Why would a person do that? I wondered. I stared down at an enormous trap door. A cellar! I thought. I’d never asked Gemma about a cellar. It was obvious, really, in a house this age.
The trapdoor was old with a big steel hoop, and looked substantial, but I believed I was up to the job. I wondered if I should go down now. Cellars don’t generally frighten me and the thought of the possible treasures appealed. I grabbed a torch and was ready to go.
The trapdoor proved a piece of cake, the wood was old and partially rotten. I made my way down the rickety stairs, looking around the walls for a light switch. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one. The cellar was dark and fusty-smelling.
Reaching the bottom, I paused briefly, shining the torch for illumination. Right at the back were several windows, but they were no help, they were covered in grime. I wandered around the empty space, scanning the room to see what was there. Two of the walls had wooden shelving, the sort that could have been used for wine. Sadly, I couldn’t see any wine. This cellar was proving a real disappointment
A jar was sitting on one of the shelves, full to the brim with a dark brown liquid. Whatever it was, it wasn’t urgent. I wasn’t going to open it now. Maybe tomorrow, I thought, vaguely.
My tour of the cellar was almost complete. I saw some planks of wood in the corner, and next to the planks, a smallish door. I guessed the door would lead to a cupboard but I couldn’t be bothered to open it now. On the way out, I saw something on top of a shelf, I couldn’t see what without a ladder. I stretched my hand out to reach the shelf and my fingers touched something smooth and cool. I gritted my teeth and grabbed the object, shining the light of the torch on the shelf.
The torch showed up the damp of the walls and the dark red flaking paint of the wood. But what intrigued me most of all was the thing I was holding in my hand.
A dark brown boot.
Chapter 15
Now – Aleph
Most of the work I did was typical, failed relationships, self-esteem issues. I was a counsellor after all. But after my life had gone downhill, I needed a change, I needed to branch into something new. While keeping the bread and butter going. That’s where analysing speech came in. I even thought it might help me heal.
I’d made some recordings about what happened and played them backwards, in reverse, listening hard for words or phrases. Trying to find those thoughts unexpressed, when played forwards. Nothing came up. Terence Lyle, the man who was my professional supervisor, acted surprised, but I still believed the approach would work, for some clients. Like Guinevere James.
Guinevere James ran an internet business, she was doing quite well and some of her clients wanted to invest. She thought the investment could help her expand, but wanted to be sure they were on the level. What if they’d planned a take over, once their feet were under the table?
‘That’s why I’ve come to you, Aleph.’ I nodded, sagely.
‘You did warn them, before the meeting, that you were planning to record the discussion? And what was going to happen afterwards?’
Guinevere nodded, and gave me a list of names and signatures, giving permission for the file to be analysed. I smiled, reassured. It was crucial this was all above board.
I’d talked about this aspect with Lyle. ‘No-one would give their permission,’ I’d said, ‘if they had a corrupt agenda. For therapy, yes, because no-one would know what the file would reveal. But business is different. They wouldn’t want people to know what’s there.’
‘Assuming they think the process works.’
‘But isn’t that rather unethical? Because we know it works, even if they don’t.’ Lyle just laughed.
‘You’re too naive for this kind of work. We’ve already told them what might happen. If they don’t believe it, that’s their decision. Or maybe they think it’s worth the risk. It all depends how much is at stake. If they refused to cooperate, Ms James might walk away from the deal.’
I wasn’t completely happy with that, and years ago, I might not have done it. But I wasn’t the man I was back then. I enjoyed doing the business recordings, they were simpler than the therapeutic ones, and far less stressful. And mostly they said the same, both ways.
My client and I were sitting in the office, I’d managed to get a desk and some chairs. Guinevere James looked calm and at ease, I’d already made her several teas, her eyes were sharp, alert and interested. She wasn’t my idea of a businesswoman, with her bird’s nest hair and colourful clothes but I liked her manner, which was brisk and practical. She was very different from Cressida Sewell. I smiled, warmly.
‘The way it works, as I’ve said, is this. People discuss whatever’s the issue, say what they think and that’s recorded. Then it’s played back by me, in reverse. Most of what I hear then is gibberish, but every so often a phrase appears, and I listen carefully to hear what’s said. Sometimes it’s just the same both ways, not the words themselves, but the feelings behind the words being said. If so, that’s good, it means the client means what they’re saying. Sometimes however, it’s not like that.’
Guinevere James nodded, silent. I knew she was looking for some sort of insight. Did she hope they’d be on the level, or was she looking for some kind of dirt? People often said they were ready for the truth, but when it came down to it, they usually weren’t. I glanced at Guinevere.
‘Forwards and backwards can be consistent, but sometimes reversals are very different – a contradiction of what was said forwards. The subconscious speaking and telling the truth. Or, at least, that’s the theory behind the work.’ I paused for a moment. ‘And there’s more.
‘Reversed recordings can give extra insight, add more information to what was said earlier, when the file was played forwards.’ It all helped me see the picture. ‘I think it’s time we made a start.’
I’d already played the file, both ways, so I knew what was on it, and what to expect. What I didn’t know then was how she’d react. She watched me choose Reverse on the program, then click Play to start the sound file. A few seconds later I paused the file. ‘There,’ I told her. ‘There’s your first one.’
My client looked startled. ‘I didn’t hear it.’
‘I’ll play it again,’ I said, and did, this time slowed to 80%. ‘It takes a while,’ I told her, gently, ‘to get your ear in, when you’re first starting. Try it now.’ This time she heard it.
‘It should be good for us,’, he said. The words were garbled, sounded distorted, but nevertheless a definite statement. At first, a file that’s played in reverse sounds just like noise. But after a while, with the appropriate training and endless practice, you learn to pick up the phrases easily. Guinevere nodded, looking triumphant.
‘I definitely heard it.’ We sat and listened to more of the same.
‘We need something different,’ a man’s voice told us. ‘You certainly do,’ said Guinevere, smiling.
‘A good way to go, yes?’ said a voice. A different voice from the one we’d just heard. My client was proud and glowing, exultant. I guess she didn’t want dirt after all. Then came something she wouldn’t like.
The words were curt, staccato, almost. ‘Not good news; when it hits,’ he said. She looked startled.
‘Did he say what I think he did?’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’ I played the phrase for her one more time. My client looked grim, angry, almost.
‘What does that mean, do you think?’ she said. But I knew she’d understood the point. What they were saying wasn’t what they really felt.
‘You can’t let your feelings count,’ said a voice. Then, ‘Do what you have to,’ followed by silence. My client jumped up.
‘Is the rest of the recording all the same? How much further is there to go?’
‘Most of it, yes, and twenty minutes.’
‘I think I’ve heard enough for the moment.’ She stood there glaring, staring at me. I didn’t move.
‘Look Mrs James, you’re clearly upset. I really don’t think it’s a good
time to leave. Please sit down and we’ll talk it through.’
‘I haven’t the time to talk it through. I heard what he said, that’s enough for me. And you’ve just said it’s all like this. I don’t want to hear it, not right now. Are you going to give me a transcript?’
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ve got it right here. It also discusses the metaphors. I think I explained to you what they were.’
‘Sod the metaphors,’ Mrs James said. She snatched the transcript out of my hand. Then she sighed, and sat back down.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking embarrassed. ‘I realise it isn’t your fault, Mr Jones. I guess I didn’t believe it would work.’
‘You and most of my other clients.’ I smiled, sympathetic.
A short while later, I watched her pick up the transcript carefully, tuck it into her oversized bag.
‘You know you’re not alone, Mrs James. Few people think it works at first. It seems quite bizarre the first time it happens.’
‘It came as a shock,’ my client said, ‘and not just hearing the things they said.’ She took some money out of her purse. ‘Is it alright if I pay you now? I’ve got the cash.’
I nodded, understanding, I’d seen it before. She’d wanted those guys to be on the level and now they weren’t, she felt betrayed, and embarrassed. So many people felt the same.
Life’s a bitch, I thought grimly, and shook her hand as we said goodbye. We stood on the doorstep, taking in air.
‘Isn’t this place the haunted house?’
Not again, I thought, frowning. ‘Not the house, it’s the street that’s haunted. Or so I’ve been told.’
‘The School Lane ghosts,’ said Mrs James, nodding. ‘But isn’t it true they lived in this house? And maybe even died in here?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said coldly. ‘Nobody’s said so.’
‘Well,’ said Guinevere, turning her back. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong.’ I couldn’t let her leave it like that.
‘How did you hear about the ghosts?’
‘Marianne Parks at Cloud House told me.’
I cursed the woman in my head. ‘Marianne Parks tells everybody,’ I said bitterly.
‘Well,’ said my client, smiling, briefly. ‘She is my cousin.’
Chapter 16
Then – Thomas
I passed my school and Louise’s tenements, and walked under the archway to Narrowboat Lane; it was anything but. The street was wide and packed with shops. I could follow it all the way to the market, and late on a Saturday, that’s what I did. I’d often go there and rummage around the stalls for scraps, vegetables mostly. My ma would add the best to our meal and sometimes Wilks, a mate from school, would pass me a bone, which would make great broth. Today, however, my plans were different.
‘You’ll never find that boot in a shop,’ I’d told Miranda, certainly not in McCarthy’s shop. There’s only the one and it’s far too old.’ Miranda looked angry and tired as well.
‘Yes, thank you Thomas, that’s probably true, but I’d still like you to look, alright? It’s a dark brown boot with buttons on and a good deal smaller than the ones I wear.’ She lifted her skirt to show her shoes.
‘I never knew you had such big feet. And I have seen the boot before, remember?’
Miranda laughed, but not with pleasure. ‘I’ll have less of your cheek, if you don’t mind, Thomas, she said, sharply, clipping the side of my head as she did so. I winced with surprise but said nothing. Miranda looked sad and very troubled. Later that day, I went looking for the boot.
I assumed someone had stolen the thing, but just for a lark – even the poor need more than one boot. I’d forgotten to check which foot it was for but that was too bad, I couldn’t go back and ask Miranda. I knew I wouldn’t find the boot, but maybe trying would make her feel better. I didn’t believe it.
Having the boot was meant to be lucky and losing it now could only mean trouble, but I remembered Miranda once saying, ‘We all make our own luck, Tom, and don’t you forget it.’ I never had, though I doubted the same was true for Miranda.
I peered in Matt McCarthy’s window. It was gone half past five and the shop was empty, apart from the stock and maybe my mate. The left hand window was stacked with shoes, and some of the shoes on display were boots, but none of the boots I saw looked right.
Round our way, buying new shoes was rarely an option. My ma always had our shoes repaired, when we wore them, which wasn’t that often. Repairs were cheaper and well worth doing. But even I had a ‘new’ pair sometimes, passed on to me by somebody else; if I was lucky the ‘new’ shoes fitted.
I pushed on the door and wandered inside as the bell tinkled, sauntering up to the glass counter, grinning.
‘Evening Percy,’ I said, nodding. ‘I’m looking for a boot.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mean a needle in a haystack?’ Percy Thomas had been at my school, but as he was older, he’d left last year. I remembered Percy on account of his name, Thomas I mean, and because he allowed me to boss him around. More fool him.
I described the boot to my old school mate and he pulled down a few to show me the styles. ‘How about these, or these or these?’ Ten pairs later we were bored to tears and I hadn’t seen anything like the boot. I glanced up again, at the shelf of repairs.
‘Let me see that one there, on the right.’
Percy reached up and passed down a boot. ‘That’s not one of ours, you won’t get a new pair. It’s in for repair, the style’s out of date.’
‘I don’t need a new pair, I just need this. Whose boot is it?’
‘Now, you know I can’t tell you that, Tom, lad.’
‘Not even for a brand new packet of fags?’
His eyes lit up and he checked the tag attached to the heel. ‘You really mean it, about the fags?’
‘True as I’m standing here in this shop.’
My old school mate lived at home with his ma, and she took every penny he earned and more. He was far too soft, or soft in the head to hold some back for life’s small pleasures. I reached across and grabbed the boot. ‘Thanks, old mate, you won’t regret it. I promise to come back soon with the fags.’
‘Tom, wait, where you going?’
I didn’t bother answering Percy. He might have been soft but the lad was huge, the only advantage I had was speed. I left the shop and hurried along the road to the archway.
Once I realised I wasn’t being followed, I slowed right down to a walking pace, thinking how pleased Miranda would be. I couldn’t believe I’d actually found it. Then I remembered to check the tag. Now I’d know who’d taken the thing.
I stopped abruptly and read it again. The name hadn’t changed, it was still the same.
Well, I thought, and carried on walking. That is a surprise.
Chapter 17
Now – Cressida
Alice was late home from school, again. Cressida tried to control herself, not to get angry and scream at Alice, but past experience made it hard. When Alice was late, how did she know Alice was late, rather than missing? It was hard not to worry, especially now they lived somewhere new, with Alice going to a brand new school. Especially after that terrible day.
She’d never gone missing in Leverhulme. Except that once.
When Alice was late, the time before last, Cressida checked where she was with the school.
‘She left with the others, I saw her go.’ Cressida frowned. That was the day she was three hours late.
‘You’d better not make a habit of this.’ Cressida heard herself almost screeching, she hated the way she lost control. She’d promise herself not to do it again and then she would, the very next time.
‘I only went for a walk around town,’ Alice informed her, using her iPad, looking bored, as if she was the adult. ‘Can I do my homework now?’ Cressida sighed.
‘That’s why I gave you the smartphone, Alice. So you can text me where you are. So I don’t worry.’
‘I’ve told you before, Mum, there’s n
o need to worry. I’m not a baby.’
‘So act like an adult and use the phone. I’d rather not have to collect you from school.’
Alice frowned and gave her that look, the one that said, You damn well won’t. Cressida sighed. Kids today had so much attitude, Alice especially.
‘So what time will you be home tomorrow?’
‘I’ve no idea, it depends on the others. I’ll send you a text, as soon as I know. But I will be home before it gets dark.’ As if she was making a big concession.
‘See that you are, and remember the text.’ Cressida left her alone with that, but she knew she had to keep tabs on the girl.
Cressida watched her daughter leave, she saw her stop and talk to her friends. The sight of that hurt a hell of a lot. Why can’t she talk to me? she thought. The girls crossed the road together as one, arms all linked as they ambled down the hill to the town, leaving the school gates far behind. Alice was laughing and using her phone. Cressida checked; if Alice was texting, it wasn’t to her.
The girls were happy, laughing and talking and jostling each other. Cressida followed, slightly behind, just about keeping her rage in check. How could Alice talk to her friends and to her teachers and not to her? Maybe Alice was putting it on?
No, she thought, that can’t be true, no-one could keep the pretence up that long. She’d asked Alice dozens of times, if she’d upset her, but each time she asked, Alice said no. Yet something must have caused the reaction. Cressida knew that day was the key. That terrible Sunday Alice had vanished.
She followed them all around for a while, tedious stuff, shopping mostly, looking at clothes and fancy bags. A couple of times she was nearly spotted. The girls then sauntered across to the market, gathered together, then broke apart, each one going in a different direction. Cressida watched Alice waving goodbye. Her friends had gone and she was alone. It was just after six.
Alice wandered through the market, Cressida doing her best to follow. Most of the stalls were closing up and the light of the day was fading fast. Stallholders loaded their cars with goods while Cressida walked between crates and stock. Alice turned off onto Convent Court, near the church hall which was barely used, and made her way towards the abbey. Where was she going? Cressida wondered. Then Alice wandered into an alley. Cressida panicked and hurried after her. She didn’t like Alice being alone in there.
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