Healer

by Peter Dickinson

  Karen told him, starting with her weight. He’d heard most of her story before. Her father was a consultant engineer who spent most of his time abroad, and her mother sounded like a typical middle-class bitch whose one idea was that Karen should think and look and dress and behave the same way she did. Karen wasn’t up to fighting her, so she’d found a way out by not eating, becoming an anorexic. Got herself down to sixty-eight pounds, she said, before her mother had heard about the Foundation. She was plump enough now, in a bouncy, strapped-in way, and mildly sexy in her white uniform. Drowsy as he was, Barry enjoyed her physical nearness. He didn’t imagine she felt the same for him. She just liked talking, mainly about herself. Time drifted by until a sharp tone sounded.

  “Oh, goodness!” said Karen, bouncing up and grabbing her crockery. “Only twenty minutes and I haven’t done anything!”

  She scampered off. Barry, too sleepy to bother, sat where he was until Mrs. Foxe, the fat canteen overseer, came over.

  “Off you go now, me boy,” she said. “Got to get cleared up before the session starts, haven’t I?”

  “Sorry,” said Barry. “I’d better get back to my room, I suppose.”

  It was one of the rules: all staff to keep still and quiet while the Harmony Sessions were in progress. The telephones were cut off, and a notice went up on the gates saying that there was no admittance for the next two hours. Normally Barry would have been in bed and asleep by now, so the rule had hardly affected him till this morning.

  He practiced his Foundation smile on Mrs. Foxe and left. He dropped into a slouch only as he strolled down the corridor that led toward the back of the building, past what must once have been pantries and sculleries and storerooms. Some were still used for this kind of purpose, but others had become offices and laboratories. The two-minute tone sounded. The building seemed hushed, deserted. He was almost at the door into the stable yard when something he had just passed nagged at his mind, something both strange and familiar. He turned and looked. It was nothing—well, it was a cupboard in the wall at the darkest point of the corridor, Why…oh, yes. It was an odd shape, not quite right for a cupboard somehow…but the same as the doors that opened onto the lift up in the nursery.

  With no particular purpose he opened the doors. The shelves were inside, bare. He tugged at the rope and listened to the grumble of the wooden wheel far above. The lift slid on down about eighteen inches and jarred to a stop, leaving a slot of black above the top shelf. By getting his knees onto the bottom rim of the hatch he could poke his head through, twist, and peer up. The shaft was pitch-dark.

  The last tone took him by surprise. Either they’d cheated over the two minutes, or his timing had gone wrong, but from now on the Harmony Session was in progress. Of course, there was nothing to stop him from slipping out of the back door and across the yard; nobody was likely to spot him, and even if they did, it was too trivial a bit of rule-breaking to bother about. Still, somehow, he didn’t fancy having it happen. As much from a childish impulse to hide as from any serious intention of doing something about the Pinkie problem he scrambled up through the slot onto the top of the lift, then reached down to pull the doors shut below him. With a sigh of weariness he settled down, leaning his back against the timber lining of the shaft.

  This was no use. This was stupid. The longer he stayed here, the later he’d be getting back to his cubicle, and if he was spotted, the worse the rule-breaking would have become. With another sigh he got to his feet and stood upright. Far above now he could see a faint glimmer of light. The upper doors must have been left slightly ajar. Still without any serious intention of making any use of what he had found, he heaved at the rope by the door. The wheel above groaned, and the lift stirred beneath him. Because of the gearing, he was having to lift only about a third of his own weight, plus a hefty allowance for friction. It should in theory be possible to heave himself up the whole way, assuming that the mechanism would take the load, but it was no use. The whole shaft would boom with the racket, and in the totally silent building somebody was bound to hear. He eased the lift back down the couple of inches it had risen. There was no point in staying.

  But he stayed. He stayed because this was a Bear kind of place, in its darkness, its musty smell, its unvisited secrecy. Now, just like a zoo bear reaching up the walls of its pit, he began to feel his way around the timber lining, solid tongue and groove, unclimbable. Then, on the third wall his paws—his hands—reached through where the lining should have been and touched rough brick beyond. What? Why? Barry took over, inquisitive, and felt around. There was lining on all four sides of the shaft at the top, he was sure. Down here … yes, the lining rose about a foot above the top of the door opening. Then it stopped, only on this side of the shaft. But at both edges of the opening, running on down inside the lining, was a deep slot, worn smooth. The two slots faced each other. Something must fit between them, must run between them to wear them so smooth.

  The counterweight, of course.

  As he ran his fingers up the left-hand slot, his knuckles banged into a crosspiece, a horizontal bar of wood which spanned the gap an inch or so from the brickwork. That was right. When they’d put the lift in, they’d realised the counterweight might jam sometimes. They didn’t want to have to go ripping out timber to find it, so they’d left this gap. But they’d wanted to make sure that the slots stayed plumb opposite each other, so they’d put these crosspieces in …

  How many? How close?

  If there had been fur on his spine, hackles, it would have stood upright. He felt the skin there prickle with excitement, the certainty of action after long waiting. The next crosspiece was about two feet six above the first. He took hold of it, put his foot on the bottom one, heaved, reached up. There was the next rung, waiting for his grasp. He was on a giant ladder, running right up through the building. Very likely the builders had put it here for this very reason, again in case the weight or the lift jammed. They’d need to be able to get up to the problem. Carefully he started to climb.

  Each rung was covered with a velvety coating of dust. As he disturbed it, it spilled with a faint rustle down the wall beyond. One or two rungs creaked as they took his weight. He heard no other sound. He saw no chink where the shaft might have opened onto the intermediate floors, nor did he remember seeing doors in the walls of those corridors at this point. He reached the top in less than two minutes.

  There was a problem here. The lining, as he’d suspected, ran down a foot below the level of the hatch, and the last rung came two feet below that. The doors were slightly ajar. It was a question of heaving up, much the way he’d been doing all the way up the shaft, but then twisting and reaching sideways to grab the shelf of the hatch, but it would have to be done all in one movement. If there were alarms attached to the doors, he’d set them off…

  The hell with it.

  He heaved and grabbed. There was a mild rattle and a thump, but no sudden clanging. He hung, panting, slantwise across the shaft, and then worked his feet onto the last rung, gave another heave and twist, and was kneeling on the shelf looking out into the nursery corridor. All quiet.

  He worked himself to a sitting position, took his shoes off, dropped to the floor, and shut the doors of the hatch. Still no sound. A strip of polished wood ran along each side of the corridor carpet. There might be alarm pads under the carpet. What next? The Harmony Session had been going for about twenty minutes or less. He had nearly two hours to explore in. Then they’d come up, have lunch, Pinkie would rest … Which was Pinkie’s room?

  He stole along by the wainscot, tried a door. Bathroom. The next was a toilet. Other side.

  The second door was half open. The moment he peered inside he knew this was it. A kid’s room obviously. Yes, and there was the same old black teddy on the bed, wearing the yellow bow tie Barry’s mum had made. A bright, clean room, big enough for several kids. Probably been the night nursery in the old days, with half a doz
en cots. Huge old built-in wardrobes, more than one kid could possibly need

  He opened them, one by one. A few frocks, a coat or two, and some jeans on hangers, looking lost in the big space. Shelves with T-shirts, socks, underclothes, pyjamas. But in the one on the corner a dry, dusty smell as if the door was seldom opened. There were suitcases on the floor, and on the other side shelves of winter blankets and spare pillows and so on. Barry piled the suitcases on top of each other and took an eiderdown and a couple of pillows to make himself a nest in the space he’d cleared. He curled himself into it and pulled the doors shut. He felt warm, quiet, comfortable, happy to wait. It was a Bear place, a lair. He did not remember falling asleep.

  He twitched awake. Something had touched his cheek. He couldn’t think where he was as he blinked at the brilliant pillar of light with the black shape in it. He heard Pinkie’s soft giggle.

  “You snorted,” she whispered. “I heard you.”

  From beyond the room came the tinkle and plunk of harp scales. Barry shook his head, forcing himself wide awake, and started to uncurl, but Pinkie slipped into the cupboard and wriggled down beside him.

  “I thought you weren’t ever coming,” she said, keeping her voice so low you could hardly have heard it outside the cupboard.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t think of a way. They put me on night shift.”

  “That’s what Louise said.”

  “You didn’t believe her?”

  “I thought they’d sent you away probably.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I knew you’d think of somehow.”

  “I didn’t. Not by thinking anyway. What’ll Mrs. B. do if she finds me here?”

  “I like Louise.”

  “Me too. You think she’ll come on our side?”

  “She’ll tell Dad.”

  “Dad?”

  “I’ve got to call him Dad.”

  “I’ve got to call him Sphere One.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He’s the only one who understands. He’s clever.”

  “Understands? You mean, you think he’s got it right? H.E. and all that?”

  “He knows what it’s like.”

  “I think he’s a crook.”

  She didn’t say anything but sleepily smoothed the fur of her teddy. She sounded all right, happy in her quiet way, much more like the old Pinkie than she’d seemed a fortnight ago when he’d had tea with her. He nodded toward the sound of the harp.

  “How long have we got?” he asked. “I’ve got to have a good long talk with you. There’s problems, Pinkie.”

  “I’m supposed to rest till four. She’s only just started. I was scared when I heard you snorting. I couldn’t get to sleep. I think it’s because Dad gave me something. It made me feel very excited.”

  She was really rattling on by her standards. It was a relief hearing her so chirpy. On the other hand, it was disturbing the way she talked about Mr. Freeman, apparently without fear or dislike, calling him Dad quite easily.

  “Some kind of present?” he asked.

  She stirred against his side, hesitated, then held her arm into the slot of light that came through the cupboard door. She pulled up the sleeve of her yellow pyjamas. On the inside of her forearm he saw three or four small red spots. None of Barry’s friends were that far into drugs, not that he knew, but his mind leaped to the connection.

  “Jesus!” he said softly. “He’s mad! What’s he think he’s doing?”

  “Sometimes it’s pills. Different things. Once I was almost sick. Sometimes I’m just sleepy. It was funny today. I saw things which weren’t there, and all the people had a kind of light around them, like angels. It was lovely.”

  “He must be mad! Listen, day I came to tea with you—had he given you something then?”

  “I expect so. I don’t remember. It’s always before the sessions.”

  “He must have. You were on a crazy kind of high. Does Mrs. Butterfield know?”

  “Yes, I told her, and she asked him. He said it was protein to help me in the sessions. They’re tiring sometimes.”

  “Protein wouldn’t make you sick or sleepy. And see things.”

  “You see, when we started having the sessions, it was lovely. Lots of people got better. I could feel it happening. Where I held their hands, I could feel the Energy rushing through. I was so happy helping all those people. It’s the only thing I ever want to do. Mum’s never liked me doing it, but he sent her away…”

  “Why did she marry him?”

  “She just wanted to. He’s clever. I don’t know. People are funny.”

  “Does she know about him, er, giving you things?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think she’d like it.”

  Barry puffed his breath out and tried to think. You couldn’t have told from Pinkie’s tone that she was talking about something that mattered to her. His instinct—not only Bear rage but natural human impulse—was to barge in on Mrs. Butterfield, shove her stupid harp away, and yell at her about what was happening. She must half know, surely; she’d obviously been worried that teatime …

  What the hell was Freeman up to? What had he been giving the kid? This last lot sounded like LSD or something … Yeah, from what Karen had said and other bits he’d heard, the sessions weren’t working the way they used to. Freeman could try faking the odd miracle cure, but that might mean letting some of the staff know…and besides, he believed, he really believed in H.E. So he’d start tinkering with his apparatus, tuning it up. And Pinkie was part of it. If he could find a way of heightening her awareness or damping down her contact with the real world …

  “Why don’t you wear your glasses at the sessions?” he said.

  “He just tried that out. I do now. We haven’t had a good session for ages—not since the one you came to. That was lovely. I told him I thought it was because you were there. I said why couldn’t you come to all the sessions, push one of those stupid carts or something. He said one day, when you were ready.”

  “Stupid?”

  “They don’t do anything. It’s the people who come.”

  “And you? You do something?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t like thinking about it. Explaining gets in the way. It isn’t like that.”

  “And you think you’re losing it?”

  “Losing?”

  “As you get older, for instance. Some kids—”

  “Oh, no! Please, no! It’s the only thing that matters!”

  She went rigid. Her fingers tightened around her teddy so that the knuckles whitened. Barry had never heard her sound upset like that.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Only I feel so tired. All that part of me. So tired.”

  “That’s why you want to get away?”

  “I want to talk to Granddad.”

  “Is that all? You mean you don’t mind Freeman filling you up with chemical muck, and the sessions wearing you out, and being shut up here like a princess in a tower, provided you can talk to that old nut?”

  “Don’t be angry. It’s only a way of saying.”

  “Okay, okay, but … You want to get out of here, right? How long for? A couple of days? A month? Forever?”

  “I don’t know. Till I’ve stopped being tired, I suppose.”

  “And when you come back, you want it fixed so you can see your granddad sometimes, and Freeman stops giving you shots of muck, and he doesn’t wear you out with more sessions than you can take, and so on?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But you don’t mind coming back in the end? On those terms?”

  “If it’s like it used to be. It was lovely then.”

  Problems. It couldn’t be done, not like that. Freeman had to work her the way he was doing
in order to get the cash flow. Suppose they got clear away, suppose they found somewhere to hole out, even then … He hadn’t thought about Pinkie’s actually wanting to come back, to be part again of something crooked and corrupt … if it was … surely what Freeman was doing with the drugs proved …

  “I’m not sure we’re going about this the right way,” he said. “Perhaps we’d do better starting off writing to your mum, telling her …”

  Pinkie nuzzled sleepily against his shoulder.

  “Don’t bother about Mum,” she said. “She’s no use. You’re the only person’s any use, Bear. You and Granddad.”

  “No, but …” he began. Then he registered what she’d said.

  “How did you know?” he whispered.

  “‘What?”

  “About Bear?”

  “Oh. Do you mind? I always call you Bear. Inside my head, I mean. You growled at me the first time I saw you. You’re my big bear and this is my little bear.”

  She stroked her teddy and put it into his hands. He turned it over. It was getting a bit bald. Somehow this gave it a scowl. Just a coincidence then.

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “Just don’t do it when there’s people around, will you? I’ll tell you about it sometime. I want to, anyway, when we’ve got your problems sorted out.”

  “Is it going to be difficult?”

  “Actually getting you away from here—if that’s what we decide to do—looks like being tricky, but I’m beginning to see how it might go. Then, provided we get enough of a start, we ought to be able to make it up to somewhere near Dallington and meet up with your granddad. He says he’s going to try to find us somewhere to hide up for a bit. We’ve got to be lucky, but it isn’t that that’s got me worried. It’s the consequences. You realise, for a start, we’re going to have half the police in England after us?”

  “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “They don’t know. Listen, I bet your mum told you not to talk to strangers, didn’t she? Not to let them give you sweets? Especially not to get in their cars? Right? Do you know why—I mean, what people like that sometimes do to kids?”