by Sharon Jones
Trance? No one had said anything about going into a trance. She’d never been in a trance, apart from maybe that one time in the Native American sweat lodge, and then all hell had broken loose.
Ria grabbed her hands again. ‘Close your eyes, Poppy.’
Damn, she should have asked more questions before agreeing to this. Michael was right – with Ria in charge anything could happen.
Ria raised an exasperated eyebrow.
Too late now. She’d have to go along with it. She just had to make sure she stayed awake. No trances. No nothing. She took a deep breath and forced her eyes shut. But now her heart was racing so fast that she thought it might vibrate its way out of her ribcage.
‘Take slow, deep breaths,’ Ria said in a whisper.
Ria squeezed her fingers in a slow pulsing rhythm, and before long, Poppy realised that her breath had conformed to the pattern and she was starting to drift again. No!
For a second she panicked, but then she remembered that Michael was sitting a couple of feet away. This was all a load of rubbish. She couldn’t talk to the dead. Michael was right. She was in shock. Didn’t mean there was something wrong with her. Her psychotherapist stepdad was always treating people for shock.
Poppy concentrated on slowing her breathing again. Even if she didn’t believe in this crap, she had to make it look like she was making an effort.
After a while, the slow breathing and the darkness became weirdly hypnotic. She felt herself slipping deeper inside herself, until Ria’s hold on her hands didn’t feel real any more, nor the floor beneath her or the air she was breathing. The only thing that felt real was this free-floating part of herself that seemed to strain at the boundary of her skin. She hovered there for a while but nothing happened. She could see nothing and hear nothing, except for the whooshing of air.
Then something snapped.
Lights rushed by her, like she was speeding through a tunnel or falling. Was she falling?
A picture formed before her – confusing as a badly pixelated TV, it flickered on and off, giving her glimpses of colours…green, brown and a deep black that pulled her in. It was water…lake water…she was drowning…
No! Please, no!
The picture shifted and suddenly she was in a different place. It was dark except for the moonlight that flooded in through the arched windows somewhere up above. She was running – her shoes squeaking against a tiled marble floor.
She was in a chapel. Oh God…Oh God, no!
Pain blinded her and she fell. She forced herself onto her back in time to see eyes filled with despair and pain, anger and betrayal.
‘I am his avenging angel!’ a voice hissed.
Pain bloomed in her chest…it was too much! She was dying. She was really going to die this time.
She became aware of hands stroking her hair and a familiar voice just out of range of her hearing.
‘Poppy? Poppy!’
She opened her eyes. It was still dark, and she could still feel the pain like a hot poker had been driven into her heart. She gasped at the air, but couldn’t seem to force enough of it into her lungs.
‘Poppy, look at me!’
The eyes staring down at her were different from before. These eyes were familiar and full of concern.
‘Call someone. Call her dad.’
‘No. Just give her a minute. Poppy, you can come back now. Come back to us.’
Slowly, the room came into focus: the flickering light of candles, the swirling screensaver on the computer screen, and Michael’s worried hands stroking her hair and face.
‘Poppy?’ he whispered.
‘Hi,’ she said, her voice hoarse, like she’d been screaming for hours. Had she screamed? She didn’t remember screaming.
Michael sighed, leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. His warm breath brushed against her cheek.
‘How do you feel?’
Floaty…like she wasn’t quite inside herself…like a part of her was somewhere else.
‘I need air.’ She felt as though she might hover out of the room rather than walk.
‘What did you see, Poppy?’ Ria asked.
‘Is she all right?’
Poppy tried to sit up, but Michael’s arms tightened around her shoulders.
‘Poppy?’ another voice prompted.
‘Leave her alone,’ Michael growled. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’
Poppy shifted until she could see Ria, kneeling beside them.
‘What happened?’ Ria asked. ‘What did you see? I know you saw him last night…you were calling his name.’
Poppy pressed her hand to her ribs where the pain still ached. Her head whirled with the mixed-up memories, not sure what was real and what had happened in her head. Tears bled down her cheeks. What was going on? Why was she crying?
She pushed at Michael’s arms until he let her go and stumbled to her feet.
Lucy caught her arm before she could fall. The French girl stared at her like she was some kind of monster.
Michael’s hand grabbed her other arm. ‘You need to sit down for a minute.’ Even in the poor light given out by the flickering candles she could tell Michael was scared shitless. What had happened? What had she said?
No matter. She needed out of there. She needed air. She couldn’t breathe with all this incense clogging her lungs.
She headed for the door, Michael’s hand holding her steady. Ria got there first, blocking the way. Her eyes were wild. She looked like a tiger preparing to pounce.
‘You have to tell me what you saw, Poppy. Did you see him? Did you speak to my Danny?’
‘What did you do?’ Poppy shouted. The words slid from her throat like they weren’t even hers – like her body had been hijacked by another mind. ‘What did you do, Ria? How could you do that? How could you…’
Ria’s mouth dropped open. ‘I’m sorry, Danny,’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Ria reached for Poppy’s face, as if to take her cheek in her hands. Poppy staggered backwards, away from the stretching fingers, the blood-red nails.
Michael lunged, shoving Ria away from the door.
‘Don’t you touch her!’
‘But…?’
‘I mean it.’ Michael stepped forward, advancing on Ria. For the first time the older girl looked scared.
‘Hey!’ Conal said, putting himself between Michael and Ria.
Michael threw the guy a disgusted look, then turned back to Poppy. He put his arm around her shoulders, opened the door and pushed her out into the corridor. The bright light made her squint. The floor wobbled beneath her feet as another wave of agonising pain cut through her stomach. It felt so real. She pressed a hand to her sweatshirt to make sure she really hadn’t been stabbed. There was nothing there, so why could she feel it? She bent over and tried to breathe through the pain.
Michael forced her upright. His eyes searched her face. He was terrified and looking for her to tell him what had happened. But she had no answers to give him.
‘I just need some air,’ she gasped.
He nodded.
Before they got to the door leading to the landing, Poppy heard a slam and the sound of footsteps.
‘How is she?’
They turned to find Lucy had come after them. She squeezed Poppy’s shoulder, her eyes creased with worry.
‘Your friends are idiots,’ Michael said.
‘You’re right. It was a stupid thing to do.’ Lucy’s hand slid down Poppy’s arm and took hold of her hand. ‘Poppy, there’s something I need to tell you. Something about your father; can we talk?’
Poppy wondered what this girl could have to tell her about her dad. ‘Um—’
‘—Not now,’ Michael said, before Poppy could agree. ‘Can’t you see what a state she’s in?’
Lucy dropped Poppy’s hand and nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll find you later.’
Michael opened the door and helped Poppy down the stone steps of the stairwell.
As soon as sh
e felt the chill of winter air against her cheeks she started to feel like she could breathe. It was such a relief that she began crying again. She could see the pure white snow beyond the pathway. She wanted that cleanness…she wanted to feel like that, to feel unblemished by blood and hurt and pain.
She collapsed down to her knees and buried her hands in the snow, not even minding the cold that bit at her fingers.
‘Poppy, you’ll freeze.’ Despite her protestations, Michael crouched down beside her and tucked her head against his chest.
Quick footsteps headed in their direction.
‘What’s wrong? Is she ill?’ a man’s voice said.
‘I’m not sure,’ Michael replied.
‘I’ll get someone to call her dad.’
Poppy dragged her fingers through the snow, tracing patterns that her numb fingers could no longer feel. That was what it had felt like – to be there, but not there; to feel things, but not feel them.
But it was all in her head, right? Did that mean she was going crazy?
Michael caught hold of her fingers and folded them within his own. His skin burned against hers.
She looked up into eyes, clouded with worry, and suddenly she realised where she was and what she was doing. She was sitting on snow! Freezing cold water had seeped through her jeans and was freezing her ass off. ‘Oh God!’ she muttered and pushed herself up from the ground. ‘My jeans are soaked.’ She strained to see the big wet patch covering her bum. ‘I look like I’ve wet myself.’
Michael was watching her; his hands stretched out ready to catch her. Was he afraid she’d fall or run?
Blood rushed to her cheeks as she realised just how badly she’d freaked out.
Someone was shouting. Shouting her name, in an American accent:
‘What’s going on? Poppy, what’s wrong?’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Michael realised Poppy was staring at his outstretched hands. He shoved them in his jacket pockets.
‘Poppy, what’s wrong?’ the Dean repeated.
Poppy’s eyes, red from crying, darted up to his, looking for help. He had to resist the automatic urge to cover for her. They’d been making up excuses for each other since they were kids, but not this time. He was just as keen as the Dean to hear her explanation of what had just happened.
Bea took hold of Poppy’s arm. ‘Poppy, you’re soaking. Come on, come inside.’
‘We need to find Jim,’ he said. Her dad needed to see how freaked out she was. If he didn’t, Poppy would twist the story until it sounded like nothing. And whatever had happened back there was not nothing – no matter what she said. There was something badly wrong with her, and he wasn’t about to sit back and watch.
‘What? No. Don’t bother Dad,’ Poppy protested. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine.’ He had to take a breath to give him time to even out his tone. ‘You passed out in there. That’s not fine.’
She glared at him, and for the first time in a long time, he saw real fear in her eyes. ‘You’re totally overreacting.’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, I think I just got too hot…and maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s stress or something.’
Oh, so now it’s stress. Could she hear herself? Shit. He really shouldn’t have let her go back in there after what had happened last night.
‘I’ll go and find you something to change into,’ he said, as she began walking with Bea.
She spun around. ‘No. I don’t need anything. This’ll dry.’ Her eyes pleaded with him. She knew him too well. She knew what he really planned to do. But he wasn’t giving in to her this time.
‘I’ll be two minutes.’
Bea guided Poppy into the staircase that led to her office before she could make any more objections.
Michael waited until they’d disappeared through the archway before he pulled out his phone and called the only person who might get through to her.
‘Michael? Is everything OK?’ Poppy’s mum asked, the second she picked up.
‘Hi, Meg, we’re fine, I’m just…What am I saying? We’re not OK. I’m worried about Poppy.’
‘What’s wrong? I thought you’d be on the train by now.’
Michael ran a hand over his face. How was he meant to explain what had just happened? ‘We’re still in Cambridge. Poppy got pulled into doing some kind of séance type thing. This girl, the student whose boyfriend died, she got it into her head that Poppy could contact him. I tried to stop it, but you know what she’s like. The thing is, she freaked out really badly. She just wasn’t there any more, Meg. It’s not the first time. She was seeing stuff that wasn’t there last night. She said she saw the dead guy. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Where’s Jim?’
‘I don’t know. He had some work to do.’
‘Never mind. I’ll call Jonathan; we’ll hit the road just as soon as he gets back.’
Some of the tension in his stomach unknotted. ‘Good. Thanks. I’m sorry to…’
‘I’ll talk to you in a bit. Just…just take care of her, Michael.’
‘I’m trying.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Poppy wandered around the study while the Dean put the kettle on. Her hands were still shaking from the cold and she couldn’t seem to keep still. The photograph of her dad and the Dean’s son caught her eye. She headed over to it.
‘How are you feeling, Poppy?’ Bea asked.
‘I’m fine.’
Bea’s face cocked to the side. She raised an eyebrow. ‘What happened out there?’
Poppy shrugged. Was that what a panic attack felt like? Or was it…? No, not going there!
‘How did your son die?’ she asked, quickly, before any more questions came her way.
Bea’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ She sighed. ‘Lance was… He…he took his own life.’ Her voice was muted. But when she looked up and caught Poppy’s eye, the Dean’s face was stiff with old, unending pain. ‘How did you know he was dead?’
That was a good question. How did she know that? ‘Someone must have said something.’
For a moment, the Dean stared at her in confusion. Then it was gone.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to get anything wet.’
‘It’s only water, Poppy. Sit down before you fall down.’ She did as she was told and slumped into one of the armchairs.
The Dean finished making tea and put a mug into Poppy’s hands. After the snow, the hot china scalded her fingers. The tea slopped over the side, splashing her knee and burning her. She jumped and dropped the mug. It landed on the carpet in one piece, but the tea seemed to go for miles.
‘Oh, Poppy,’ Bea said, grabbing handfuls of tissues from the box on her desk.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. ‘Let me.’
A firm hand held her in the chair. ‘It’s only tea, Poppy.’
She could do nothing but sit there while the Dean blotted her jeans with tissues and then made her another cup of tea. This one, Bea put on the table next to her.
‘There. Now what were we talking about?’
‘You were saying about your son.’
‘Oh yes…Lance.’ Bea wandered over to the window and looked out over the college. ‘He came here desperate to fit in. More than fit in. He wanted to be in with the in crowd. He’d read Evelyn Waugh and seen Chariots of Fire, and he wanted to live a life that only really existed in novels and in his head. Champagne tea parties and punting down the river, talking about great art and literature. When he first arrived – he was so happy to finally be in England, to be in Cambridge, he’d call me at Yale, where I worked back then, and tell me all about the wonderful time he was having. But then part way through his first year, things started to go wrong for him. There was a boy I think he had a bit of a crush on and he desperately wanted to be like. But then that boy was initiated into a new group of friends and Lance felt left out.’ The Dean shook her head and sighed. ‘Such small things make or break a life. Lance was broken by shattered
dreams.’
‘Have you forgiven him?’
The Dean spun around and for a second stared at Poppy with some of the same desperation she’d seen in Ria’s face. ‘That’s a very perceptive question, Poppy. Yes. I have forgiven Lance.’ Her expression darkened. ‘I find it harder to forgive those who caused his pain, but I’m…trying. In the end forgiveness and justice is all there is.’
‘Do you think he’s happy now?’
Bea’s face crumpled with pain but she nodded. ‘I do.’
Poppy picked up the mug of tea and carefully rested it on her knee. ‘Do Christians believe that you can talk to people after they’ve died?’
Bea’s mouth dropped open.
There was a loud knock at the door that made Poppy jump, again spilling tea over her jeans.
‘Come in,’ Bea called.
Michael’s head appeared around the door. He was looking calmer than before, which meant he’d spoken to her dad. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, looking at the Dean, and very definitely avoiding eye contact with her.
‘I thought you were going to get me a change of clothes,’ Poppy said.
‘Oh, er…yeah, sorry. I forgot.’
‘Then what were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. Too quickly. He sat down in the chair next to hers and muttered thanks to the Dean when she passed him a mug of tea.
Poppy glared at him. ‘What did you do?’ She knew what he’d done, but by God she was going to make him admit to it.
‘What do you mean?’ He turned to her, and she could see the guilt there in his eyes. He swallowed. ‘If you won’t talk to me, I’m going to make sure you talk to someone about what’s going on.’
‘It was nothing!’
He shifted in his seat until he was facing her. ‘Like hell it was nothing.’
‘Would someone care to enlighten me?’ Bea asked.
There was another knock on the door. It was flung open and her dad rushed in, eyebrows creased with anxiety. Poppy sank deeper into the chair’s upholstery. Dad strode across the room and crouched in front of her.
‘What’s going on, Pops?’
She shook her head.