Resurrectionists (33 page)

“Because of your boyfriend, right?”

“Notwithstanding my boyfriend, I’m still not interested. He’s not my type.”

“But if he was your type . . .”

“Really, he isn’t.”

“I think you’re missing the point of my question. Does the boyfriend back home – Adrian?”

She nodded.

“Is your relationship with Adrian exclusive?”

She was suddenly concerned that he wasn’t asking on Curtis’s behalf any more, and it became important that she give the right answer. Her heart was hammering under her ribcage. She was momentarily dumbfounded by the conflict within.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insulting –”

“I’m not insulted,” she said quickly.

“Curtis just wants to know if Adrian has your whole heart.”

“Tell Curtis that Adrian and I are in a serious longterm relationship.”

“But does Adrian have your whole heart?”

She looked away. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Okay.”

“But I’m certainly not interested in Curtis.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ll go and break the bad news. Goodnight.”

He was gone in a few moments. Maisie flopped down on her bed. Even though she’d washed her hair twice, the damp strands around her face still smelled of smoke. Her head was spinning and her body seemed to prickle lightly. She didn’t know if she was excited, terrified, or just drunk.

Does Adrian have your whole heart?

Perhaps a New Year’s resolution wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

“I resolve,” she said quietly to the ceiling, “to give my whole heart to something. To feel passion for something.” A desperate feeling closed in under her ribs and she closed her eyes as though that could stop it advancing. “I resolve to be happy. Sometime this year.”

But not tonight.

Maisie tried not to worry about wax dripping on the expensive carpet as she sat cross-legged with Sacha in a circle of candles. All electric lights were out, leaving only the amber glow to flicker around them. Sacha had a deck of small white cards which he was shuffling carefully.

“Now, remember what I taught you today?”

“Yep.” All day he’d had her doing breathing exercises, exercises to relax her body and open her mind. It had been difficult, and even a little boring, so the promise of candlelight and psychic experimentation was welcome.

“Concentrate in your third eye then.”

“Sure.” She tried to focus in her forehead.

“Okay. I’ll hold up a card so only I can see it. You’ve got to try to read from me which card it is. Look . . .” He lay five of the cards down to demonstrate what they looked like. “Stars, circles, lines, triangles and squares. Five out of twenty-five is average dumb luck. Any more than that and we’re in psychic territory. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

He held up the first card so she could only see the smooth white back. “Now, see if you can read me.”

She closed her eyes and tried to reach out her mind for his. Nothing. She guessed. “Star?”

“And this one?” He held up another.

“Did I get it right?”

“I’m not telling you until the end.”

She guessed again. “Circle?”

On they went, through the pack. Every time she tried to reach out for his thoughts, and every time she couldn’t feel a thing so she guessed.

“So, how did I do?” she asked as Sacha lay the last card down on top of the pack.

“You got four right.”

“Four? Not even average dumb luck?”

“Sometimes when somebody is psychic and they’re that far out, we look for presentience. That is, whether you’re actually picking up what the next card will be, rather than the one I’m holding.”

“And?”

“That wasn’t the case.”

Maisie slumped over, ran her fingertips through the carpet pile. “Great. I’m not psychic.”

“But you are. You so definitely are. We just need to find where you’ve stored this ability for all these years.” He squared off the cards and put them aside.

“Are you still centred?”

“No. I’m annoyed and it’s hard to be ‘centred’

when I’m annoyed.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t know what else to try. The Zener cards are usually a good indicator.”

“So I’ve failed already?”

“No. You know, your negative attitude is probably getting in the way.”

She felt a sharp retort on her lips, but bit it back. It wouldn’t do to get snappy with Sacha. “What can I do about it?”

“Try to stop being negative. Are you embarrassed by all this? Is that the problem?”

She considered. “Maybe. My family, Adrian, would all think this was terribly funny. If not a little looney.”

“Well, you’re not with them, you’re with me. And I’m a believer.” He unfolded his legs and stretched them out, one foot on either side of her knees. “Let’s try this. Can you cast your mind back to a time when you had a psychic experience?”

“Like, from childhood?”

“Yes. Anything you can remember?”

She thought hard. “I was about six when I dreamed that my neighbours bought a new dog – a golden retriever named Sandy. Two days later, it happened.”

“What kind of dream? Surreal? Realistic?”

“Just a dream. I don’t remember it standing out particularly – in fact, I forgot about it until the dog arrived. I guess that means I might not have dreamed it at all, that I may have thought I did after the fact.”

“Maybe. Any others?”

She brought her knees up under her chin, stretched her skirt out over them. “Yes . . . I had an auntie . . . Dad’s sister Jacqui.” Her mind reached for the memories. “I remember . . . being distressed for some reason, though I can’t remember what it was. And when Mum came to tuck me in, I said I couldn’t sleep because Aunt Jacqui was sick and dying.” She frowned. “I was right. She died two days later from chronic food poisoning.”

“Could you have known beforehand that your aunt was sick?”

“No. Nobody did. And now it’s coming to me a little clearer. I
dreamed
Jacqui was sick, and I woke up from it very upset. That’s why Mum was there. I’d had this nightmare about it. And you know, I think that might have been the first time I got sick from it. I had this awful headache before I went to bed, then the nightmare . . . no, I didn’t get sick until the day after. Until after we found out it was true.”

“Any other occasions?”

The memories were becoming clearer now as she concentrated on them. Being so sick after each occasion had served to push them far from her conscious mind.

“A couple. You know, Sacha, I think they were all dreams. And I’d get the headache before I went to sleep and . . . get sick after. I told Mum about the headaches and . . . I can’t really remember. I don’t think Mum liked it, and I’ve since found out why.” She looked up.

“Could it be I stopped having these dreams because I knew my mother didn’t approve?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s likely. Tell me about the dreams, again. Were you in them, or just watching them?”

“God, I can’t remember. Watching, I think.” Her forehead was tight with trying to concentrate. “I think.”

“Perhaps your Gift is remote viewing.”

“That doesn’t sound very glamorous.”

He ignored her comment. “It makes sense actually. If, for some reason, your psychism was driven underground, I mean repressed from your

consciousness, then dreams would be the obvious place for the premonitions to reappear.”

Something dark was scratching at the back of her mind, but wouldn’t come to light. A memory of something? She felt a vague sense of fear but was not sure why.

“Maisie? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just feel like I’ve been

concentrating all evening. Maybe I’m overloaded.”

“Let’s take a break and go somewhere really mundane for something to eat.”

“Sounds good.”

They ended up in the KFC on Tottenham Court Road. Maisie’s chips were too greasy. She rolled them in napkins while Sacha looked on, amused.

“I hate it when they’re too greasy,” she explained.

“Sorry. Would you have preferred something

different?”

“No. I’m not a health nut or anything. I’m a big junk food fan. I wasn’t allowed to eat it as a child.”

The restaurant was noisy and the fluorescent lighting was harsh. But she felt a little more comfortable now. It had been such an intense evening.

Sacha asked her a question just as she took a huge bite of her burger. “Do you know what lucid dreaming is?”

She chewed and swallowed too quickly, nearly choking on a sesame seed. She had to slurp urgently from her Tango to stop herself from coughing. Real ladylike.

“I think so. Is that when you dream and you’re aware that you’re dreaming?”

“Yes, something like that. Once you’re aware that you’re dreaming, you can control the dreams. I think that’s what we’ve got to try next.”

“How do you do it?”

“You’re probably already very open to it. Before you go to sleep, you have to centre yourself and open up your energy centres. Then, as you go to sleep, tell yourself over and over that you’ll be aware when you’re dreaming.”

“And then?”

“Then, you can ask your dreams for information. Maybe even go places.” He grew excited, leaned forward on the table. “Yes, we can do an experiment.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll write a note and leave it by my bed. You have to dream what it says.”

“Okay. We’ll try it.” Her excitement was shortlived. “What if I fail at this test too?”

“We’ll find something else. You underestimate my patience.”

“Thanks, Sacha. I really appreciate your help.”

“It’s my pleasure. The other thing you can do is, during the day, ask yourself over and over if you’re dreaming: ‘Am I dreaming now?’ Like a mantra.”

“What will that do?”

“If you get obsessive enough about it, you might find yourself asking yourself in your sleep. That’s another good way to start lucid dreaming. I’ll keep reminding you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He wiped his hands on a napkin and stretched back. “Of course, the wonderful thing about you doing dreamwork is that it leaves our days free to hang out in my favourite pubs and cafes.”

“That sounds pretty good to me. But when do we have to go back to Solgreve?” It seemed like a million miles away.

“My father will call to let me know when he’s coming back. Perhaps the end of the week? I definitely don’t want to be here when he gets home.”

“Why not?”

“I try to avoid him as much as possible.”

“You hate him that much?”

He leaned forward and considered his answer. “I don’t think I hate him. Though I certainly feel antagonistic towards him.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Do you think so?”

“It’s the flesh and blood thing, Sacha. Don’t you ever wonder about your father? Wonder what kind of a person he is? What he thinks about? He might be a lot like you.”

“I doubt it.”

“You wouldn’t know if you never talk to him.”

Sacha fell silent, thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right.”

Maisie finished the last of her chips. “I wish I’d met my grandmother. I’m finding out we had a lot in common.”

“Yes, you’re a lot like Sybill. But smarter, I think.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you dreaming now?”

“What? No.”

“You’re not supposed to answer, you’re just supposed to remind yourself to think of the question. Get into the habit.” He pushed his tray of rubbish away from him and grabbed his jacket. “We should head home, I’m tired out from all that drunken carousing we did over New Year’s.”

Maisie stood and picked up her handbag. “Okay, let’s go.” She could hardly wait to get to bed and start dreaming.

Reverend Fowler sat at his scarred desk, carefully going through the drawers. He knew he’d kept the card from that solicitor, but couldn’t remember quite where. His memory wasn’t what it used to be.

“Do you still have it?”

This was Tony, standing by the window, blocking out the view of the cool, clear sky. “Yes, I do. Somewhere here.”

“Do you want me to help look for it?”

“No. Here it is.” He held up the white square in triumph. “You don’t have to stay, Tony. I’m capable of dealing with this business alone.”

“Do you remember the girl’s name? Sybill’s

granddaughter.”

The Reverend faltered. “Mary Hartley?”

“Maisie Fielding. I’d better stay.”

Last night there had been a community meeting in the village hall, which was a draughty building at the end of Cross Street. The church’s finances were examined, village donations were made or promised, and enough money was found to make a significant down payment on Sybill’s cottage. The citizens of Solgreve would soon own it and, once and for all, they would be safe from witches. Nobody had asked yet if they would knock it down or rent it out (to a local family of course, not newcomers), but the Reverend knew there were a few in Solgreve who wanted to look inside, to delve into Sybill’s secrets as she had delved into theirs. The Reverend was not one of them. He doubted Sybill kept Satanic idols and shrunken heads around the house – he understood that most modern witches didn’t look or act like the ones in fifteenthcentury woodcuts. He lay the business card on his desk and reached for the phone. In a few moments, a receptionist took his call.

“Daniels and Young, how may I help you?”

“May I speak with Perry Daniels, please?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Reverend Linden Fowler from Solgreve.”

“Hold the line.”

He did as he was told, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his desk blotter.

“Hello, Reverend. This is Perry Daniels.”

“Hello, Mr Daniels.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Sybill Hartley’s cottage. Now that Miss Fielding has vacated it, we wonder if you might get in touch with her family for us. We’d like to make an offer to buy it.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend, you must be mistaken. Maisie hasn’t gone home yet.”

“But there have been no lights on for –”

“She’s in London with a friend. I believe she’s due back in a few days. But when she does go home, I’ll certainly pass on your offer to Roland and Janet.”

“Who?”