipped off the edge and she plunged down into the water.
Hands closed on her shoulders and someone said her name. ‘Amy. Come back now. I’ve got you. It’s okay, come back.’
She felt herself fall backwards. The jolt of the impact went through her body and she opened her eyes. Harrison was sitting at her head, one hand on each of her shoulders, peering down at her.
‘Fuck.’ She dragged in a breath, sat up quickly and whirled around to face him. Behind him, she could still almost see the crowd of people she’d gathered. The smell of the sea was in her nose and her wrist throbbed where the man in the water had gripped it. She rubbed her hands on her jumper, surprised to find it completely dry.
‘You’re back,’ Harrison said. His hand was resting between her shoulders and she could feel its warmth through her clothes.
She was caught between two worlds now, and could still hear the man calling up from the inky water, as well as a faint echo of her cry. ‘Did I scream?’
‘You shouted help me.’
‘Shit.’ She was out of breath and sweating like she had run for miles. The hair around her forehead was damp and her face was pulsing with heat. He offered her an empty cup and she spat the bitter wad of chewed leaves into it, then shuddered and wrapped her arms around her knees. A wave of nausea came and she breathed it down.
‘It’s normal to feel a bit sick.’ He kept his hand on her back, reassuring her that this room was the reality. His brown eyes were full of worry and questions, and she could tell that, at least this one time, he wasn’t reading her at all. She had wondered if he might be able to see what she was seeing, but evidently not.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ he said, and took the cup away. ‘Just stay there and take a minute.’ When he came back, he turned on the overhead light and the room shifted back into a plain, square box. The images began to fade, although there was still a sensation of someone pulling at her, trying to drag her into the water.
She drank, grateful to rinse the taste of the Salvia out of her mouth. ‘I may puke.’
‘You need a bucket?’
She attempted a laugh, but it came out as a wheezy gasp. ‘No, but … Jesus, that was horrible, Harri.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘I don’t know.’
He stood up, held out his hand and helped her to her feet. ‘Hold on to me if you’re dizzy.’
She steadied herself on his arm for a couple of seconds. ‘I’ll take that cup of tea now.’
Siren Song (Harrison Jones and Amy Bell Mystery Book 1) Page 13