by Jane Holland
Something clicks in my head. My mother disappears.
I struggle to get her back, to rebuild that half-forgotten face in my memory, suffering an almost intolerable sense of loss. Yet after only a few more seconds I can’t even recall what I’ve lost.
My mind begins to empty and I find myself floating in the silence.
Light burns against my closed lids.
I am aware of a strong feeling of relief, as though I have been standing too long on a precipice and someone has drawn me back from the edge at last. The past begins to fade away, and reluctantly I let it go, allow myself to return to the present. Slowly I grope for my surroundings, hearing muffled voices in another room, a telephone ringing in the distance, traffic in the street below, the sounds of a busy town.
‘Wake up, Eleanor.’ The voice is insistent.
I open my eyes.
I’m lying on my back on a long, low couch. There’s a large rectangular window facing me across the immaculately tidy office, the cream blinds only pulled down partway. Afternoon sun is pouring in below the slats, filling the office with golden light. I’m dazzled at first, squinting up at the woman bending over me. There’s a momentary confusion, then I remember.
Not my mother. No longer the dream but reality. All the same, her face is familiar. Familiar and unsettling at the same time.
I study her face, my eyes adjusting to the light. Honey-brown hair, neatly cut in an easily manageable bob about an oval face, a trace of face powder and pink lipstick, tiny creases about her mouth and eyes.
Dr Quick.
‘Welcome back.’ She studies me closely, eyes narrowed on my face. ‘How are you feeling, Eleanor? Any headache? Dizziness? Nausea?’ When I shake my head to each of these questions, she straightens. ‘Good, that’s very good.’
I sit up groggily. ‘What happened?’
My throat is dry, a bad taste on my tongue. I turn blindly, reaching for the glass of water she always used to place at my elbow during these hypnosis sessions. It’s not there.
‘Oh, sorry. Water?’ The doctor leans forward and hands it to me. ‘Give yourself a minute. Try not to hurry.’
I remember Dr Quick from my childhood as an uber-friendly doctor, habitually clad in a colourful wool cardigan, soft-voiced, always cracking little jokes to put me at my ease. Today she is sombre in dove-grey and black, the small red-jewelled brooch pinned to her blouse her only concession to colour.
‘I’m fine.’ I take a few sips, then replace the water glass carefully. I’m aware of a slight tremor in my hand. ‘Did the hypnosis work? What did I say?’
‘You don’t remember?’
I shake my head, though I do remember vaguely. Snippets of dream-memory, flashing images, half-truths. Nothing I can quantify, and certainly nothing I can take to the police.
Her mouth tightens. She retreats to her desk, sitting in her black leather swivel chair, and looks down at her notes. ‘That’s a pity. I was hoping to be able to discover the root cause of your nightmares by probing your memories outside hypnosis. For instance, when we talked earlier, you mentioned a “shadow man” you see at night sometimes, standing at the foot of your bed.’
‘Yes.’
‘I asked you to identify it during the session, to give the “shadow man” a name of some kind. You didn’t seem very cooperative. I’m still not sure what that signifies. But I would suggest it’s some kind of hangover from the day of your mother’s murder.’
I can’t hold her gaze. Maybe the sun behind her head is too bright. I look down, study my hands in silence. That was the one thing I had hoped to achieve with this hypnosis therapy. Saying goodbye to the shadow man who still haunts me. Though Dr Quick also refers to it as ‘childhood trauma manifesting as ritual superstition’ which means little to me.
But then she’s not the one who wakes up in the middle of the night to find a faceless shadow looming over her bed.
‘So there’s nothing new,’ I state flatly.
‘I’m afraid not. There was nothing you didn’t already say in your original sessions, according to my notes. Except perhaps …’ Dr Quick hesitates a beat. ‘Well, there was a single detail that seemed out of place.’
I look up, interested. ‘Tell me.’
‘First, you need to understand that what a person says under hypnosis is unlikely ever to be admissible in a court of law. But that does not mean it isn’t factual, that it doesn’t represent the truth as your subconscious sees it.’
‘You mean I could have imagined it, even if it seems true to me? But it’s still true as far as I’m concerned?’
‘Precisely.’
I push myself up into a sitting position. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Basically, your subconscious may no longer make any distinction between what you remember and what you think you remember.’ She smiles, the merest twitch of thin lips. ‘So, do you still want to hear what you said?’
I swing my legs round and sit up properly on the couch. My mobile, switched to vibrate, is a hard bulge in the back pocket of my jeans. I was asked to turn it off completely before we started, but of course didn’t. Though it would be pretty strange to experience a sudden vibrating sensation in my bottom during one of these sessions.
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll read it through from the beginning. You can draw your own conclusions.’
She reads her notes on the session in her usual flat voice, almost robotic. There’s nothing new, just as she said.
But towards the end, Dr Quick pauses and glances up at me. ‘Then you said, “I recognised the white trainers, as he ran up the slope.” That’s something new.’
‘I’ve always said he wore white trainers.’
‘Not precisely those words though.’ The doctor shuffles through the document file on her desk, then stops, picking up and studying an older transcript. ‘Yes, here it is. You’ve always mentioned seeing his white trainers, certainly. But you never before said that you “recognised” them. Not once.’
‘So I used a different word this time.’ I shrug. ‘How is that revealing?’
‘Bear in mind that I’m a hypnosis therapist, not a detective,’ Dr Quick tells me, leaning back in her chair. ‘And perhaps it means nothing at all. But the word “recognised” would suggest that you had seen those particular white trainers before. That you knew the man wearing them, in fact.’
I need to see Denzil Tremain.
Denzil is uncomplicated, and not entirely into the idea of a relationship, which makes him perfect right now. If I confide in one of my close friends – Hannah maybe, or Tris, or Connor – I’m going to end up getting an emotional response, plus the kind of heartfelt advice that sounds great late at night but isn’t worth very much when you find yourself alone again.
He understands because he’s been there. He’s got his own version of the shadow man. Only in his case, it’s a real person. His father, who has been in and out of prison most of Denzil’s life. So I’m unlikely to get much advice or sympathy from him.
But I’ll get an intelligent ear, and sometimes talking out a problem can make you see a clear solution where you were blind to it before.
Denzil has a weekend job at the Woods Valley Garden Centre. It doesn’t pay much. But with his history, he’s lucky to have any kind of gainful employment at all. He has tattoos and piercings, like thousands of other people in Cornwall, but where most flaunt a rose or a skull on one arm, Denzil has both arms covered in designs, and much of his back. His ears have multiple piercings, and last year his nose and lip were both pierced too, with a delicate chain running from one to the other. And his father’s in prison for aggravated assault at the moment. Nobody seems to know when he’ll get out.
None of that stops me from liking him. I first made friends with him shortly after my mother was killed. We were at the same school, and his dad had just been sent to prison for burglary. People pointed us both out in the playground and hassled us outside school. Even at primary school, we had a common understanding
that life was shit, and if you wanted to survive it, you had to toughen up.
Saturday morning, I head for the garden centre to see Denzil, and find him lugging immense sacks of manure from a trolley onto the display pallets.
Denzil straightens in surprise, wiping a dirt-covered hand across his face and leaving a black streak on his cheek. He’s got huge tawny hair like a lion, naturally curly. ‘Ellie? What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been calling and texting you for days, but no reply.’
He looks guilty, not meeting my gaze. ‘I did mean to call you but my phone’s been turned off. I … lost the charger cable. Sorry, you know how it is.’
I don’t believe him but say nothing. I understand how it feels not to want to communicate.
Jago leans out of the office. The boss’s son, thick-set like his father, and trying to grow a beard by the stubbly look of his chin. Another one who went to school with me. The place is crawling with them, which isn’t surprising when you consider that our school is the only one for miles.
‘Hey, Ellie,’ Jago says in his whining voice. ‘Saw that story in the newspaper about you. Shocking stuff. You must have been furious.’
His knowing smile makes my skin crawl. I look him in the eye and say, ‘Story being the operative word.’
‘Come again?’
‘She means it was a load of shit,’ Denzil says drily, and heaves another bag of manure onto the pallet. ‘Like this lot.’
Jago stares. ‘You watch your language. Or you’ll be out of a job. Talking of which, you’d better hurry up with that. You’ve got another two trolleys to unload.’
Denzil tosses the last sack of manure onto the pallet, then straightens again, wiping his hands unhurriedly on his black apron. Like me, he has always had a problem with authority.
‘I haven’t taken my break yet.’
‘So?’
‘I want to take it now.’
Jago looks from him to me, his small eyes unpleasant. ‘Like that, is it?’ But when Denzil stands looking at him, his face impassive, Jago shrugs. ‘Take your break, then. But not a minute longer than fifteen.’
Denzil unties his apron and drapes it over the empty trolley. ‘Come on,’ he says to me. ‘I know somewhere we can talk in private.’
Jago watches us go. ‘No smoking anywhere on the site, remember,’ he says, and jabs his finger towards the sign by the office door that reads in plastic gold lettering, PLEASE, NO SMOKING.
‘Jago hasn’t changed much since school,’ I remark to Denzil as soon as we’re out of earshot. ‘Sorry if I’ve caused trouble by coming here. It sounds like he’s looking for an excuse to sack you.’
‘Don’t worry about him. Jago’s only the monkey. His dad’s still in charge, and Dick knows I’m a good worker.’ Denzil winks at me. ‘When I bother to show up, that is.’
I smile. ‘Idiot.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s a small staff-only area behind the shed displays. The ground is partly paved, partly gravelled, with weeds poking out between paving stones. It’s hot and sunny today. There are some damaged stone benches set to one side, and a pot filled with soil where people have ground out sneaky cigarettes. Denzil kneels beside one of the scroll-ended benches, reaches carefully down behind it, and pulls out a sealed pouch of tobacco. Concealed inside is a pack of extra-thin rolling paper and a lighter.
He sits on the bench and gestures me to join him. The stone is warm from the sun, surprisingly comfortable. ‘Ciggie?’
‘I’ve given up.’
‘Quitter.’ He lays the tobacco pouch open on his lap and expertly starts to roll himself a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.’
‘I thought you didn’t know I’d called.’
‘Well …’ He does not elaborate on that, but licks the sticky crease of the paper, then rolls it over, sealing the thin cigarette. ‘You’re no fool, Ellie. You know I don’t like to feel tied down.’
‘I wasn’t offering.’
‘Understood. I’m glad you came to see me, anyway. How are you?’
‘Not brilliant.’
Briefly, I fill him in on what has happened. The woods, the dead body, the number three on her forehead. Being Denzil, he does not push the issue or ask further questions, but simply grunts again. That’s another reason why I like him so much. There’s never any hassle with Denzil and no need for long-winded explanations.
He lights his roll-up, blows a soft smoke-ring up into the air, and then asks casually, ‘Up for a Saturday night out, then? Something to take your mind off all that shit?’
‘Where?’
‘Newquay. There’s a beach barbecue tonight. Some of my surfer friends are going. Then we could hit the clubs, go dancing.’
‘All of them?’
He grins. ‘We don’t have to if you don’t fancy that scene. We could float the coast instead. See what else is happening.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Pick you up at six, then. At the cottage.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Denzil takes another drag on his roll-up, then offers it to me.
‘I told you, no thanks.’
He blows out the smoke, looking at me through narrowed eyes, then bends his head to kiss me.
His lips are warm, his skin rough and stubbly. I hook a hand round the back of his neck, pull him closer. His tongue plays lazily against mine, exploring my mouth. He tastes of smoke but I find that sexy, just like I find his casual attitude to dating attractive. Denzil is elusive, yes, but at least that means he’s never going to trap me into a long-term commitment.
I close my eyes, enjoying the hot sunshine on my back as we kiss. His hand gently caresses my breast, and I wonder what tonight’s date will be like.
We are interrupted a few minutes later by loud, abrasive coughing. An old man in a flat cap is browsing through the shed selection, and has seen us kissing. Frowning, the old man stops to stare at us through the narrow gap between a wooden pagoda and a tool store, then wags his finger as though we have been caught misbehaving.
‘Christ,’ I say, startled.
I think at first that I know him from the village, but when I study him more carefully, I don’t. The old man must be at least seventy-five, maybe older. His hair is white and he’s wearing a thick woollen scarf pulled up to his chin, though it’s quite warm today. He’s tall but stooping in an exaggerated way, as though he needs a stick for walking but has forgotten to bring it with him. And he has huge bushy eyebrows under his flat cap; they look unlikely and theatrical, like they’ve been stuck on with glue.
‘Nosy old sod,’ Denzil mutters, drawing back. Reluctantly, he drops his roll-up into the pot of earth, then stands up. ‘Break’s over though. Thanks for coming to see me.’
‘Six o’clock,’ I remind him, a little embarrassed, tidying my clothes.
He nods, and trudges off past the sheds, presumably to fetch another trolley load of manure for the display pallets.
I leave him and the old man in the sunshine, and wander back through the garden centre aisles and past the office. It’s empty, neither Jago nor his dad anywhere to be seen. Probably on the shop floor, dealing with customers. The garden centre is always busy on Saturdays at this time of year, people buying new tools and young plants for summer bedding. I notice several shoppers looking at me sideways, then whispering to each other. I can imagine what they’re saying.
And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am stark staring mad. Because they never did find the dead woman. So if she existed, what happened to her? Dead people do not get up and walk about on their own. Either she was only pretending to be dead, or somebody moved her body after I had left. Both of which are far-fetched scenarios, at best.
I have to concede that it’s possible I imagined her. But that is not going to stop me trying to discover the truth.
About to leave, my gaze falls on a framed colour photograph on the wall of the office. It’s new. Or rather, the photograph is old, but th
e frame looks brand-new and I have no memory of seeing it there before.
I lean close to the glass of the office window. It appears to be a school photograph from several decades ago. The school kids are gathered outdoors around a huge and lavishly decorated Christmas tree, their haircuts and uniforms old-fashioned, their shirt lapels narrow and pointed. It must have been taken in the seventies, by the look of it.
I glance around, but Jago is nowhere in sight. I slip through the office door, which is ajar, and stand in front of the framed photograph.
It’s the girl to the left that interests me. I know that face. And her eyes, so familiar. There’s a boy beside her, taller, his arm around her shoulder. It’s a possessive gesture. I frown, not recognising him. His eyes are narrowed, he has lanky shoulder-length hair, and he’s smiling. Somehow I don’t believe that smile though. It gives me the creeps.
‘I found that a few weeks ago in an old chest up at my house,’ a deep male voice says. ‘It’s a good photo of her.’
I turn, startled.
It’s the owner of the garden centre, Dick Laney. I didn’t hear him come into the office. How long has he been standing there in the doorway, watching me?
‘Hello, Mr Laney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be in here, I know.’
He smiles, coming closer. ‘Call me Dick. And it’s no problem, Eleanor, no problem at all,’ he insists. ‘You go on now, take a good look. Only natural you should want to look at a picture of your mother.’
‘I’ve never seen this before. How did you get hold of it?’
‘It’s mine. My dad took it, so he’d have a record of the Christmas tree.’ He studies the photograph, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me. ‘This place was only a small outfit back then, but he sold Christmas trees to most of the village. That was the biggest tree he had in stock that year, so he donated it to the school. We made the decorations ourselves in class. Blue Peter stuff, you know, all tin foil and glue and sparkly nonsense. Not bad though.’
Realization hits me and I turn to stare at him. ‘You were at school with my mum.’