He avoided answering her by picking up some papers and shuffling them.
“Come on spit it out. Whatever it is I'll deal with it.” I really don't like the look on his face. “What happened this time?”
“I want you to have some more regression based sessions.”
“You're not going to let it drop, are you?”
“Well, I think you should at least consider it.” While waiting for her to answer, he started to slow-pace across the varnished wood of the office floor. One of his moccasins creaked with every second step. Brigitte focused on a spider plant on the window sill. A sad specimen in a cracked terracotta pot, dehydrated and scorched to a crisp by the sun or lack of water. Above where its brown-tipped leaves wilted in misery onto the white-painted wood of the sill, an unused Venetian blind hung at a slanted half-mast. It drooped lower on the left than on the right where the cords dangled in a macramé effigy of grubby knots. The shine on the blinds once bright blue slats had dulled to opacity under a thick patina of dust. Knowing he wouldn't appreciate the comment, Brigitte bit her lip to stop herself from asking Paul if he'd paid the cleaner lately. She counted the squares in the window frame, three across and four down. They reminded her of a crossword puzzle. She sighed. She was about as good at doing those as she was at making decisions.
“Well?” He asked, getting impatient. The intermittent squeaking of his shoe had stopped. He'd paused his pacing and stood by her shoulder, looking down at her where she still reclined on the soft leather sofa. Brigitte took a deep breath and faced him.
“No really, Paul, I don't think regression is the right thing.” The words had slipped out in a rush. She bit her lip and tried to slow down. “Hypnosis to help me stop smoking is one thing, but past life regression?”
“Why not?”
“Because...”
“Come on, Brigitte, you've been having dreams and experiencing 'strange happenings' as you call them, for weeks now.” He pointed a wagging finger in her direction. “And before you say it's lack of nicotine,” He laughed. “I'll tell you, stopping smoking has got nothing to do with it. To be honest our last two sessions have been somewhat radical and today... well, castles and executions are not your average withdrawal symptom.”
She sat up on the sofa and hugged her knees. He's started pacing again and it's getting on my nerves.
Paul went to her side and patted her arm in his well-practised bedside manner.
Patronizing git.
“I want you to go home and have a think about letting me do one more session and recording it on video. Believe me, when you watch it, I'm sure you'll want to continue.”
“Paul, I really don't know.” She swung her legs off the sofa and stood up. “As you said last time, I've been stressed lately and it’s probably all down to that. Let me think about it while I'm at the shop this morning and if I change my mind, or anything else happens, I'll call you.” She bent to pick her bag up off the floor. “It's time to go or I'll be late opening again. Though some days I wonder why I still bother. Business has been so quiet it would be easier to just give in and shut.”
“When you do that you can come and be my assistant. This place could do with a bit of livening up.”
“That's true. But you couldn't afford me and I'd be bored to death.”
“Life can't always be exciting,” Soft lines gathered at the corners of his brown eyes as he smiled at her. “Though, I could make it more exciting if you let me.”
“Are you sure it’s ethical to flirt with your clients?” What did I say that for? He doesn't mean any harm. To make amends for her acidness, she stood on tiptoe and planted a goodbye kiss in the middle of his forehead before reaching up and ruffling his well-groomed white hair, just to annoy him.
“Brigitte!”
“It's sexier like that.” She laughed and made for the door fast before he had a chance to retaliate.
“Brigitte,”
“I'll call you when I've decided.”
Paul only noticed the marks on the back of Brigitte's blouse as she walked out of the office. Something green must have spilt on the sofa and rubbed into the creases as she'd lain there. It looked similar to the grass stains he got on his cricket trousers. He'd have to have a word with his cleaner about that.
He took out a notepad and started scribbling down points about his session with Brigitte.
Always best to keep a record. Never know when it mind come in handy. If I can talk her in to doing some more sessions might even be able to sell it to the local rag as an article. Money would come in handy.
Chapter 4
Ireland, 2010.
On the Sunday of his departure for England, while waiting for his early morning brew to finish percolating, Jack looked out through the kitchen window. The plants in the well-organized herb garden stretched in neat rows of dense green foliage as far down as the fence which marked the boundary of the cottage grounds. On the bare soil between the lines of mint and thyme, when he squinted, he thought he could discern the first shoots of a new brot of weeds. Swearing under his breath, he pulled open a drawer in one of the pine units and took out pen and paper and scribbled a quick note to George, the handyman, to remind him to hoe the plot or it’d be overgrown before he got back. He left the note tucked under a glass-paperweight where he hoped his housekeeper’s short-sighted husband couldn’t miss it and went upstairs to pack.
In his bedroom, Jack perused the contents of the built-in wardrobe before dragging a small case out and dumping it on the bed. Back down in the hallway, after dropping the lightweight bag at his feet, he checked the time again. It’d taken him less than fifteen minutes to pack what he needed, close the case and carry it down the stairs. There was time to enjoy a nice quiet coffee before the taxi arrived. He’d just poured it when the phone rang.“I guess I know who that’ll be?”
In sharp contrast with the metallic chirp of the house line the distinct, mellow tone of Jack’s voice resonated through the pristine confines of the kitchen. He answered the phone.“A very good morning to you, Mrs. Murphy.” He laughed. “What? How did I know it was you? I’m a famous medium or had you forgotten? Anyway, who else would be checking up on me at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning?” That fell on deaf ears.
He listened while the woman babbled on. Her thick, rural accent a blurry buzz. “You shouldn’t be worrying yourself, you know.” God, she was hard work. ‘”Yes, of course the gas is switched off and the window locks are on. I did them all last night.” He gritted his teeth and raised his eyes to look at the ceiling. “Yes, of course I’m sure... No, I don’t think I’d be needing to check them again this morning.”
He took a deep breath and leant his forehead against the wall. “Well, alright then. If it makes you feel better. What did you say?” The rough texture of the stone was leaving red indentations in the skin of Jack’s brow. “Okay, okay, for you I’ll do it, though I don’t think there’s much chance of a mass murderer sneaking in in the middle of the night when I’m gone.” Not that it would matter very much. Jack ran his free hand through his hair leaving the black strands in disarray. “Why not get George to come in with you, it’ll reassure...” Mrs. Murphy was having none of it and interrupted him again.
“When am I coming back?” Jack flicked his left hand to uncover the gold watch on his wrist. “If... I ever get away, probably Saturday or if not, then sometime during the week. If it’s before, I’ll let you know. Look Mrs. Murphy, I’d better be gone. The taxi will be here any minute. What was that? Put the cat out? I haven’t got a cat... Oh, that’s your idea of a little joke is it?” He had a sudden impulse to bang his head against the wall. “I’ll talk to you when I get back. Bye for now.” Bloody woman. If it wasn’t for her cooking she'd drive me mad.
Jack swigged the last dregs of his coffee. It was cold. He went to the sink, rinsed the mug under the tap and left it turned upside down to dry on the old-fashioned porcelain drainer.
The soft toot of a car horn indicated the a
rrival of the taxi at the gate. Whistling ‘Travelling Light’ he left the house, locked the door behind him and put the key under an upturned flowerpot. No doubt Mrs. Murphy would be in first thing on Monday morning to give the house its ritual, absent-Jack, going over. It happened every time he went away. He took one last look at the cottage before turning his back and walking down the path to the waiting car.
Clouds of smoke billowed through the driver’s wound down window. The car boot was open ready so he placed his case inside and closed the lid with a soft thump. As if it had been a signal, a burning cigarette-end flew out of the car and landed on the grass of the kerb. Disgusting habit. Jack coughed out loud, but refrained from comment. The car engine purred into life.
“Where to, mate?” The question was accompanied by a mucus filled sniff.
“The train station. ” Jack said, getting in the back and shutting the door.
The taxi sped through the rolling green of the Galway countryside. In the distance, high up on a hill, the outline of Aughnanure Castle rose tall above the trees surrounding it. Just the sight of it broke Jack out in a cold sweat, but he didn't take his eyes off it for as long as it was in view. If he’d been an owl he’d have twisted his head full-circle to keep it in sight. The place had become something of an obsession with him, almost as bad as his obsession with meeting Patrick face to face.
There's some history there and its buried deep. Now is not the moment. Its been there for a long time and God willing, it’ll still be there when I get back.
Chapter 5
Thorney, England 2010
The two men held him down and tied him to a chair. When he was bound and gagged, with one swift, well-practised blow they drove the stake into his skull. It pierced through the bone with a sickening crunch.
Darkness. There is nothing but darkness until the infinite silence is broken by a faint, soft trickling of water. The sound of water turns into the ticking of a clock.
Brigitte woke, heart racing.
It's my clock. It's my room.
She was curled in a ball under the blankets. It didn’t matter how many times the same nightmares woke her, every cell in her body vibrated in fear. She lay in the bed panting.
Why didn't I tell Paul about this?
Brigitte slapped on the light switch in the hope the brightness would erase the memory of the dream. Illuminated, the bedroom looked normal, but things just didn’t seem the same. She climbed from the bed exhausted and went to the bathroom to splash water on her face. The mirror reflected an image of a woman who had cried in her sleep.
Thank God, it's Sunday and there's no work or school. I can't cope with another day.
She went to the kitchen and sat there. The low drone of the refrigerator keeping her company. The girls were still sleeping. The hands on the clock crept millimetre by millimetre to ten-thirty.
With the window blind pulled down to keep out the morning's brightness she stayed there in the dark, brooding. Still the pictures of the execution wouldn’t fade from her mind. Afraid and pathetically sad she mourned the fate of the man. Her mind wandered again to the brutality of his final scenario and the tears flowed down her face.
Moping is getting me nowhere. Do something, Brig. Something, anything, to take your mind off it. Go and read your emails.
In her study, the morning sun filtered through the white-gauze curtains drawn across the ceiling-high glass doors. She had to blink her tired eyes a few times until they adjusted to the light. Her desk, as always, was a mound of bills and paperwork. With a practised art she focused on the silk sunflowers in the blue-moon shaped vase and without even thinking about the dust, switched on the computer.
MSN greeted her with a good morning and nothing more exciting than the newest edition of National Geographic on-line. Armchair travel is better than none.
She clicked through the colourful presentation until a digital publicity brochure titled ‘Bed and Breakfast in Galway’ caught her eye. In the main photograph a huge white house stood on the shores of a placid lake. It looked a peaceful place to stay. B&B and R&R. I could do with some of that. After the night she’d had the tranquil scene drew her to it and she read on, but there was nothing much of interest in the small text which accompanied the picture. In her imagination she began to build a fantasy weekend away, without the girls, to somewhere new and different. If nothing else it would take her mind off the nightmare.
Another click of the mouse-button took her off-sight and into an article, ‘Places to visit in Galway’, dragging her further into her make-believe plans. Old ruins and museums attracted her like a magnet and without even realising it, she started browsing through a photographic array of the Irish county’s castles. As she scrolled, shadowy images of tower houses and bastions of the past flicked across the screen. Then, there it was.
I'm going to be sick.
A fleeting memory of a stake crunching through skull bone sent her running to the bathroom.The castle was still there on the screen when she returned. Why would it have disappeared? Oh God, my brain's not functioning. She read through the brief article. It described a late, sixteenth century structure and nothing more. It's the same one. I know it is. There's the bridge of planks. The same one which extended across the moat. The same one I walked across in the dream. It's the same one. I know it is. I can't take any more.
She closed the page and powered down the computer, before going back to sit in the kitchen. She willed the girls to wake-up and come down for breakfast, desperate for any distraction. The yellow note about her appointment with Paul still glowed bright against the white gloss of the fridge. On the spur of the moment she decided to call him again. The ring tone went on forever before he picked up the phone.
“Hello, Paul. It’s Brigitte here.”
“How is it I can tell, just from your voice, something else has happened hasn’t it?” He sounded sleepy.
The first words were a struggle to get out. “Actually, it’s not just something, it’s a lot.” She was close to tears. Trying to convince herself she was being ridiculous hadn’t worked and there was an audible note of rising panic in her voice.
“Do you want to come and see me in the office tomorrow?”
Did he really just yawn? “I was really wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes, it is that bad. Well, bad enough to make me think I won’t sleep tonight if I don’t get it off my chest.”
“I was planning on having a quiet night in, but I’d much rather spend it in your company.” Desperate to talk to someone, she ignored the insinuation. “Where do you want to meet? In The Roses at eight?”
“That’s fine by me. See you then, and Paul... thank you.”
“Any time Brigitte, you know that... and for anything.”
At a quarter to eight, Brigitte was sitting in the Snug and already half way through her first gin and tonic. The dim lighting of the Tudor style pub and its labyrinth of rooms suited her mood. The red velour upholstery of the window seat prickled hard against her leg and reminded her of the train in the dream. Ice clinked against glass as she downed the rest of her drink. Paul's not here. I've time for another one.
Standing at the bar, waiting to be served, she watched the pub’s landlord through the connecting doorway. With his back turned to her he was handing drinks to a man in the main bar. The customer seemed to be stooped at the shoulders under the low ceiling, the timber beams almost brushing the top of his head. He took his change and picked up his drinks. Turning from the bar to go to his table he glanced in her direction. For a second their eyes met and Brigitte felt a warm rush of recognition. They half smiled at each other before he moved away and the publican’s bulky form blocked her view into the other room. Strange, he looks very familiar, but I can't remember ever meeting him before.
“Another one, Brigitte?” Stan’s question startled her.
“Sorry, I was miles away. Yes please, Stan. Make it a double would yo
u. It’ll save you having to keep coming through. It looks busy in there.” She nodded towards the bar.
“Fairy folk from the psychic fare.” He told her. “Don't normally drink in here, but I'm not complaining.” He held her empty glass up to the optic. The gin bubbled into the glass. “Sure you want a double? That’s not like you.”
“Yes Stan, pour it in, please. It’s just been one of those weeks.”
“Aye, well...” He acknowledged. “We all have those sometimes.” There was a faint hiss of escaping gas as he knocked the top off the bottle of tonic. “Here lass, have this one on me. Give me a shout if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, Stan.” Brigitte was surprised by his out of character generosity. “I’ll enjoy it twice as much.” He laughed and shuffled off with the gait of an overweight man wearing carpet slippers. There was nothing else to do, but sit back down and wait for Paul.
“Oh! This isn’t the bathroom either then unless I’m very much mistaken.”
The deep voice startled her. She’d been sipping her drink and watching the flames dance across the coals of the open fire. Lost in thought, Brigitte hadn’t noticed him come in. The man from the bar stood there.
“No,” she laughed “they’re a bit further down the passage on the right.” His accent isn’t foreign, but its not from around here either. Nice.
“Never was any good at physics or is it geography?” He laughed and shook his head, caught her eye again and smiled. From the doorway he still looked familiar, but if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to put a name to his strong featured face.
A soft, cool breeze tickled at the strands of hair on her forehead and a sudden drop in the room temperature raised goose-bumps on her arms. The flames in the fire guttered. With one dark eyebrow raised in a quizzical expression he asked, “Did I disturb you?”
It wasn’t until much later the realization came. She’d answered his question and he’d responded before the door closed again. Though, as strange as it sounded, she really couldn’t remember him actually saying a word.