‘From what we now know,’ she continues, ‘that was the last moment of happiness young Annie Milburn ever had. The boat she was meeting came back without her beloved Sam. And the life she was so joyfully embracing – well, that life ended the moment she reached the quayside, and saw the boats pushing ominously apart to let the Osprey tie up—’
She breaks off again, tears welling up, and Ian waits for her to collect herself. Then: ‘So she discovers that Sam’s lost overboard,’ he prompts.
‘This is the essence of karma,’ Mary explains in a steadier voice. ‘Annie was on the brink of her life as a woman, but she never experienced it properly. From the moment she saw those boats making way for the Osprey, all she knew was loss and violence. First Sam drowned, then she was herself raped and murdered. It’s my belief that this karma, this “unfinished business”, is what explains Ben’s desire to be a girl. He wants the female existence Annie was denied all those years ago – and he wants to repudiate the violent masculinity that stole it from her.’
‘Are you suggesting that all sex change cases can be explained by traumatic events in a past life?’
Mary uncrosses her legs; her feet are beginning to go numb. Damn. ‘Every case is different, obviously,’ she says. ‘With Laura, for example, the “karmic causality” – if I can call it that – is rather more straightforward.’
‘Sorry, Dr Charlton,’ Ian breaks in, ‘excuse me interrupting. I just want to remind our viewers that Laura was born a man but had a sex change about fifteen years ago. Am I right?’
‘Yes. Having committed multiple atrocities in her incarnation as Tom, Laura didn’t want anything to do with her masculine persona and embarked on a series of gender reassignment procedures in 1992. Since then she’s devoted her life to helping other men realize their ambitions to pass as women.’
‘What about hormonal influences? Isn’t it now thought that gender dysphoria – the sense that one has been born into the wrong body – is caused by an insensitivity to testosterone in the womb? So the baby’s born with a male body and a female brain?’
‘Indeed,’ Mary acknowledges. ‘And in the majority of male-to-female cases that’s probably the only explanation one needs. But as you know –’ she smiles at him – ‘these things are multiply determined. And there’s ample evidence to suggest that past life experiences can affect the body as well as the mind.’
‘Surely you’re not implying that karmic influences can cause a hormonal imbalance in the mother of an unborn baby, as way of furthering a karmic agenda?’
She sighs. Why does he always take things to their most absurd extreme? ‘No, that’s not what I’m implying – though I wouldn’t necessarily rule it out. All I’m suggesting is that certain foetuses may be unusually sensitive to hormonal anomalies, and that such sensitivity might – and I stress might – have its roots in a karmic process.’
‘But what about—’
‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ Mary says suddenly. ‘My feet have gone completely numb. Would you mind awfully if I walked around a bit to try to get the blood moving again?’
Ian frowns briefly, then waves a dismissive hand. ‘Sure, no problem,’ he says, then yells, ‘Cut, everyone! We’re taking a break. Be back here ready to start in ten.’ Then: ‘Can I bum a surreptitious fag?’ he asks, sidling up to Mary as she lights up. ‘My team disapproves – and quite rightly.’
‘I’m sorry about having to break off like that,’ she repeats, stamping her feet from side to side. ‘I should have put on some thermal long johns or something. But once it’s got that bad, I have to do something or I’ll end up in hospital.’
‘No bother. Listen, I should probably go and pay my respects to Old Ma Dixon over there. Come with me, will you? People like that terrify me.’ He pulls a face to demonstrate.
‘I’d have thought you’d be used to it by now,’ Mary comments mildly, proffering her lighter. ‘“People like that”, as you put it, are your bread and butter, aren’t they? People who’d do anything to be on television, regardless of how they’re portrayed?’
‘So why do I feel like a lamb chop in a piranha pool?’
Mary laughs. Surely he’s not expecting her to feel sorry for him? ‘You’re offering something everyone craves: recognition, acknowledgement. You’ve seen what neglected children are like – they’ll do practically anything for a bit of parental attention, even if it’s just a clip round the ear. Adults are the same; they just express it differently.’ And you exploit them, she adds silently.
‘Well thank God you didn’t suggest regressing her,’ he says exhaling smoke in three quick puffs. ‘Why didn’t you, by the way?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Mary admits. ‘It was an obvious thing to do. But it honestly never occurred to me that she had anything to do with our configuration of souls – if I can call it that. It’s entirely possible that I’m wrong, however. And it’s not too late.’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps she was Henry,’ she suggests slyly, ‘and she’s that soulmate you were looking for.’
He shudders. ‘Now you’re really scaring me,’ he says.
She watches him stub out his cigarette and switch on the charm. ‘Hey, Paul, mate! Sorry to cordon you off like this. How are you, Mrs Dixon?’
‘OK, quiet please! Now, turn!’ shouts Ian as he sits down again. ‘Dr Charlton, can you tell us something about your theory of group reincarnation?’
Mary blinks. It really is quite amazing the way Ian transforms himself in a split second from irascible director to patient attentive interviewer.
‘It’s not my theory,’ she says. ‘It’s something a number of reputable observers have noted over the years. Group reincarnation is the idea that certain communities of souls may seek one another out repeatedly, over and over, at different times. So you might find a mother reincarnated as her daughter’s son, for example; or a grandfather as his colleague’s nephew.’ She smiles as something occurs to her. ‘There is a famous Buddhist story about a man who goes fishing with his dog—’
But Ian doesn’t let her finish. ‘When you hypnotized Ben’s father,’ he says, ‘and discovered that he had been Annie’s brother Jimmy in his previous life, did that surprise you?’
‘Yes, of course it did. I’d come across such apparent coincidences before, in passing, but this was the first time I’d investigated the phenomenon of group reincarnation directly.’
‘There have been quite a few “coincidences” with this case, haven’t there?’
‘A further three that we know of so far. You’ve just filmed Laura reliving her past life as Annie’s killer – Laura is the person who introduced Ben to me. I’ve also recorded sessions with a retired local fisherman, an associate of Ben’s father, whose previous incarnation appears to be Annie’s best friend, Flo.’ Mary smiles. ‘Then there’s you, of course.’
Ian laughs and turns confidingly to the camera. ‘I should probably explain here that Dr Charlton regressed me a couple of weeks ago – at my insistence, I should add – and discovered that I also had a part to play in Annie’s short and troubled life. I’ve got the session on tape and I’ll be playing an extract later in the programme.’
‘This will probably seem very strange to your viewers,’ Mary says.
‘What, that I should turn up out of the blue to make a documentary about reincarnation, only to discover that I was caught up in the very same drama as Ben in a previous life? You have to admit it does seem unlikely.’
Mary shrugs. ‘I think it was Sherlock Holmes who remarked that when one has eliminated all the likely explanations, the remaining logical possibility – however unlikely – has to be true.’
‘But I was born and raised in Aberdeen, for God’s sake. Apart from a fortnight’s summer holiday in the sixties, I’ve never spent any time in North Shields.’
‘I’m glad you’ve mentioned your place of birth,’ Mary says – and she is: this discussion has explained something that’s been at the back of her mind ever since she regressed him. ‘What evidence th
ere is on the subject suggests that souls tend to reincarnate in the general vicinity of the place where their prior “host body” died. So Annie was murdered here in North Shields, and Ben was born in North Tyneside General – not a million miles away. In between there was another incarnation, another woman, who died in that same hospital about four months before Ben was born.’
‘So how did my soul end up in Aberdeen?’
‘Without regressing you again I can’t be sure, but I would hypothesize that at some point in your soul’s journey, you had an incarnation that travelled between North Shields and Aberdeen.’ She looks at Ian, waiting for him to come to the conclusion she’s just reached.
‘The herring fleet, of course!’ he says. ‘They sailed down from Scotland every year, following the shoals south.’ Forgetting the cameras, they grin delightedly at each other for a moment. ‘OK, let’s say for the moment you’ve convinced me,’ he says. ‘Surely by telling me that, you’ve contaminated the evidence? If you hypnotize me now and I remember a life aboard some herring boat, how can I be sure it’s not because you’ve put the idea in my head?’
Mary sighs inwardly. Here we go, she thinks, mentally squaring her shoulders. Gloves off – and just when she was starting to relax too.
‘You’re right, of course,’ she admits. ‘Suggestion – hypnotic and otherwise – is a very powerful influence and incredibly difficult to eliminate from an investigation of this kind. In the end it often comes down to a balance of probabilities. In your case, for example, once I’d put you in a trance, I could ask you the name of the boat you were on – assuming we discovered that you were indeed a fisherman at some point – and who you married and when. Then we could check the various archives to see whether what you recall is supported by the historical record. As the circumstantial evidence builds up and up, it begins to seem almost perverse to question it. As I said before, once you’ve eliminated the likely, the unlikely has to be true.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
2007
Paul’s beginning to feel a bit of a twat, gawping at the filming. They’ve got them cordoned off so far away he can’t hear anything, just see Ian and that doctor sat either side of a little table they’ve brought onto the Fish Quay, like it’s the Costa Brava or something. It’s a bit like watching TV with the sound off, and bloody boring, frankly. Nana’s drinking it all in, mind, waving at some crony of hers in the crowd down the other end.
Then suddenly it’s all over, and everyone’s milling around and switching on their mobiles to take photos of the film crew, and tell all their mates – because they’ve had to turn them all off, haven’t they? So they don’t interrupt the filming.
So anyway, Paul switches his phones on too, and one of them beeps straight away to say he’s got a message. And it’s Ben, except it’s not Ben talking, it’s Skip on Ben’s phone saying the lad’s been diving and he hasn’t come up.
Paul stares at the phone. He wants to find out when Skip left the message but he can’t remember what button to press. How long has he had his phones off? Half an hour, an hour? He calls Ben’s number and listens to it ring. Nana’s saying something to him, about going over to say hello.
‘Shut up!’ he snaps as it goes onto voicemail, and there’s Ben’s voice saying to leave a message.
‘Don’t you talk to your mam like that,’ says Nana.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ he yells, and strides away from her. He’s got to think. Where’s the lad been diving? Then it comes to him: White Lady Reef. Of course, he’ll have gone looking for the kist.
Once he’s on Wanderer, it all comes into focus, cold and clear so he knows exactly what he’s got to do. He gets on the satellite phone and maydays the Coastguard, then he gets the engine ticking over and jumps ashore to find Ian. It’ll take too long to go back to the flat for his diving gear, so he’s after that nature bloke’s stuff.
Five minutes later he’s pushing off and gunning the Wanderer’s engine. Ian’s saying something, but he’s not listening. He’s just concentrating on edging out past the Tricker and the rest, and heading out to sea. He checks the fuel gauge; half full, thank God. What was Skip thinking of going out with the lad on his own?
The Coastguard radios back. They’re scrambling a Sea King. Can he tell them what happened. ‘I don’t know. I just got this voicemail. My lad was diving round the reef and he never came up. When I phoned back I couldn’t get an answer.’
The engine’s screaming at full throttle like a speedboat, the rev needle’s hovering as near to the red as Paul dares. He’s trying to think back to his diving training, how long it takes for someone to drown. It’s not knowing that’s the trouble. Maybe Skip’s jumped in and dragged the lad up to the surface but can’t get back on the boat to reach the phone. Maybe they’re just clinging on to the side, shivering.
He relaxes his shoulders a bit and tries to breathe normally. The helicopter’s on its way, the boat’s going as fast as she can. What about the diving gear? He checks over his shoulder and the nature bloke’s nearly finished getting togged up – which isn’t what Paul had planned at all. He thought it would be him going down. But now he comes to think about it, how can he? He’s the only one who can work the radar and get the boat in close enough.
Ian’s there with his camcorder out, filming away. Bastard. Has he got no sense of decency? And the doc’s there too, huddled in an old gansey it looks like; must have found it in the cabin.
Paul feels a surge of anger building in his chest. If it wasn’t for bloody Ian, if he hadn’t been so dead set on going with that other boat, Ben wouldn’t have needed to go looking for the body. And the doc too, digging her oar in, messing with everyone’s heads.
How long will the Sea King take to get there from – where is it? – RAF Boulmer? How long does it take someone to drown? He keeps going back to that, trying to remember. It’s longer than he thought, and longer in cold water for some reason. But it is ten minutes? Twenty? Half an hour?
A picture flashes into his mind of driving Ben to hospital that time, lad bundled up in the duvet on the front seat, face pale as death, blood soaking right through. How long had he been passed out on the kitchen floor before Paul found him? Because he’d left the lad on his own that time too, hadn’t he? Nessa had called and they’d had some stupid barny about something, God knows what, so he’d nipped out for a jar to take his mind off it.
He hears the helicopter before he sees it, a sort of throbbing buzz that could be coming from anywhere. Then he spots it, smaller than a bumble bee, heading out to sea from the north – and the speed its going, it’s obvious it’s going to get there first.
Now Paul thinks he can see old Skip’s dinghy, a flash of blue bobbing on a blue sea. ‘There she is!’ he yells, and Ian and the diving bloke start going, where? where? And it’s like watching the filming on the Fish Quay, except this film’s called ‘Sea Rescue’ or something, like one of those action documentaries they’re always showing on Channel Five. Because the helicopter’s reached the dinghy and is hovering above it, and even at this distance you can see the power of the bloody thing, the great dent it makes in the water, the spray it’s kicking up.
Now there’s something dangling: a man. They’re winching someone down to the dinghy. Paul squints, trying to see. He’s got binoculars down below somewhere but he daresn’t leave the wheelhouse to get them. Is that someone in the water? Fucking hell, the turbulence that propeller’s creating!
He blinks and tries again to focus. Yes! There’s someone hanging onto the side of the boat, just like he thought, pale hair plastered to his head. He can’t see who it is. The guy on the winch is in diving gear, thank God. He’s landed on the dinghy, and he’s fiddling about with something. Now he’s going in, he’s going in…
‘He’s going in!’ someone shouts behind him. It’s Ian pointing the camera at the helicopter.
‘Has that thing got a zoom?’ Paul yells – but of course it has. ‘Who’s hanging on to the side?’ he shouts. ‘Can you see?�
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Keeping his eye on the viewfinder, Ian shouts something to Mary and she makes her way towards Paul, clinging to the rig, the pulleys, the wires. ‘Sorry, Paul. The man clinging to the boat is Mr Skipper. It seems Ben’s still in the water.’
Paul looks at his watch, but the numbers don’t make any sense. He’s no idea how long it’s been, how long since he got the message, how long it’s taken him to get this far. Nearer now, he can see that of course it’s old Skip clinging to the boat – and he’s in a bad way by the looks of it.
His satellite phone rings and he clicks on, and it’s some bloke on the helicopter telling him to keep away.
‘But it’s my lad down there!’
‘I know you must be concerned, sir, but it’s in our hands now. You have to trust that we know what we’re doing.’
Paul throttles back and lets the Wanderer surge forwards on her own momentum for a while, then stabilizes her on the spot, his eyes fixed on the water where the diver went in, at the winch line loosely swaying in the air.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ yells Ian. ‘Can’t you get any closer?’
The line straightens and tightens; seconds later the diver breaks the surface with Ben in his arms and is winched up into the helicopter.
‘Ben!’ Paul shouts.
Was he moving? Was that his feet kicking?
The phone rings again. ‘Is he alive?’
‘We’re administering CPR, sir, but I’m afraid it doesn’t look good. Lad’s been in the water a long time. We’re going to winch the old man on board then take them both to North Tyneside General.’
On the way to the hospital, all Paul can think about is the sight of Ben dangling from that harness, fins trailing, like a fish on a line. And he looks so small, just a tiddler, too young to be caught.
At the A&E it’s fucking chaos, of course. People all over the shop: drunk blokes, stupid old ladies, kids. He barges past them at Reception and shouts at the woman there asking where they’ve taken Ben, but she won’t say. Tells him to take a seat, for fuck’s sake. Take a bloody seat!
Herring Girl Page 53