Angel's Fury (6 page)

Instantly I forgot her rudeness. My toes tingled and I screwed them up inside my shoes as I lurched to my feet. I was about to reverse my parents’ decision to flee from the Doctor all those years ago.

What if she’s angry?

The receptionist gestured towards the frosted glass door guarded by her desk. ‘The Doctor is on her way.’

Mum pulled me to her side and we stood, eyes pinned to the entrance, like gladiators awaiting our opponent. Then, with a slight hiss, the door opened and I saw the Doctor for the first time.

My eyes widened and I couldn’t suppress a gasp; she was huge, a billboard image torn out and brought to life. Her legs were like a wrestler’s and her hands would have swamped Dad’s, yet she wore a designer suit and moved like a dancer.

Mum’s fingers pressed mine as the Doctor bent over the receptionist’s keyboard.

‘She hasn’t aged a single day.’ Mum paused in the act of reaching for her own face and lowered her voice almost to a breath. ‘Don’t mention the video, alright?’ I glanced at her bag, where I knew the tape nestled next to her wallet and keys. ‘If she doesn’t remember us, I don’t want to remind her who we are. Not unless I have to.’

I nodded, abruptly cold in the air-conditioned space, and my eyes slid back to the Doctor. ‘She’s so
big
.’

Mum nodded wordlessly and squeezed my hand tighter.

At that moment the Doctor turned from the receptionist and her eyes lingered on me. A cold hard core glittered in their depths like the death of a star. I stepped backwards, she blinked and abruptly they were ordinary blue eyes, bright with curious intelligence.

‘Cassie Farrier?’

Mum nodded and tugged on my wrist as the Doctor reopened the door and held it for us.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

The corridor connected four doors. The Doctor paused before the last and waited for us to reach her. Relative to her size, the portal seemed oddly small, like a gateway to Wonderland, and I shivered as she gestured us through.

Inside, however, we found only a sparsely furnished office. In the centre of the room was an oriental rug and on the rug, a large, old-fashioned desk. The desk itself was empty apart from a silver laptop customised with the Orion’s Belt logo that had also decorated the entrance to the building.

Two chairs waited for us. As we sat down, the door closed behind us with a quiet click.

The Doctor lowered herself into a leather seat and I fidgeted uncomfortably until she spoke. ‘Tell me your problem.’

Immediately Mum’s right hand groped for mine. Tension thrummed through her fingers and she held on so tightly I could feel the pulse in her thumb. ‘It’s about my daughter.’ Mum cleared her throat. ‘We hope you’ll be able to help her.’

The Doctor spoke slowly. ‘Are you aware that I’m a specialist?’

A tremor entered Mum’s voice. ‘Yes. Y-you’re interested in past lives.’

‘And your daughter thinks she has lived a past life?’ The Doctor’s nose wrinkled and she looked at me as if I was a germ on a Petri dish. Then she turned back to Mum. ‘I do a lot of research in that area and it is very rare to come across genuine past-life memories. Most people I see are charlatans, or are suffering from very ordinary nightmares or in some cases are recounting details from old television series in which they have recast themselves.’ She leaned forward; her size alone was threatening. ‘I must tell you, Mrs Farrier, that if you and your daughter are trying to con me, I will find out.’ She swivelled her torso to include me in her warning and Mum jumped to her feet, still holding my hand.

The Doctor leaned back, her behaviour no longer so intimidating, but Mum remained standing. ‘We’re here because we need help. Cassie’s nightmares are out of control. She barely gets any rest. Sleeping tablets don’t help.’

‘Is that so?’ The Doctor’s flawless lips curved into a conciliatory smile and she waved Mum back down.

Mum swallowed as she subsided. ‘Th-that’s not all.’

‘Not all?’ The Doctor’s thin brows raised.

‘Have you heard the news about the mass grave discovered in Germany?’

The Doctor inclined her head.

Surprised, I tugged at Mum’s hand. Dad had told us not to mention that to anyone. Mum ignored me. ‘The anonymous tip that led police to the site was left by my daughter.’

I watched the Doctor to see how she took the news, and at first it seemed she hadn’t even heard. Then she turned and addressed me for the first time. ‘Are you lying?’

I shook my head.

‘Trying to get attention, perhaps? Many children your age feel undervalued at home. Do you want to be famous?’ she mused.

I glared. ‘I can tell you the exact message the anonymous caller left and I can tell you the phone box the call was made from. Is there a way to check that information with the police?’

She nodded. ‘There is.’ She typed briefly. ‘We’ll discuss those details at the end of the session. For now I want you to tell me what made you leave that message.’

Her eyes burned hungrily. There was something about this Doctor that made my heart beat like prey.

‘I’m waiting, Miss Farrier,’ she snapped.

I blew out a breath and ignored my discomfort. The Doctor scared me but I needed her help . . . so I told her everything as clearly as I could.

When I finished speaking the Doctor’s eyes flicked to the microphone on the side of her laptop and it struck me that she’d recorded the whole conversation. She remained that way, staring at the computer, as the clock above her head ticked away the seconds and seemed to grow louder and louder. Then she looked at my mother. ‘You believe your daughter?’

Mum nodded.

‘Hmmm.’ The Doctor picked up a pencil and rolled it between her fingertips. ‘Well, Mrs Farrier, I would like you and your daughter to read my book and use the techniques for three weeks. If there’s no improvement, I’ll see you again.’ She conjured a copy of
Learn Lucid Dreaming
from her desk and pushed it across the leather blotter.

Instantly I leaped to my feet. I glowered at Mum. ‘I should
have known she wouldn’t be able to help when you told me she wrote that thing.’

‘Cassie!’

The Doctor focused on me. ‘You know this text?’

‘It’s
rubbish
.’

She pressed her hands together, apparently unoffended. ‘Did you use it properly?’

I hammered my fists on the desk, so angry I almost spat. The hope that had started to warm my chest drained and left me cold. ‘It didn’t work.’

Mum took my hand and pulled me back. ‘Come on, Cassie, we’ll go somewhere else.’

‘Hold on.’ The book disappeared. ‘I wrote that book because so many of my patients come to me suffering from bad dreams inspired by half-remembered historical fiction. I’ve become an expert on dreaming and the techniques in the book
do
work.’

I started to deny it but she lifted one plate-like palm and I stuttered into silence.

‘The techniques work for people who are suffering from simple nightmares. If you’d used the book properly your bad dreams should have been relieved. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I
send a patient away with that book and they never have to come back.’ Again the tight smile. ‘You say you’ve used the book already? Are you certain you followed the instructions?’

I glared. ‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’ The Doctor patted the air condescendingly and I spun to face Mum. ‘Show her the video.’

Mum’s hands covered her bag protectively. ‘I don’t think
that’s
necessary.’ Her eyes flickered and I clenched my fists.

‘We’ve already told her about Germany and she still isn’t taking us seriously. She won’t help me unless she believes us. Show her the video.’

‘Video?’ The Doctor’s eyebrows twitched.

Slowly, Mum pulled out the tape. She hesitated, fingers tightening on the cassette. Then she placed it on the desk with a snap.

The Doctor pressed a button on the side of her desk. ‘Sandra, I need the old VCR.’

We watched the video together, the Doctor with a frightening intensity. She took no notes, but I got the feeling that she’d forget nothing on the screen. Once she looked at Mum but her expression
was of carefully schooled blankness and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking before she turned away.

She remembered us now. I wondered what she would say when the video ended.

When the static returned I fidgeted, as if I was to blame for the fact that Mum and Dad had removed me from the Doctor’s influence, but all she said was, ‘Interesting.’

Mum slumped. ‘I’m sure you have something you want to say to me.’

The Doctor pursed her lips and I held my breath.

Then she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs
Farrier
. This
reminder
has shown me your daughter is, in all probability, suffering from genuine past-life memories. I still believe I can help her. As you’ve returned to my offices I assume that you are now willing to allow me to do so?’

My thumbs pricked and as Mum nodded I rubbed my hands on my jeans.

She could have sent us away or at least made this much harder for Mum. Why didn’t she?

The Doctor looked at me and her lips twisted into a smile that made my stomach lurch. ‘Let’s get started.’

I
was lying on a bed. It would have been comfortable, but I was covered in plastic tabs that led to humming monitors and my head was shut inside a metal helmet.

Mum forced a smile, but I could read her thoughts as if they were branded on her forehead:
I had become a science experiment
.

The Doctor was checking monitors and rolls of paper. She moved around me like a lion nearing a gazelle: she pretended to be interested in other things, yet every time she glanced my way I sensed her keen awareness.

Mum leaned into me. ‘It isn’t too late, Cassie. We don’t have to do this.’

Although the Doctor acted as if she hadn’t heard, her movements sharpened and my heart hammered.

Briefly I closed my eyes. ‘We do have to do this,’ I muttered.

‘Alright then. I’ll be right here.’

The Doctor dropped one huge hand on to Mum’s shoulder and she jumped like a toddler caught with a marker pen. ‘Actually,
Mrs
Farrier
. . . or is it Mrs Smith?’ The Doctor tilted her head. Her tone was blandly polite, but I frowned.

Mum licked her lips. ‘It’s Mrs Farrier now.’

‘Mrs Farrier then. Actually I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.’

‘Mum?’ I knew I sounded pathetic but I didn’t want to be left alone.

The Doctor moved to stand over me. I strained to sit up so I wouldn’t feel so helpless, but the wires and helmet held me down.

‘We can’t have your mother in here because her presence might affect the readings.’ The Doctor placed her hand just beneath my breast bone. She wasn’t applying any pressure, but through her palm I received a clear idea of her weight and strength and I froze. ‘Even I won’t be in here with you. We’ll both be observing from right over there.’ With her free hand she indicated a large mirror on the wall and I realised it must be two-way. I shivered.

‘Are you cold? The temperature in here is constant, so you shouldn’t be. Don’t forget, when you wake up, the first thing you need to do is recount your dream. Speak out loud the first words that come into your head. Don’t think, just start talking. I’ll be recording everything.’

The sedative drowned my flutters of panic like flies in jam. I left behind the fear with which I usually faced unconsciousness and, as the drug pulled me into the darkness, was able to wonder hazily whether Zillah would come to me immediately or if I would have a new vision.

It began with a book.

With the odd detachment you get in dreams I noted that the one time I needed to relive the horrors of my past life, I was going to get a nightmare that couldn’t possibly relate. The irony was a mild nagging that died alongside my urge to waken.

The book was lurking at the end of a long tunnel. Although I couldn’t see it clearly I knew the binding was scaled like the hide of a long-dead beast. Slowly it opened and dread deadened my spine as I was pulled towards its pages.

I struggled to remain as far away as possible, but the current was relentless, and as I was sucked forward the tunnel around me filled with numberless others, all fighting just as fruitlessly for escape.

Faces familiar from my nightmare tumbled past: Zillah cried out with a childish wail. Then the Nazi who had shot her howled and reached for me as though I could save him.

Other characters felt like they were from stories I’d once read. There was another soldier, American this time, whose insignia flashed in the strange half light to reveal the words
27th Division
. He was followed by a terrifying apparition in a white pointed hood. Then I saw a cowled inquisitor, a cleric, one of Cromwell’s followers, a Roman mercenary and an Egyptian priest. There were dozens more that I didn’t recognise and they blurred past me in a dizzying vortex as the book sucked them in.

Finally it was my turn. But before I slammed into the hungry maw, I glimpsed one final figure: a long-haired youth whose mismatched light and dark brown eyes were warm with a blend of curiosity and desire.

With a slight frown the boy reached for my hand, almost as if he recognised me, but before our palms could kiss, he was drawn into the pages like a flower pressed into an album.

Searing pain almost stopped my heart then I too was inside.

I gasped and the scene dissolved . . .

* * *

I hurl my jammed weapon aside as I run; it’s only dead weight now and slowing me down.

My breath comes in bursts, blade-sharp, and I know I have to stop soon. But as the idea slides in I push onwards: I’m the only one left alive. If I stop, they’ll find me and I won’t survive the interrogation.

Suddenly my feet slip. I throw my arms out, but there is no ground to catch my fall. I pitch down a hill and howl as barbed wire wraps me like the arms of a
Nixe.