by Andrew Lowe
‘I grew up nearby, in Leek. My parents moved abroad and left me the house. I sold it and bought this place with my partner.’
Desmond stopped and gazed down at the glossy parquet floor, nodding. He dropped onto the futon. ‘I read there were wallabies.’
‘There used to be. They released them from a private zoo sometime in the 1940s, I think. People still claim to see them from time to time.’
As a child, Maggie often passed through the Roaches on Sunday drives, entombed in the back of a smoke-filled Austin Allegro, windows up. She was always on gate duty, and she cherished the regular chances to escape the car and feast on the peaty air. As she clunked open the clasp and the car juddered over the cattle grid, she would scan the bluebells and gorse blossom, hoping to catch sight of a wallaby, but only ever spotted pheasant, grouse, the odd mountain hare.
‘How are you sleeping, Desmond? What are your patterns now? It’s a couple of months since the incident.’
He shuffled to the edge of his seat, slumped forward, elbows on knees. ‘It’s a bit better. But I still keep seeing it. Seeing the faces and hearing the screams. It replays, like a film in my head. Over and over. When the panic comes, it feels like it’s there in front of me, happening all over again.’
Maggie scratched out a note. She looked up, hoping to coax Desmond into meeting her gaze. ‘It’s helpful to demystify trauma, to see it as a natural biological process. When traumatic events occur, the body’s coping mechanisms can be overwhelmed, and so the memory is inadequately processed and stored in an isolated part of the brain. The reason the memory feels as real as the event is because your brain still needs to digest it. Think of it as a blockage in the system. We’re going to develop a unique coping mechanism to address the past, present and future of the stored memory. I’m going to ask you to complete a few exercises in time for our session next week.’
Desmond looked up, catching her eye for the first time since the session began, half an hour earlier. ‘I read this thing online.’
A therapist’s five most hated words. She braced.
‘It said that there are plenty of ways to “change the script”. That people establish the future of an action in their minds, and if you can disrupt it, you can derail them, make them rethink what they’re doing. Maybe it’s the same with traumatic memories?’
Maggie sat back. ‘Potentially. There was an incident, when I was a student at Keele. I was at a late-night party at some isolated rural house near Wetley. Posh-looking place but a bit run-down. There was a gatecrasher. A small, stocky guy with wild eyes. He burst into the main room, waving a big hunting shotgun, sawn off. The place went quiet. He turned off the music and dropped an open sports bag on the floor, told everyone to fill it with their valuables.’
Desmond scoffed. ‘Smart guy. Stealing from students.’
‘A student, male, walked out of the adjoining kitchen, holding a plate of cheese and crackers, and a glass of red wine. He started to talk to the man with the shotgun as if he was just another student, enthusing about the cheese and the wine, how it was delicious and he needed to try some. The man looked at him, confused. He raised the gun and aimed it at the student’s head. Everyone shuffled to the sides of the room, terrified, cringing, waiting for the shot. He just calmly told the man again to try the cheese and wine. It was like he wasn’t seeing the gun at all, wasn’t feeling the danger. And the guy lowered the gun and set it down carefully on top of the bag. He took a chunk of cheese from the plate and nibbled at the edge. The student smiled and handed him the wine. He sipped it, then slurped back the whole glass. He looked around the room, and it was like he’d woken from a trance. He said, “Sorry. I’m in the wrong place.” And he turned and walked away. He got to the door, and came back for the gun and bag. Then he left. Not another word.’
Desmond laughed. He angled his head, studying Maggie.
Maggie took a sip of water. ‘The point is, the “script” can be compelling, but you always have a choice. To comply or not. You can effect behaviour change by not enabling the behaviour.’
Desmond stood, resumed pacing. ‘Pretty smooth. Some might call it stupid, though. On another day, it could have gone the other way. Do you know if the cheese guy is still alive?’
Maggie nodded. ‘He’s a good friend, yes. He’s a survivor.’
3
Professor Donald Ainsworth browsed the open refrigerator. He selected a cellophaned plate with an egg sandwich and slid it onto his tray, then added a bottle of still water, a banana, and a Kit-Kat for his afternoon tea break. As he queued to pay, he glanced over to the wall of windows overlooking the sports fields, and saw that Thomas Lamont, the Head of School, was bedded in at a corner table, sawing through a large steak. He caught sight of Ainsworth and waved him over.
It was Friday, late for a lunch meeting, and Lamont’s early arrival and loaded plate carried an ominous signal: despite the pleasurable setting, he meant business.
‘Splendid to see you, Donald. Have a seat.’
Lamont was a rounded, roomy figure only recently north of sixty. He hid his jowls behind a trimmed grey-black beard and wore a suspiciously dense mane of swept-back silver hair. His style was sharp, if a little fussy and salon-groomed: dark suit, grey waistcoat, complementing tie and pocket square. The formal look was a uniform for his manner: brisk and entitled, with the accent of a cricket commentator.
‘Shoulders back, Professor. It’s really not that bad.’
Ainsworth set down the tray and slid in opposite his boss. Lamont abandoned the struggle with his steak and took a sip from a half pint of beer.
‘Sorry for the short notice, old man. I was keen to cover off a few affairs before the weekend break.’
Despite the affectation, Ainsworth was the younger of the two, although Lamont had weathered his fifties well. Ainsworth was sunken and awkward; an archetypal academic nebbish with a glazed bald patch shining through a nest of uncombed hair. Lamont’s dark-framed spectacles seemed bespoke and integrated, while Ainsworth’s wire frames clung to his worried face with little enthusiasm, dramatising his wizened air.
Lamont pushed his plate aside and watched in silence for a few seconds as Ainsworth picked at the edge of the cellophane covering his sandwich. ‘Is that your lunch?’
Ainsworth nodded.
‘Ever the sybarite!’
Ainsworth obliged him with a chuckle but didn’t look up. At last, he peeled off an edge and freed the sandwich, offering his first contribution to the encounter: a noxious waft of mellowed sulphur.
Lamont observed him with an anthropological eye. ‘I’ve been in discussions with our benefactors.’
Ainsworth took a bite and levelled his gaze at Lamont over the top of his spectacles. ‘Benefactors?’
Lamont leaned in to catch Ainsworth’s watery whisper. ‘Yes. I met with the Principal and the CFO earlier this week. Don’t worry. The Persinger Unit is unassailable. Interest in parapsychology has never been higher, and you’ve integrated the unit’s work seamlessly.’
Ainsworth nodded and moved in for another bite. He ate like a tortoise: slow, circular gnawing.
Lamont lowered his voice. ‘I’m told that our Psychology faculty is the envy of many of the hard scientists in the golden triangle.’
Ainsworth prised open the remains of his sandwich and squinted at the contents. ‘They used to laugh at us. The “Loonies by the Loch”.’
Lamont barked out a laugh. ‘Well. Strathclyde itself used to be seen as parochial, even to Edinburgh. It might as well be in Shetland for the Oxford dons. But now, plenty of psychologists would recognise that some parapsychology is more rigorously conducted than some psychology. It sometimes seems as if the Psychology department is playing second fiddle to the Unit. The parasite has become the host, if you’ll forgive the analogy.’
Ainsworth’s scowl was hardly tolerant. He took a slurp of water. ‘So why the meeting?’
Lamont cleared his throat. ‘Credibility rarely thrives in a financial vacuum. A
nd since reports of the death of capitalism have proven premature, we feel the time might have come to revisit the Challenge.’
Ainsworth raised his eyebrows. ‘Revisit?’
‘Perhaps “rethink” would be a better word. There’s a great deal of money sitting there, doing nothing. The Challenge has had no takers for months now. It’s effectively mothballed. Wasn’t one of the last candidates a chap who claimed he could make people urinate through the power of thought?’
‘Candidates are rare because we screen them more carefully now.’
‘I accept that, but the Principal feels that we have £50,000 which could be put to better use in other areas. Simply from a broader academic perspective, it could perhaps be helpful to reinvent the Challenge as a specific research project. The prize could fund—’
‘Thomas.’ Ainsworth held up a hand, cutting him off. ‘I have to say, I’m surprised at the scrutiny. I personally do very little hands-on testing of general research subjects. I save myself the Challenge candidates because… well. Because I can, and because a considerable amount of my private money went into the prize. My time is around thirty per cent teaching, thirty per cent admin and management, twenty per cent research, and twenty per cent in knowledge exchange and unsolicited emails. The Challenge has brought the faculty a great deal of positive publicity and I’m afraid I don’t see the prize fund as an accessible resource. It is an ongoing incentive which reflects the nature of our research—’
‘I have a question, Donald. It’s been on my lips for some time. It’s not a question you will want to hear, but I feel we’ve known each other for long enough now.’ He reached for his glass. ‘I wonder, has the nature of the Challenge become a little too personal for you? Could you be maintaining it for reasons that go beyond the academic?’ He stole a slurp of beer.
Ainsworth sighed and let the moment linger. He fixed Lamont with a frosty stare. ‘And well you may continue to “wonder” that, Professor Lamont.’
Lamont broke eye contact and turned towards the window and a training session on the rugby pitch. There was a finality in the motion; he was concluding the conversation. ‘Professor Ainsworth, I respectfully request that you begin to formulate a schedule for evolving the Challenge and redistributing the prize fund. I would appreciate some progress on this by the end of the month.’ He turned back. ‘Have a lovely weekend.’
Ainsworth crossed over the covered connecting bridge and took the lift up to the staff floor of the Psychology faculty. The car was empty, and he rode in silence, eyes closed, zoning out to the drone of the motor.
Despite the time of day, the corridors were crowded with lecturers and support staff. After the barbed conversation with Lamont, Ainsworth was gripped by the introvert’s urge for solitude: to recharge and regroup in a space he viewed as sacred.
He stepped out at the sixth floor, hurried past the tutorial rooms and turned into the corridor marked with a small, polite sign. Black type on a yellow base.
PERSINGER PARAPSYCHOLOGY UNIT
Promoting excellence in parapsychological research
and education
He swerved into the doorless reception area. Kelly, his PA, was preparing a sheaf of papers by the printer at the far end. Ainsworth slipped past without acknowledgement, entered his office and closed the door.
The room was large and long and lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. A giant bay window beamed in the afternoon light from George Street. One floor down and his view would have been obscured by the Technology Centre opposite. But on most days he could bypass the glass-fronted new money and take his morning coffee before the sight of Trongate and the old Clock Tower.
Ainsworth had a Monday morning seminar to prepare, but he collapsed into the rustic patchwork armchair beneath the window, screwed his eyes shut and ground his knuckles in a familiar, calming figure-of-eight pattern around his forehead. He opened his eyes and, as usual, his gaze shifted to the photo framed on his corner-facing desk: a girl, late teens, floating flat on her back in a bright blue pool, holding a beach ball aloft, her expression frozen in a delirious smile. The photograph’s colour tone suggested it was taken some time ago.
Three short knocks. Cautious.
Normally, Kelly understood the message of the closed door and Ainsworth was both surprised and alarmed at the intrusion. He steeled himself. ‘Enter.’
Kelly half-opened the door and slid into the room. She was tall and bookish, with long blonde hair, neatly ponytailed. There was a vague resemblance to the girl in the photo.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Professor Ainsworth, but I thought you would want to know immediately.’
‘I hope it’s something good. I could use something good.’
‘It certainly is. I took a call. We have a new challenger.’
4
Jake Sawyer slotted his rented Corsa into the one remaining space and stepped out into a mush of auburn leaves. He had kept the car’s heating up high for most of the drive from Sheffield, and the autumnal breeze pinched at his flushed cheeks.
He shouldered his backpack and hauled the white Samsonite pullalong out of the boot. Ignoring the extendable handle and wheels, he gripped the side holder and carried it across the courtyard horizontally, suitcase style.
According to Trip Advisor, The Reading Room was the third best boutique guest house in Ashbourne. It was a mid-size Victorian—whitewashed brick, manicured creepers—set in private grounds behind an imperious ash tree. As Sawyer approached the entrance, he sighed at the sight of a Union Jack flying on a pole which jutted, semi-erect, from the top of the porch. He ducked out of the low morning sun into the shade cast by the house.
‘Hello there!’
The greeting came before he was fully inside the reception hall. A fulsome, fifty-something woman bustled out of the back room and rounded the desk. She slipped off a glove and poked out her hand. ‘Jenny Bailey. Mr Sawyer?’
Sawyer dropped the pullalong onto the stone floor and took Jenny’s hand. No grip, no eye contact, and Sawyer had to do all the shaking. ‘Yes. Jake.’
Sawyer took her in. Quilted Barbour jacket, clean wellingtons. She slipped behind a low wooden desk, passed him a form and pen and consulted an iMac. Its modernism jarred with the bulk-bought chintz which littered the walls.
‘You’re with us for five days. I’ve put you in the front room. It overlooks the car park, but you’re up high enough to catch the view down to the valley.’
She sounded vaguely local, with a silver spoon. Sawyer guessed Cheshire. Probably Alderley Edge.
She watched as he filled in the form. ‘Have you come far?’
‘Sheffield. Train from London yesterday. Stayed at a friend’s place last night.’
‘I can’t place your accent. I’m normally good with accents.’
Sawyer paused and looked up. ‘I was born in Wardlow.’
‘Ah. The High Peak.’
Sawyer smiled and handed the form back. ‘Almost. Just on the edge.’
Jenny signed everything off and ushered him through to a large dining room with small individual tables buried beneath saggy, patterned tablecloths. Cheap chandelier, fireplace stuffed with flowers, pleated pelmets, fusty old plate cabinet, dreary watercolours. The place was around twenty years overdue for an upgrade, but it didn’t need to change. Like most of the places inside England’s tourist enclaves, it was a mock baroque flophouse in service to the surroundings.
A young couple were seated near the tall, gable end window, looking out to the sylvan fields which sloped down to Dovedale and Sawyer’s childhood wonderworld: the Manifold Valley. As Sawyer and Jenny entered, the man glanced up, then returned to his book; the woman acknowledged Jenny, then looked at Sawyer and smiled, holding his gaze for a few seconds before turning to the window.
Jenny hailed the couple with a wave.
Sawyer noted the long, cloth-covered side table: empty but for the stacks of plates and bowls. ‘Any chance of some breakfast?’
Jenny winced in sym
pathy. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed it. Would you like some tea?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘That would be great. And do you have biscuits?’
She angled her head. ‘I’m sure I can rustle up a couple of custard creams, yes. Why don’t you come and wait in the library? You could take it in there, then go through and see your room?’
Jenny led Sawyer through to a gloomy lounge where a velveteen sofa faced a leather-topped coffee table stacked with newspapers and local activity magazines. A fire crackled in the maw of a deep hearth, throwing a shuffle of shadows across the mahogany bookcases, overloaded with unfriendly hardbacks. Sawyer browsed a few spines—Chaucer’s Poetical Works, Wide Wide World, Longfellow Illustrated—and perched on the edge of the sofa. He slid a newspaper—the Derbyshire Times—off the table and looked over the front page.
PADLEY BODY: POLICE APPEAL FOR WITNESSES
The discovery of a body in woodland at Derbyshire’s Padley Gorge has prompted police to ask for help.
The body of local teenager, Toby Manning, was discovered by a runner in the early hours of Wednesday morning. The cause of death has not been disclosed but Derbyshire police say they are treating the circumstances as suspicious.
Detective Sergeant Ed Shepherd said, ‘Padley Gorge is a popular local beauty spot and we are keen to speak to anyone who might have seen someone acting suspiciously, particularly in the area near to the Longshaw Estate Car Park and Burbage Brook.
‘A serious crime has been committed, and it’s vital that we understand what happened to Mr Manning and why. If you have any information, however—’
Sawyer stared at the story’s accompanying photograph: a young adult man, late teens, standing on the green of a golf course, kissing a small trophy.