‘I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.’
She takes a deep sigh and leans on the table.
‘Everything you felt after seeing that photograph, I felt after seeing Morag and Heathcliff. Euphoria at first, watching everyone like they were stars, and then the next day, the panic when I realised I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t go outside for days. My head pounded, I was hungry all the time, I didn’t want to leave my room in case I saw someone. The only people I could be around were Morag and Heathcliff, and I screamed at them for doing this to me.’
‘And why did they do it?’
‘They weren’t trying to hurt me. Morag sat me down one day — just like I’m doing with you now — and explained. She was trying to help Heathcliff find something he had lost. She told me she knew who I was, and that soon I would know her too. It was then that I started to remember.’
‘Remember what?’
She pauses, her eyes glimmering with fear.
‘Other lives.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was only one or two at first, then tens, hundreds.’
‘Other lives?’
‘I lost count. They just kept coming, one after the other, each one as bright as the last. Some were from only a few years ago, some were from centuries in the past, and others were from times and places I couldn’t place.’
‘Hang on a minute, are you trying to suggest —’
‘And then finally, I remembered. One life. One particular life. And that was when I knew why Morag and Heathcliff were here. I knew who they were. I knew who I had been.’
‘Please,’ I say, raising a hand. I’m finding this extremely difficult, and I have to close my eyes against what I’m about to say. ‘Please, just so I’m clear, are you talking about reincarnation?’
‘Yes.’
‘You believe you’ve lived before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aha, and you believe I may have lived before too.’
‘I honestly wish I didn’t, but yes.’
‘The boy in the photograph.’
She leans forward with that look again, trying to will me on.
‘Not just him.’
I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe a sigh.
‘And I suppose nothing about this strikes you as odd? You didn’t wonder why some old tramp and his gypsy whore had turned up out of the blue waving a magic photograph under your nose? You didn’t wonder what their angle was?’
‘Angle?’
‘Whether they were trying to trick you?’
‘How would they be trying to trick me?’
‘I don’t know, hypnosis, suggestion, mind control, whatever.’
‘I was a whore once,’ says a cool voice from the door. The white-haired girl is standing there, swaying lightly with her hands clasped. ‘But he’s no tramp. He’s a traveller, and he’s travelled a long way to find you, Elliot.’
Being famous, you get used to people saying your name before you’ve had a full introduction. But something in the way she says Elliot — it freezes my spine like rigging in a blizzard.
‘For what reason?’ I demand, fighting the fear.
The weave of her cardigan hisses with a long, slow shrug.
‘Excellent,’ I say, leaning back and folding my arms. ‘Just great.’
‘It’s not working, Morag,’ says Zoe.
Morag keeps her eyes on me.
‘Give it time. It will.’
My foot begins to tap.
‘So I suppose you can do it too, right? See inside people’s heads?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not that I have the faintest idea what that has to do with fucking reincarnation.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Right, right’ — my foot tap gains momentum — ‘and er, what’s your role in this, then, this little enterprise of yours, hmm?’
‘Heathcliff found me first, and I’m helping him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he needs help. And he was my trigger. There’s always a trigger, you see. A picture, or a piece of music, or a person, or —’
‘Trigger, right, and, er, how did he find you, then, this Heathcliff?’
A smile creeps onto her face, full of secrecy.
‘Something put us together. A force beyond our ken, an inexplicable connection.’
She has an Irish lilt, and she speaks these last words as if they are poetry. I look her up and down, this girl. She has an ungrounded, airy way about her, and I imagine she knows her way around a joss stick.
But there’s also something else — that terrible familiarity creeping through me. She takes a step closer, smiling, sensing it.
‘Don’t you believe in connections, Elliot?’
Another chill down my neck, something in the way she says my name, as if…
‘Don’t you think that sometimes we’re just thrown together?’
‘No.’
Foot still tapping. Faster now.
‘Don’t you think that you’re part of something bigger than —’
‘No. No, I don’t think any of those things and I don’t like the idea of forces beyond my ken. In fact, I prefer all of the forces in my life to be well within my fucking ken, thank you very much, so tell me, please, where did you get that picture?’
She frowns and cocks her head.
‘From Heathcliff, of course.’
‘Right, and he told you what to do, did he? He, er, speaks then, does he, this old relic?’
She blinks, startled.
‘No, we have a much more powerful method of communication.’
‘Yes, of course. Of course you do. Of course you fucking do.’
Foot’s going like the clappers now.
‘Elliot,’ she says, bringing fresh icicles to my already glacial spinal column. ‘There’s really nothing to be afraid of. All you have to do is open your mind…’
That’s it. One last tap and I’m done, up on my feet.
‘Fuck. Off.’
Morag’s face hardens. She shakes her head.
‘Elliot, you…’
‘Morag,’ warns Zoe.
‘You always were…’
‘Morag, no.’
As they share a look I cannot decipher, I hold up my hands.
‘I mean it, fuck off, I’ve had enough, I’m leaving. You’re insane, delusional and I’m out of here, BYEEEE.’
I go to leave, but Morag, her composure regained, blocks my path.
‘Are you sure about that, Elliot? Are you sure we’re delusional?’
‘Get out of my way.’
She takes a step closer, her left hand drifting to the table.
‘What about photographs? Do you believe in them? Can a photograph make you…’
She turns the photograph faceup.
‘…delusional.’
I back away as Zoe picks it up. She gives Morag a look that makes her retreat a step or two, then she turns on me. Her eyes glisten in the candlelight.
‘Let me guess, Elliot. When you were a child you had dreams that felt like someone else’s. You knew people you’d never seen, places you’d never visited. And then something amazing happened. For a few moments, you experienced life as someone else, and it was terrifying. Then it happened again, and again, and again, until it became a part of you.’
I challenge her with an unconvincing grin.
‘You’re just trying to scare me. It won’t work.’
‘I can tell you how you felt when you saw this. You saw this boy, this little boy pointing at something, and a feeling washed over you and flooded your head with memories that weren’t yours, although you felt them as brightly and as keenly as if they had all happened yesterday.’
She takes a step towards me, defying me to deny it.
‘And then all of a sudden the world seemed different. It was as if a veil had been lifted and everyone was laid bare. And that thing you’ve been able to do all your life, that thing that’s impossibl
e but that you can still do, became something else entirely.’
This isn’t real. I keep telling myself: This isn’t real.
‘You started seeing people as they really were, like you were no longer locked inside yourself.’ She follows me, matching my steps as I edge for the wall. Her eyes are wide. ‘It’s a wonderful feeling. You feel free.’
It has to be a trick. I want it to stop.
‘No…’
‘Free of yourself.’
‘Stop.’
‘Free as light. This wonderful feeling of unity with everything.’
I’m shaking. My hands reach the wall. She stops, inches from my face.
‘Does that sound familiar?’
I push past her, hitting her square in the shoulder. As I do I get a sense of her submitting to the impact almost before I have made contact, slinking away as though the threat of violence has triggered a long-rehearsed routine of submission. She stumbles back. The walls shudder around me. I can’t see properly.
‘Why are you doing this to me? What do you want?’
Regaining her footing, she touches an exploratory hand to her shoulder. Feeling no damage, she turns to face me again.
‘But then, this wonderful feeling, this feeling that you cannot explain, became something else again.’
She walks towards me again, slow steps, holding the photograph up, shaking.
‘Now the feeling controls you. You see inside people whether you want to or not. You want it to stop, you pray for it to stop, but it won’t. Who’s the little boy, Elliot? What’s he pointing at?’
‘Get away from me!’
‘Tell me that I’m insane. Tell me that I’m delusional again.’
She holds the photograph in my face. I try to speak, willing my head to shake, but I’m paralysed. Suddenly there’s a groaning noise from the other room, and Morag turns her head.
‘Heathcliff.’ She dashes away, leaving Zoe and I facing each other in the corner. Zoe speaks again, quietly this time.
‘And tell me you’ve not felt it before.’
My shoulders slump and I take the picture. The boy looks back at me from a century ago. I know his face. I know his thoughts. I can feel that collar scratching my neck, smell the spittle on his mother’s handkerchief.
‘Even if I have. You still haven’t told me what you want. Why do you need me? What are trying to achieve.’
‘Heathcliff is searching for something. It’s important to him, and it’s important to all of us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we were all together once. You, me, Morag, Heathcliff — we all shared something important. Morag and I can remember, but not everything. We need you to help us join the dots. Like I said: Of all the people I could have chosen to share this with, believe me, you’re not the one. But we are where we are. This picture, Elliot: It’s your trigger, your route into a much deeper memory, full of lives, and of one life in particular.’
‘So why don’t you just tell me what that one life is?’
‘I told you, I can’t. It’s not how it works. You have to remember for yourself. That’s the only way you’ll help Heathcliff.’
‘Why? Why should I help any of you? You’re strangers.’
A sad smile flickers on her face.
‘I think you know that’s not true. But I promise you that if you help us then I’ll help you regain control. So if you won’t do it for us or Heathcliff, then do it for yourself.’
Morag arrives back, and Zoe and I become suddenly aware that she is gripping my arm. She yanks it away and steps back.
‘He’s awake,’ says Morag. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Well, Elliot?’ says Zoe.
I look between them.
‘If this is true, if you can do what I can do, then do it with me. Get inside my head and tell me what I’m thinking.’
‘I can’t,’ says Zoe. ‘And I’ll bet you can’t do me either, or Morag, or Heathcliff.’
I notice for the first time that she’s right.
‘I still want proof.’
Morag beams and steps forward, placing a battered baseball cap on my head.
‘Good. Heathcliff’s hungry. Let’s get breakfast.’
I KNOW
Cornwall, 1940
THE KEROSENE LAMP ROARED and putted and the four children stood, cocooned in its light, rooted to the bracken by fear and fascination. Eventually Poppy, regaining her canine urges, stood up. She padded over and pushed her snout to the torn silk that lay across the man. Warm clouds puffed from her nose as she sniffed it up and down.
‘What is that?’ asked Lucy, barely whispering.
‘It’s a parachute,’ said James. ‘He must have fallen.’
James traced his eyes along the ragged tear in the sheet. Then he looked up at the dark tangle of branches above, imagining the feeling of hitting one after the other with shoulders, back, face.
‘He’s not moving,’ said Lucy. ‘Why is he not moving?’
‘Is he dead?’ said James.
Nobody dared answer. They stared down at the mess of scabs and stubble that was the man’s face. His forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat, and a deep cut drew down from one eye, dark with congealed blood. James watched, waiting for some sign of life — at once willing it on and wishing it away.
‘We should check,’ said Rupert at last.
Lucy made a noise and darted behind her brother’s back, grabbing his fingers for comfort. Her fearless abandon had gone — now she was a little girl standing in the middle of a dark forest, waiting for a strange body to move or stay deathly still. Both outcomes were horrifying.
‘It’s all right, Lucy, it’s all right,’ said Rupert.
James felt a pit in his stomach. Minutes ago he had been about to strike his little brother for nothing more than telling stories. But Billy was only eight, and he was afraid and missing his mother. It wasn’t his fault they had been sent out here, or that he didn’t understand about wars and bombs and evacuations. James had been given one job alone — to look after his little brother until they were allowed to return home to London. Be kind and take care of him: That had been his mother’s wish.
Feeling useless and cruel, he reached out a hand for Billy, but he was no longer there. He was standing right over the man.
‘He’s not dead,’ said Billy. ‘He’s cold. He’s extremely cold.’
He reached across the heap of fabric and string.
‘No,’ said James. He leaped to pull his brother back, but before he could the fabric suddenly shook as the man gave a shudder. Poppy yelped and shot back through the brambles. Lucy squealed and shrank farther behind Rupert. Billy sprang back into his brother’s arms and they all edged farther away. The man’s eyes were wide open — white rimmed with black centres staring up at the sky through which he had fallen. His back stiffened, raising his torso from the forest floor and spreading out his arms as if his ribcage was being hoisted by some unseen force. He released a single, hideous groan that rose with the arch of his spine. Then, as his lungs emptied, the noise became nothing more than a dry crackle in the man’s throat, and he fell back to the ground.
He blinked, and James tightened his grip on his brother. The man breathed short breaths and looked up at the tree. James imagined him trying to piece things together, joining up fragmented memories like a smashed jigsaw. He didn’t seem to be aware of their company, or of the halo of lamplight around him.
When it had been quiet like this for some time, Lucy moved her head, peeping around Rupert’s waist. In doing so she snapped a slender twig beneath her boot, and the man turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. Lucy squeaked again and retreated back behind her brother. The man looked up at Rupert, then at Billy, and finally at James. His eyes locked upon him, and although the light was dim, James was certain he saw a change in the man’s expression. It was as if he had recognised him.
You, he seemed to say. You.
But then his eyes rolled up and the lids flickered
shut, and his head fell to one side. It was quiet again, and the four children were back to standing in the forest, not knowing what to do.
Just then, Poppy barked from far away. They turned and, farther in the distance, they heard the sound of Mr Sutton’s voice calling. Rupert took a breath.
‘Da,’ said Lucy.
‘We’d better go,’ said Rupert.
It was pitch black when they arrived back, and Mr Sutton was waiting for them in the yard. The porch lamp cast a long, twisted shadow of his face on the green door. Rupert stopped when he saw his father, and James could tell he was trembling.
‘Da! Poppy ran off,’ said Lucy. ‘She was in the woods, she, she…’
As Lucy spluttered to speak, Mr Sutton had already made four quick strides across the yard and grabbed the lamp from Rupert’s hand.
‘Da, there’s—’ began Rupert.
But his father’s hand was high. It swiped and landed a sharp scuff on the back of his head. Rupert stumbled forward, silent, and held a hand to his neck. Lucy’s mouth snapped shut. She stared up at her father, still as a doll.
Mr Sutton looked between James and Billy, and for a moment James thought he was about to deliver them a similar punishment. He knew what he should do. He should move in front of his brother. He should protect him. But he felt his feet shuffle away, widening the gap between him and the other three as if the distance would protect him. He saw Billy’s confused face as he moved and stood, waiting, enduring the strange gut-churn of fear and self-preservation overwhelming his guilt.
‘Chicken shed’s not clean,’ said Mr Sutton at last. He returned the lamp to Rupert and stormed off in the direction of the wood store. Poppy sprang to his heels, but received a heavy boot to her rump. She yelped and limped into the shadows.
‘Poppy!’ Lucy ran to the dog’s side.
When Mr Sutton had gone, Rupert straightened from his stoop.
‘Are you all right, Rupert?’ said Billy.
‘I’m fine. Come on.’
He led them back to the chicken shed, but as he passed, James saw two clear lines through the dirt on his cheeks.
‘We have to tell them,’ said Lucy. She was scrubbing a small section of wall whilst the other three brushed the ground. It was freezing cold, and the air was filled with the fog of their breath. They worked as quickly as they could, as much to keep themselves warm as to get the job done. James watched his brother shivering, hardly making a difference with his pathetic brush scrapes. ‘About the man.’
The Other Lives Page 11