Beneath the Tor

by Nina Milton

  “Is this why you’ve come to me today?” I asked eventually. “Because the doctor couldn’t help you?”

  Her eyes filmed with tears, but she held her mouth firm.

  “I’d better let you know my rates, and how I work. And I’ll ask you to fill out the form I have, just a general info and health check. Okay?”

  She managed a nod. I got up from the sofa to fetch the papers without looking back. I took my time doing this, because Laura had started crying properly; silent sobs were choking out of her.

  I came back with a big box of tissues and the paperwork. I explained my fees to Laura as she mopped her eyes. She seemed calmer after her good cry; she concentrated on what I was saying and happily filled out my questionnaire.

  “I won’t ask for a fee this visit,” I said. “You were distraught when you made the decision to come today, and you may very well decide a more regular treatment is better for you.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Okay; I’m betting your doctor told you that you were having panic attacks.”

  “I get pains in my chest, everything. I can feel my heart beating!” She tapped her hand on her breast bone, a fast rhythm that was close to the speed of the drumming on the Tor. “I get awful sick. I vomit, sometimes.”

  “I know that sounds physical, but these things could still be related to a full-blown panic attack.”

  “I don’t have anything to panic over!”

  We both thought about that. I asked her about life in the Royal Navy, how close to action she’d got, what sort of boats she’d been on. At some point in her career, I was betting, she’d been terrified and the feeling hadn’t left her.

  “I loved my job,” she said, in reply. “I was never afraid as a rating—not like this. Not sickening fear over nothing.”

  “I’m just wondering if the fear comes after or before the rest of the attack. Perhaps there’s an element of anticipation?”

  She bowed her head. “That’s what the doctor said.”

  “Coming to me needn’t interfere with what your doctor might recommend. There’s medication, and some good techniques you can learn if you see a psychotherapist.” Laura had no job; she was probably not well off and she could ask for Cognitive Therapy on the NHS. I could teach Laura those techniques myself (my counselling certificate gave me plenty of practice), but I wouldn’t want to take her money unless she was sure.

  “My friend said you were good. She’s had massages with you and said she’d really trust you.”

  “That’s kind.” I let out a long breath then explained how I would travel as a shaman into her otherworld to search for the deeper problems that had given rise to her symptoms. “Finding out what triggered this might be a tremendous help. And seeing as it started when you were abroad and at work, once you’ve discovered the trigger, you’ll probably be able to totally dismiss the fears about it.”

  “Do you think?”

  I looked at her carefully. “That’s one possible scenario, Laura. Only the spirits know what the others might be.”

  “Okay.” She took her mobile out of her jeans’ back pocket and examined it, as if it might ring at any second. It was switched off.

  “If you want to call anyone, you could go into the therapy room to give you some privacy.”

  “There’s no one I want to ring.”

  I had a sudden thought. “Did you tell you parents you were coming here?” I watched her gaze swivel away from me and knew I’d guessed right. “Do you think you should let them know?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “No. ’Course not.” I gave her a broad grin and hoped it didn’t look too false. “Maybe this is enough for one day, though. At our next appointment, we can start working properly. If you’ve got anything on you now that might help me journey into your otherworld, that would help us both.”

  “On me?”

  “Yeah, like anything you might carry that really means something to you, that you wouldn’t mind me having for a while.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something that represents the inner you. A little object that has a nice memory, or something you wear constantly, perhaps.”

  Laura looked at her hands. They were bare of rings, and her neck looked bare of chains The little hoop earrings were her only jewellery. “I might have something at home.”

  “Okay, next time will do.”

  “Could I come again tomorrow?”

  “That seems rather quick, Laura.”

  “Don’t you have any appointment time tomorrow?”

  I shifted my position, crossing my legs. I had plenty of time tomorrow. “Okay. We could say eleven, if you like.”

  “Eleven it is. Thank you.”

  I leaned and grasped her fidgeting hands. “You can see your doctor as well as me, Laura. It won’t affect what we do together. Being calmer will only help. I’m more long-term. After all, you don’t want to be on tablets for too long.”

  “Yeah.” It was hard to catch Laura’s gaze, but finally she looked at me. “Tracey was right; you’re really nice.”

  “But I’m not cheap, am I?”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got money saved.” She gave a proper smile. “It’s easy to save when you’re in the Royal Navy.”

  Once Laura had gone, I went into the therapy room and started a notebook for her. I put down everything everything we’d talked through, but also the impressions I’d picked up; all those presentiments that passed through my mind. I sat, thinking about Laura Munroe. She’d managed to pack a lot of life into twenty years. At her age, I’d only just got going. Somewhere along the way, she’d encountered something that was making her life unbearable. It’s always horrid if you don’t know why you feel the way you do. When I’d squeezed her hands, I’d been hoping for a more subtle contact with her energies, but all I got was what I’d already worked out from her body language: tense, vaguely unhappy, defensive. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin.

  I copied her next appointment into my phone and clipped her questionnaire into her file. She’d truthfully listed the symptoms she’d spoken of. Apart from that, she seemed perfectly healthy.

  Like Alys.

  My central candle was still flaming, strong and steady. I blew it out, thinking of Alys. She’d danced like a demon all night, full of vigour, exploding with joy. Then she’d dropped to the ground, as if she’d worn enchanted slippers which had danced away her life.

  I picked up my phone and dialled for Wolfsbane. “Hi, Wolfs. How are things?”

  “Things are shit. Brice phoned me. Apparently there will have to be an inquest and as next of kin, he can call witnesses.”

  “That might be so.”

  “He wants to call me.”

  “Does he know about the problems with the flying tea?”

  “There are no problems with the flying tea, right?”

  “What about Stefan?”

  “What about him?”

  “Something went on between the two of you, after the Tor. You were at each other’s—”

  “Sabbie. Don’t talk about that now. It’s over. Forgotten.”

  “Wasn’t it about … you know … the tea?”

  “It was about his rental fees. The man’s crazy if he thinks he can charge over the odds at a time like this, when there’s precious few bookings.”

  “We ought to get together and talk about doing the workshop.”

  “Okay, Sabbie. One thing will be different though.”

  “What?”

  “We won’t be using Stonedown Farm.”

  I wished I’d spent more time with Brice Hollingberry while he was at Stonedown Farm. Wished I hadn’t been put off by his shiny new car and the way he’d carried a laptop bag up to his room, as if he didn’t intend to leave work behind him. Now it almost felt too late, as if I shouldn�
�t poke my nose into his desperate business.

  In the end I put my reservations to one side and rang him.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Sabbie Dare here, Brice. How are you?”

  “I’m … er … I’m good, thank you.”

  “I just wanted to ring to say how dreadfully sorry I am about Alys.”

  “Oh, I should say thanks to you. You were the one that phoned the ambulance, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. Brice … I hope you’ve got your family there, supporting you.”

  “Yeah, my mum and dad are staying. And Alys’s parents, well, they’ve gone back now, but they’ll be, yeah, I guess, in touch, you know? There’s a lot to sort out. A lot to do.”

  “Brice, I’m so, so sorry. It was—she was—”

  “It sucks, Sabbie. It fucking sucks.”

  “If I can help, please tell me. I know I’m miles away, but is there anything I can do?”

  “Er, no … not anything. Well, yes, actually. You could come to the inquest. Apparently it will just open and adjourn, but I want to be there and I don’t think my parents fancy the long trip in one day and my mates will be working. I wouldn’t say no to some local support. It’s going to be held at Wells.”

  “Okay. I can do that. When is it?”

  “Friday at midday. Do you know Wells?”

  “A bit. I can’t think where inquests are held, but I can find out and meet you there.”

  “Thanks, Sabbie, I appreciate that.”

  “It will be nice to see you, Brice.”

  He hung up then. I hadn’t expected him to say it would be nice to see me.

  I laid my mobile flat on the kitchen working top and stared at it. I felt shaky as I thought of Brice, of being left without the one you love, the one you thought you’d be with always.

  I remembered how Alys had sat up in bed, ill with cramps before going up the Tor. Her head had seemed a bit too big for her body, and the skin across her cheekbones had shone, as though it was stretched and thin. I’d brought her blister packs of painkillers from Esme’s bathroom cabinet. She’d taken two ibuprofen and clipped the rest of the packet into the purse on her bed. Could that be part of the possible causes of her death? Probably it was nothing at all.

  A nausea welled up in me. Death was like stage magic, it seemed. Poof! and you’re gone—solid matter, flesh, bone, pulsating blood. So horribly vulnerable to attack. So easy to destroy.

  seven

  rey

  At almost nine that night, Rey turned up with a couple of take-away curries, lentil for me, beef for him. I watched Rey has he unwrapped the food, lining the naan bread, yogurts, and pickles up on the coffee table, savouring him as if he was part of the goodies. A heavyweight kind of guy, with finger-width, shrew-colour hair clipped tight, his scalp showing pale beneath. The lights were dim and his eyes looked their greenest; they flashed at me as he straightened from the coffee table. I took a step towards him and put my hand on the day’s growth of beard. It felt as bristly as a teasel. My head reached his chin, and I had to lean back to touch his cheek. As I did so, he drove his arms round me and kissed my mouth, hard, urgent, long, and rough.

  “Food’ll get cold,” I pointed out, a problem we’d encountered before.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  We poured the wine and chose a TV channel and snuggled up on the sofa with our plates. It was bliss; an hour of normality. I didn’t even mention Alys, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her and Brice, and the aborted workshop.

  The ten o’clock news came on the telly and the realization came over me that the headline might be Death on Glastonbury Tor! I zapped it off.

  “Hey, I was watching that!”

  “I’ve got something I want to talk about.”

  “What?”

  “The solstice?”

  There was a pause. Rey was a policeman—he didn’t like questions he couldn’t readily answer. “That was … yesterday, yeah?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to be in Glastonbury for the next three days.”

  Another pause. “You’re back early?’

  A little screw of anger drove into my belly. He hadn’t noticed I was home early, that I was not my usual chatty self.

  “Sorry, Sabbie. I should have realized.”

  Apologies always disarm me. The anger slipped away and I felt like crying. “Didn’t you hear in the station? About the Tor … as the sun came up?”

  “No.” He sat up straight. “Criminal activity? Don’t tell me your friend Wolfsbane was involved.”

  “A girl died.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t know. She just … dropped.”

  “Hell. And you witnessed that?”

  “She was there with her husband, Brice. They’re Londoners, in their thirties. Bankers. Pretty loaded.”

  “You knew her?”

  “She was a member of the workshop, Rey. Someone new, as well. We cancelled the entire thing.”

  “Don’t you have any idea why she died?”

  “She was fit, underweight if anything, certainly not the sort who’d have a heart problem. And she was having fun! Dancing, laughing …”

  “Drinking?”

  “No. Well, not unless her sports bottle was full of vodka. She said it was isotonic stuff.”

  “That’s a shitty thing to happen.”

  “I wondered if they’d be doing a postmortem.”

  “Perhaps. This doesn’t sound like a suspicious death, so the police wouldn’t be directly involved. And it’s outside my patch.”

  “Brice said the inquest would be in Wells.”

  “That sounds right. The coroner’s court have their own co-oped police department to investigate such things—or rather, the word I should use is enquire. They don’t investigate, as such.”

  “Wolfsbane said that Brice can choose who gives evidence at the inquest.”

  “Now that’s not the case. Only the coroner can summon witnesses, and anyone so summoned must attend if they live in this country. They’d listen to what Brice had to say about the circumstances and if he mentioned Wolfsbane as an interested party—”

  “Interested ?”

  “Someone who might have information relevant to the death.”

  “No one really knows what’s relevant yet.”

  “People do know, Sabbie. They know if they’ve done wrong, or if they saw something untoward.”

  He pulled me into his chest and I rested my forehead on his jumper. I’d bought him that jumper for his birthday in May. It was a Fair Isle pattern and very warm. I didn’t think Rey looked after himself in his cold, bare, rather grubby flat. I sobbed into the complex pattern, wondering if the colours might run. Rey found a hanky in his trouser pocket and dabbed at the wetness around my eyes.

  “Brice has asked me to go with him to the inquest,” I said, sniffing. “I was surprised to be asked. He must have tons of people he knows better than me.”

  “He’s taking advice. He’ll have spoken the liaison officer, they always recommend someone not directly involved—emotionally involved, I mean. He’ll need someone like that when the inquest is resumed and all the evidence is heard.”

  “When will that be?”

  “They have to gather their findings. It could be six weeks. Complex cases can be six months.”

  “That’s awful. You’d want it over and done, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s like everything else, Sabbie, there’s a shortage of staff and a waiting list.”

  I wondered if Brice had realized this, and if I was going to be the one that would have to explain.

  “How long do toxicology reports take?”

  He gave me the look I knew so well. “So she had taken drugs.”

  “She didn’t honestly look the type, but they were all over the Tor. There w
ere people screaming out, asking who had what.” It was possible drugs were all over Stonedown Farm, but I kept that to myself.

  “Sounds like death by misadventure to me.”

  I’d always loved that word. Misadventure. It summoned up nineteenth-century explorers in pith helmets, striking out through unknown jungle territory, or people dangling off mountains by ropes. Now I knew what it meant. The death of someone dancing.

  Dancing, dropping, dying.

  Misadventure.

  “Brice sounded very stoic. Probably bankers are. They try not to let their feelings be shown, or at least known.”

  “Bankers don’t have any feelings at all.”

  “What, like policemen, you mean?”

  He laughed. “No, not like us. We’re full of feelings, us. It’s why there are guidelines to good policing nowadays. Because we used to let our feelings show …” He trailed off.

  I lifted my head from his jumper and stared at him. His mouth was a straight line, the lips sucked to thinness.

  “What is it, Rey?”

  “God, nothing. You’ve got your own worries.”

  “Don’t be daft.” I sat properly up. “Here’s me going on about this and I didn’t even pick up that there’s something wrong. There is, isn’t there?”

  “Not at all. I just hate corruption cases. The evidence is all over the shop … what one person said to another person, overheard by someone else about what some burke expected to be paid … And Pippa likes to play things by the book, which I can understand, but the old ways were … well, quicker, if nothing else.”

  “You’re a maverick cop. Can’t change that.”

  “An old dog who likes the old tricks.”

  “That’s my Rey.” I backtracked through several beats. “Who’s Pippa?”

  “She’s the new DS.”

  “You didn’t mention you had a new Detective Sergeant.”

  “Must have. They’ve finally replaced Gary Abbott.”

  “Pippa as in …”

  “Philippa, I suppose. Pippa she likes to be called. Pippa Chaisey.”

  “Good name for a cop. I chaisey the baddies.” I was summoning up images of Pippa Chaisey, chasing the baddies, and in my mind, her big breasts flopped as she ran on legs that went up to her polished uniform buttons. I tried dismissing this fantasy from my mind. With any luck, she scraped her hair into a bun and had a complexion like a Worcester apple.