by Peter Laws
And why … somewhere, amongst it all … a strange and not-right voice could also be heard wailing and crying and laughing all at the same time.
CHAPTER TWO
Professor Matt Hunter walked towards the filing cabinet with his arms folded, running his eye across all the framed diplomas that were fixed to the wall. He clocked the institutions, logged the dates, then he ran his eyes over the cube of an office, with its dull, bare blue walls, two tub chairs and a ceiling fan, slowly whirring.
‘No offence, Jeff …’ Matt said, ‘but this room … It’s a bit sterile, don’t you think?’
Silence.
‘A bit clinical? A bit cold?’
Silence.
‘Probably a great place to negotiate a mortgage, I guess, or I don’t know … do an autopsy,’ Matt chortled into his fist, then coughed. ‘Sorry. I just mean it’s … well … it’s a bit … you know …’
Silence.
Matt sighed and looked back at the filing cabinet. A Newton’s Cradle sat on top. He leant towards the suspended chrome balls and saw his reflected face stretch. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, just to see the gaping black space. He reached a finger towards the first ball. ‘I made one of these at school, but I got the weight distribution all wrong. When the teacher tested it out, all the balls fell off. Totally screwed it up. I can still remember the sound of them rolling.’ He attempted the noise with his mouth. ‘Got a big fat “F”, Jeff … but you know something? I wasn’t that bothered, because it made me and everybody else laugh, and at the time that felt more important. Guess you should probably write that down on your little pad. It might be significant.’ Matt moved his fingertip a little closer. ‘May I?’
Silence.
‘I’m going to take that as a massive, enthusiastic yes.’ He lifted the ball with his finger and thumb. ‘You’re really sure?’
Silence.
‘Well, if you insist …’
He released his grip and the time-bomb metal clacking began. ‘Wow, Jeff. That’s a perfect weight ratio. You’d have gotten an A for that, no doubt about it.’ Matt watched the balls ticking for a moment, then he blew out a breath and folded his arms again.
He took a slow walk past the blinds. Tesco car park was out there, somewhere. He could see bright, sunny lines of it through the gaps. He shrugged and sat down instead, sinking into one of the unpleasantly cold chairs.
‘I just always imagined a therapist’s office to be cosy and sophisticated. You know … a couple of Ansel Adams landscapes on the walls. Soothing shots of pretty woods, mysterious lakes … cleansing waterfall metaphors. And pot plants too. I always expected those. And now you mention it, where’s the tilted couch for the crazy … sorry, I mean … where’s the couch for me to lie back in? That was the only part I was looking forward to. This tub chair’s like leather-wrapped cement.’ He bumped a fist off the arm and shook it out in mock pain, laughing. ‘I mean, come on … ow!’
Silence.
Matt crossed his legs one way, then the other, then he nodded at the diplomas. ‘So you qualified in 1976, the year Star Wars came out. I was minus eight that year. Please tell me your office was cosier than this in the ’70s? Therapists had carpets on the wall, back then, didn’t they? You seen much Woody Allen, Jeff?’
Silence.
Old Jeff sat stiffly, looking like a broken theme park animatronic. He was always in the same position: one leg crossed over the other so that it lifted his cream flannel trousers. Matt saw a sock (also cream) reaching up a thin line of hairy, bony, shiny shin. He had a yellow pencil and a black Moleskine pad resting on his kneecap.
Suddenly, Jeff blinked.
Was that the first time he’d done that in this session? In his entire life, even?
‘Look … I don’t want to be rude but …’ Matt sat forward, elbows on his knees. ‘I’m just filling the gaps cos this is my first session with you and you don’t seem to speak … So how about you say something, just to get us going, eh? I’ll take over after, I promise. How about we start really easy like … um … I don’t know … what’s your favourite processed meat, Jeff? Hot dogs or burgers … go!’
Silence.
‘Ahoy there, anybody on deck?’ Matt let his cupped hand drop away from his mouth. ‘I’m hot dogs by the way. Better write that—’
‘The preliminary report you gave me …’
Matt made a mock lean back into his chair. ‘Glory be. He lives!’
Silent seconds passed. Matt counted thirty of them. Then Jeff said, ‘The report said you’re being troubled with nightmares.’
Matt’s smirk drooped a little. ‘Actually, the report said I was having nightmares. Not that I was troubled by them, per se.’
‘Tell me about your nightmares.’
‘What do you want to know, exactly?’
Silence.
‘I knew you were going to say that. Well … okay … the nightmares … well, let me see. They’re usually just me living my life as normal. I’m eating dinner with my family, I’m watching TV with my wife, when all of a sudden, they just … walk into the room.’ Matt looked across at the blinds. He heard the rumble of engines beyond them, the clink of trolleys, the slamming of car doors. ‘Who walks into the room, I hear you ask? Well, Jeff, let me tell you,’ he leant forward again. ‘I’ve seen a few dead people in my life, Jeff. Back when I was a vicar, they were kinda par for the course. I wouldn’t exactly call them a perk of the job, but they’re certainly part of the package … and I guess I thought I’d left all that behind when I jacked church in and became an academic. Though there’s a couple of students in my lectures that look like rigor mortis has set in … know what I mean, eh Jeff?’ He laughed again but then his eyes dropped when Jeff’s pencil suddenly started scraping.
Upside down, Matt read: Humour … defence mech.
Jeff quickly covered the rest with his hand, and just looked back up with his unblinking, amphibian eyes.
‘So, yeah, I thought the death stuff was behind me. But since I started helping the police my corpse quotient is Through. The. Roof. And that’s who comes to my house − in the dreams, I mean. The corpses. The victims. From Hobbs Hill, from Menham … and I had a fresh crop turn up from that crazy night in Chervil. I guess you read about Chervil …’
Silence.
‘Only they’re not your classic corpses, you understand. These guys are up and standing and doing stuff. Or they’re sitting in the back row of my lecture hall or they’re standing behind my car when I set off for work … Or they’re crawling. When I’m in the bath they’re just crawling along the floor, and the ceiling too. They’re very agile, these corpses. And they’re looking at me, of course.’
‘Is it always just corpses?’
‘Just?’ Matt laughed.
Silence.
More silence.
No more smiles now. ‘That’s an insightful question, because no, it’s not always corpses. In fact, it’s often just shadows. Things in the corner that vanish when I turn around. Animal things, human things. A mix, I guess. Heck, sometimes I need a wee in the middle of the night. You know how it is, Jeff. I’m mid-thirties, the end’s coming. I cross the landing in the dark night and then I hear one of them scrambling up the stairs after me. A big, tall rabbit, only it’s also a man and …’ Matt nodded at the scrawling pencil. ‘Haaaang on. You’re clear I’m talking about the dreams, here. Like I don’t mean I see these shadows in real life … obviously. Like when I’m asleep. Or half-asleep.’
Jeff blinked again. It was a slow and laboured fall of lids. Like his decades-long therapy radar had just picked up Matt’s first lie. What he’d just said was a lie, after all. Matt’s gang of corpses and shadows were a loyal and sociable bunch, and true they mostly stayed in dreams. Mostly. But now and again, when the mood was right, they’d slide into the waking world too. Usually quite subtle. Like the stench of burning hair that might suddenly fill his nostrils in a restaurant. Or the dull and distant singing of dead folks holding hands in his
garden, standing up on the picnic bench. Or that splashing wave of teenage blood that would totally soak the windscreen of his car, until he blinked again and it was all gone. And like now, as he looked in Jeff’s glasses and saw something tall and spindly, and not quite human. The tall black rabbit reflected and standing behind Matt’s left shoulder.
Jeff set the pencil back and tapped his chin for a long moment, but of course, he said nothing.
‘I’m not surprised by any of this, by the way. I don’t think I’m defective for being … affected by the things I’ve seen. My wife too. She was in Chervil and frankly it’d be pretty weird if we weren’t impacted by some of this. It’s not even that I’m particularly troubled by it. It’s all just chemistry and biology, really, and most of, it’s just classic tricks of the light.’ Matt tapped his temple. ‘Pretty fascinating stuff. But look, Jill Bowland thought it’d be a good idea for Wren and me to chat to somebody about it, because …’ He trailed off, and looked across at the blinds. ‘Cos call me old-fashioned, Jeff, but it’d be nice to sit at a Sunday dinner for once and not see my mum’s chopped-up face glaring at me …’
Matt caught his breath and noticed that his chest was heaving. He put a palm against it and glanced at the clock. Still twenty minutes left. ‘I’ve never been one of these macho robots, who keep on trucking. So, here I am – ta-dah,’ he did jazz hands. ‘I’m sitting here in counselling, as instructed. Coping with the lack of inspiring art on the walls and I’m ready to be counselled. So if you fancy hitting me with some nifty breathing technique. Heck, even a low-grade pill you’d recommend, I’m up for trying something, cos I need the sleep. Just no juju chants or prayers to a deity, if you don’t mind. I have an allergic intolerance to bullshit, after all …’
Silence.
‘A few tips, Jeff. Come on. You can do it.’
Silence.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, forget it.’ Matt was shocked at how loud his voice came out in a boom. He pushed himself up and scooped his jacket from the floor. He went towards the door and paused. ‘Which means I’m going. Unless you have some actual advice. Do you?’
‘Tell me about your mother’s face.’
Matt cringed. ‘Oo, yeah, I’d love to tell you about that. All while you appropriately stare back at me like a week-old corpse. But you know something? I’ve had enough of those already.’
Silence. ‘Same time next week, then?’
Matt laughed. ‘You, my friend, are an absolute riot.’
‘Next week, then.’
‘Why? What’s the point?’
‘Burgers.’
‘Huh?’
‘Burgers are my favourite processed meat.’
Matt paused, one hand on the door handle. ‘If I ever do come back, I’m bringing you a pot plant, and I’m going to tickle you for the first ten minutes, just to see if you can smile. Deal?’
Silence.
‘Thought so. Feel free to power down now. Bye.’
Matt closed the door behind him and didn’t move for a moment. He just leant against the frame and got his breath back. Funny that he hadn’t noticed his heart was galloping. He could hear blood pulsing through his ears. He started walking down the corridor, passing three other doors that led to three more counselling rooms. From one, he could hear muffled shouting. From another, the vague pulse of crying, and from the final one, the most important one, he heard silence. He couldn’t tell if that was bad or good.
He considered waiting for Wren right here. He could just sit near the exit, ready for her coming out. If the door slammed open and she stomped out unhappy with her session, he’d be ready with a hug. But these doors sounded way thinner than they ought to be, and he didn’t want to eavesdrop, even by accident. And besides, they’d arranged to meet in the supermarket cafe after, not in the corridor.
The thought of seeing her again was already dropping his heart rate. She was reality, she was normal life, and that was soothing to him. This … in here … was an excursion into the brain, which was a bit of a wild west.
So he tugged his jacket into place and hurried to the exit, stopping only once. The fluorescent tube was flickering above him. When he looked up at the frosted glass case, he saw a fly crawling around in there. Aimlessly moving in a circle of eight. Probably looking for another bug to chat to, but finding nobody.
‘Good luck with that, amigo,’ Matt said, and pushed his way outside.
CHAPTER THREE
The mid-morning crowd in the Tesco cafe was thin and scattered. Sure, there were one or two lone parents tapping phones with one hand and rocking buggies with the other, but he had his pick of the seats. He sat a few tables down from a wizard on a lunch break – an old woman with fairy-tale long white hair. He couldn’t help but notice her eat. Who knew that somebody could chew one single mouthful of sausage for a fortnight?
When she looked up and saw him, he smiled at her and he gave one of those gentlemanly nods he’d assumed people did in the 1940s. Her attempt at a smile back turned into a loud, hacking, wet-sounding cough.
He tried not to wince and looked away. Which is when he saw Wren.
It was the flash of red hair outside, gliding past the glass of the cafe. Her bright, some would say shockingly bright hair was always his fast-track way to find her in a busy place. Like a kid with a balloon, or a tour guide with a raised umbrella. You could spot a Wren Hunter right in the throng of a huge concert crowd, and you’d be all the better for it.
He watched her slow to a pause at the window, then cup her hands against the glass. She squinted inside, searching. Their eyes met, and smiles bloomed. He pointed a finger down to the two hefty slices of carrot cake on the table. She threw up an eager thumb. She mouthed the words get me a cappuccino and started jogging round. Her red hair vanished behind a concrete pillar and earth plunged back into its dull, submarine grey.
He was already at the till when she found him inside, just as the coffee machine spluttered froth into two cups. He waited to pay while she stepped up to him and kissed his cheek. Her lips felt chilly on his skin. Back at the table, Matt slid the humongous slice of carrot cake towards her. ‘The treasure you seek.’
She jabbed her fork in and shovelled a hunk of buttercream through those cold lips. ‘God,’ she spoke through sponge, with instant hamster cheeks. ‘I needed this.’
He took a bite of his. ‘So, was your session all you dreamt of and more?’
She covered her mouth, mid-chomp. ‘I’m busy. You first.’
He took a slow sip of coffee. ‘My guy was sooooo quiet. I mean, he barely said a word.’
‘Really? Mine was quite chatty.’
‘Well mine just looked at me like this, the whole time.’ He flashed his eyes into a hypnotic, panto-villain glare and started leaning across the table, gradually zooming his face towards hers. ‘No words, just this, for like forty minutes straight.’
She wafted him back. ‘I’d have hated that. You’d think they’d have the same approach.’
‘Depends on how they’re trained. In the therapist lottery I think I got myself a full-on psychoanalytical. They’re supposed to act as a blank screen, so they barely say a word. It’s up to the patient to bring up anything important. I’ve read about that method being delivered by machines.’
She stopped chewing. ‘So are you saying it was a waste of time?’
He swallowed. Set his fork down. ‘Did you talk about Chervil?’
‘Yep. And I wasn’t expecting to cry straight off the bat, but she was passing me tissues like five minutes in.’ She set her fork down, too. ‘I’m glad I went. I’m booked in for four sessions at first. Maybe you could ask to change your therapist?’
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ He caught her eye. ‘But don’t worry. I’m still up for trying. It’d be good to process all this police stuff I’m doing. Especially because …’
‘Because?’ She slid a hand across the table and held his. Then she caught his eye. Saw the look in it. ‘Hang on. They’ve called you, haven’t they?�
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‘This morning. They’ve asked me to drive up to Watford this afternoon.’
She let his hand go, but he could see her taking a breath. Fighting the urge to resist this stuff and instead to accept it. Matt may well be a university professor, but the police consultancy part of his job was just a part of life now. ‘Don’t tell me.’ She grabbed her fork. ‘A Baptist’s dressing as Jesus and he’s crucifying all the Methodists.’
He laughed. ‘Not quite. They’ve found a delirious man in a greenhouse this morning. They say he’s silent and won’t talk to anybody.’
‘So why call you?’
‘Because he’s written one thing down so far … the name of an ancient biblical demon.’
He saw her blink. The sign of a brain making a conscious decision. ‘Oh, the old ancient biblical demon routine. Bet that happens all the time.’ She smiled at him. Or tried to. ‘Will you be back for dinner, dear?’
He laughed. ‘Depends. Hopefully.’
She nodded to his carrot cake. ‘Better load up on sugar, then, just in case. You’ll still be at Amelia’s school play tonight. Right?’
‘The Great Fire of London? Absolutely. I’ll just meet you at the school.’
They ate for a while in silence, and every now and then she’d check her phone when another email came through. She was an architect, and her latest client was the blow-into-a-bag nervous type, constantly seeking clarity. Back in the car, she said she could drop Matt at home, then head off to yet another reassurance meeting. He said fine. He’d gather some books for the police visit, grab his own car and go. She said fine. It was only when they were pulling out of the car park that she brought the therapist back up again. She was looking at those four windows where the counselling rooms were.
‘You know, if the police counselling isn’t working for you, we can just pay for someone else.’