Dreams of Origami (8 page)

‘Or unless he doesn’t want to be found. Could he still be here?’

‘They’ve searched everywhere. Police had dogs out over the fields, and even looked up the old maps and charts in case there was some hidden well or earth works. They’ve found nothing.’

Gideon looks all around him again and nods his head slowly. ‘So, what do the officials think?’

‘I should warn you, the officer in charge is an arrogant bully. He doesn’t like female reporters, in fact he doesn’t think much of women in general. And I can’t see him approving of you, either. He seems to have decided that Triss is somehow responsible.’

‘That’s the wife?’

‘She’s in a very fragile state. He was here this morning and I hate to think—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful with her. Does she know about me?’

‘No, not a thing. I wasn’t sure if you would really turn up. Besides, I don’t think we should give her any false hopes. That’s why I wasn’t
intending to print anything about you being involved, not at the moment anyway. I thought we’d see how events turn out first. It might make a good story later, but only with your approval.’

He looks at her and sees the little white horse, with those brown eyes, the colour of dark toffee and so full of concern. ‘Your interest is beginning to sound more personal than professional.’

Lacey bites her lip. ‘There’s something wrong here, Gideon. I can feel it.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right. And those sorts of feelings should never be ignored.’

Triss answers the door at the second knock. She is now a wreck of a woman, her face red-raw from crying, eyes sunk deep in purple shadows. Her hair is lank and shapeless, although she has made the effort to run a comb through it. There are tea and coffee splashes down her front, as if she’s worn the same jumper and jeans for several days, perhaps slept in them, if she has slept at all. She almost falls onto Lacey, who wraps both arms around her and rocks her gently. Watching them, Gideon dismisses all notions of Lacey being here as a reporter.

There is the inevitable brewing of tea as Gideon is introduced. ‘A friend,’ Lacey says, neatly avoiding any mention of the real reason he was asked to get involved. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I thought he might be able to help.’

‘I’m a writer.’ Gideon takes up the pretence. ‘We tend to be observant—think about things in a different way. Lacey was hoping I might spot something that’s been overlooked.’

Triss nods, accepting his presence, and clears a space on the table.

‘These are pretty.’ Gideon picks up one of the partially painted birds. ‘You’re quite creative, then?’

‘Not enough to earn a living as an artist, I’m afraid, although I did go to art school. I’ve sold a few watercolours. This is part-time work, to bring in some extra cash. Kath, that’s the woman who runs the
company, she said not to worry about it. But I’ve got to do something or I’ll go crazy.’

Gideon turns the little figurine around in his hands. ‘You don’t have any family, then?’

‘No, I was an only child and both my parents are dead. Matthew’s all alone, too. I think that’s one of the things that drew us together. Perhaps we relied on each other too much, so we didn’t make too many friends.’

‘And nothing’s happened since yesterday?’

‘The police were here this morning,’ she says. ‘They keep asking me more and more questions. Things from the past, you know, about when I was ill. I don’t think they believe me, and I’m frightened they’re going to stop looking.’

Gideon slides his hands across the table, taking hold of hers and trying to make it look like a casual gesture of comfort. It’s easier to read her aura if he makes direct physical contact. ‘Yes, I know they can appear to be doing nothing at times, but don’t you believe it. And they’re experts at being unpleasant, it’s all part of the job. This Fletcher, I bet he’s like a Jack Russell down a rabbit hole. Once he’s on to something, he won’t let go.’ He actually gets a smile out of her. ‘Don’t you worry, they’re doing everything they can and they won’t stop until they find him.’

‘And I’m making sure the newspaper keeps up the pressure.’ Lacey brings mugs of tea over to the table. ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’

‘Audrey was here this morning. She made us some lunch.’

Gideon is aware of the ticking of the old clock on the wall, the comfortable kitchen, and the rack of freshly washed dishes on the draining board. ‘Would you mind if I take a look around?’ he asks. ‘I’d like to get a feel of the place. Particularly the workshop—that’s where you last saw him, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Yes, please go wherever you like. The workshop is through there. The bedrooms are upstairs, and the door next to the staircase leads through the hall to the sitting room and a small office. Will you be all right on your own?’

‘Fine. You two stay there.’

Gideon goes through to the back of the house and finds a room with a brick fireplace and a high mantelshelf. Everything is clean and cosy, but the furniture seems out of place, as if it were bought for another, more modern, house, and an attempt has been made to adapt what they have with printed cushions and curtains. He guesses the watercolour scenes of Norfolk are Triss’s own work. Presentable, but no great talent. The small room next door has a desk loaded with papers and box files. All his senses are alert, searching for the residue of some violent act, some emotional trauma that has left its imprint on the atmosphere. But he feels nothing. He can still hear the ticking of the kitchen clock, although that can’t be possible as it is two rooms away. No, it has somehow become synchronized with the subliminal hum of the energy field that permeates the whole building. What the hell is it?

Upstairs, the bed is neatly made and the objects on the dressing table, all feminine things, arranged for pleasing effect. That’s to be expected, a shared bedroom is always the woman’s domain. It is in the bathroom that he finds Matthew: electric razor, aftershave, separate shower gel, soaps and sponges. He can picture a man at the handbasin looking into the mirror, calling out to his wife in the next room. Light brown hair, almost blond, brown eyes, the same man who was in the newspaper. The man from his dream.

He stops by the landing window where he can feel the wind tugging at the sash. He looks out at the farmland behind the house, a vast lake of ripening grain, waves rippling its surface. Is it barley or wheat? He isn’t sure. He can see an island, the trees and rooftops of Covington village, a church spire pointing to the sky. His mind reaches out, thoughts travelling like the wind over the fields, searching, listening.
Where are you, Matthew Caxton? Speak to me.
But nothing comes back to him, only the cold draught rattling the panes of glass.

Downstairs, he passes through the kitchen again. The two women are still at the table, heads close together. He can feel the connection between them, like sisters. They are both strong in different ways: Lacey is determined, a warrior who has found a cause; Triss is
tenacious, like a spider’s web, but can be stretched only so far. How long until she breaks?

‘I’ll go through to the workshop,’ he says quietly. Lacey nods, and then turns back to Triss.

He steps down into what was once the schoolroom, dusty and crammed with furniture and tools. The bench is scattered with brass studs, like thick drawing pins, and, among them, a small hammer. It looks as if Matthew should still be here, as if he has only stepped out for a moment. Gideon looks to the outside entrance. No, he may well have stepped out, but not through there. The room feels empty—except for that sound.

Suddenly it rushes in at Gideon, like a wave, bending the air, lifting him. He grasps hold of a chair to regain his balance, instinctively gathering and condensing his own energies, grounding himself. For a moment, he definitely felt the world around him waver.

Behind him, the kitchen door creaks, and he turns to see Lacey coming in to join him. She walks over to the bench and picks up one of the brass tacks, turning it in her fingers. ‘Well, have you found out anything?’

‘No, nothing. That in itself is interesting. Matthew was here and then he wasn’t. That’s all I can tell you at present.’ He runs a hand over the velvet cover of the chair Matthew was working on. ‘Listen a moment: can you hear anything?’

Lacey holds perfectly still as seconds pass, then slowly shakes her head. ‘What am I listening for?’

‘Can you hear a humming sound?’

She listens again. ‘No, only the wind.’ She places the tack down in the exact same spot on the bench. ‘If something had happened to him…I mean…if he were dead, would you be able to tell?’

He hears something in her voice, a question behind the question. ‘Do you mean, am I able to talk to dead people? Why do you ask me that?’

‘I thought that…if somehow…well, at least we would know, wouldn’t we? Perhaps have some idea of where to look.’

‘I don’t think he is dead. That may or may not be a good thing.’

‘But people like you do claim to be able to contact the dead, don’t they?’

‘Survival after death is central to most belief systems. Contact from beyond the grave has been reported through every civilization from the dawn of mankind. Thousands of books have been published describing sightings of ghosts and communications from the spirit world. Messages have revealed facts that no one alive could have ever known. Yet sceptics still maintain there is no proof. So…what do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lacey picks up the tack hammer and holds it by the handle, weighing the metal head in her palm. ‘I suppose we would all like to believe there is something more, that people don’t just cease being.’

‘May I see that?’ Gideon holds out his hand and takes the hammer from her. He is aware that this was probably the last object that Matthew held. ‘Please be my witness. I’m going to borrow this.’ He slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It will be returned, I assure you.’

‘So, what happens now?’

‘I want to go home and think about this. I’ll call you in the morning—and I might want to come back, if that’s all right.’

‘But what about Triss?’

‘Triss? Not good. I think she is walking along a very narrow wire. The slightest tremor and she’ll fall.’

Everything you experience happens inside your head and is stored within your brain as you experience it, regardless of whether or not those experiences were associated with external stimuli.

Try this small experiment. Choose a subject that you have encountered both in real life and in a dream. Something easily imagined, such as a horse. Close your eyes and relax. First, go to a memory of an actual horse you have seen in real life. Picture it as clearly as you can and hold the image for a few moments. Then recall a dream in which you have seen the same, or a similar creature, again holding the image clearly. Lastly, imagine the horse standing a couple of metres away from where you are now seated. Visualize it as clearly and in as much detail as possible. Then open your eyes.

Now, recall each of those three images in turn. It may be that there are associated events surrounding the experiences which will remind you that one was an event, or that one was a dream. Try to disregard those and concentrate purely on the quality of the images. Without other memories to give you a clue, how do you distinguish between them? Is there anything about the images themselves that enables you to differentiate between a memory, a dream and a creation of the imagination? I would guess not.

If the sum total of your experience is stored inside your brain, and if you have no way of knowing, other than by association, whether your memories originate from dreams, from mundane experience or from your own imagination, how do you distinguish between the real and the unreal?

Extract from
The Cosmos of Illusions
by Gideon Wakefield

L
ACEY DROPS THE BAGS
of shopping on the kitchen bench before going through to the bathroom to freshen up. It has only just gone five—plenty of time before Audrey arrives, and hopefully Drew will be back by then. She runs the hot tap and washes her hands and face.

She had no clear expectations of what Gideon would, or could, do, and the afternoon with him has left her no wiser. He said nothing other than to confirm her own thoughts and fears, although that in itself was a relief, especially since her run-in with Fletcher, who clearly suspects Triss, and who was not far short of accusing her, Lacey, of conspiring with her. But there was something about Gideon’s very presence at the house that gave her hope. At long last something was happening about Matthew.

She still isn’t sure about the things Gideon believes in. Though, what
does
he believe in? That isn’t clear, either. Strange man, not at all how she would have imagined a psychic, not that she had ever met one before. There were those people on television, of course, the chat-show mediums and the crime-scene psychics. But that was all fast talk for the cameras and the studio audience. She can’t imagine Gideon being involved in anything like that. Perhaps she ought to read one of his books.

She makes her way upstairs to the bedroom, rummaging in her bag for makeup and a hairbrush. A squirt of perfume and she’ll be ready to face the evening and Audrey Stanton. Standing by the dressing table she glances out of the window that overlooks the back field. Yes, she can understand why Drew lives here. Acres of pale grain reaching to the horizon, stitched through with rough hedgerows, an occasional cluster of farm buildings and a sky that goes on forever. It’s another world.

Suddenly she sees it, to the left of the house towards the Hendersons’ farmyard and a few yards into the field. A perfect circle. From here it looks enormous. Could she get a closer look? Well, Drew isn’t here and Kenny Henderson’s nursing a broken arm, which probably means that Bill is busy at the farmhouse. Right, where’s that printout of the stuff she found on the internet? Yes, still in her bag. Something about the way the stems are broken or bent, that’s how you can tell a real one from a fake. Although Drew is probably right and they’re all fake. Still…

Seeing the circle is one thing, reaching it quite another. For a start, high heels don’t work on ploughed fields. Fortunately, there’s a collection of Wellington boots by the back door. Then it’s a matter of climbing over the back fence and crossing the ditch. She has to come back inside for the key to the big shed where Drew stores his building equipment and materials, including, among heaps of other stuff, some thick planks of wood. Then all she has to do is drag one of the boards down the garden, through the fence, and place it over the ditch so that she can wobble across on it, while wearing wellies at least five sizes too big for her feet. Lois Lane, eat your heart out! Still, if it turns out to be a genuine crop circle…

But it isn’t. It certainly looks impressive, about twenty feet in diameter, the barley lying flat and spiralling out from a central point as if a vortex had descended from the sky. But then she bends down to examine the stems closely and checks her findings against the photographs on the printout. In the genuine thing (well, what the so-called experts reckon are genuine), the stems are simply bent. According to the notes, each plant should look as if it has been charred by a short burst of high heat, pressed down to lie flat, then allowed to cool and harden into the new shape. Apparently, microwaves or ultrasound are the only known energy sources to cause this. She compares the photograph of a distorted stem of wheat with those in the circle of barley. Nothing like it.

The fakers have obviously been at work here with an old door, shifting it around in a circle and pressing it flat with their own weight, just as Drew said. Feeling disappointed and more than a little angry,
she plods back to the makeshift bridge and the fence, muttering about idiots who have nothing better to do than waste their time and hers. Trust Drew to be right. Good old sensible Drew.

Lacey is in the process of dragging the plank back into the shed when she senses she is being watched. She turns to find Drew leaning against the frame of the open back door, a smirk spread all over his face.

‘Why are you wearing my wellies? And what are you doing with the trestle board?’

Damn. Caught red-handed. Lacey can’t believe this—she’s actually blushing, which, of course, only encourages him.

‘Planning a little surprise for later, were you? Something a little kinky? I admit I could get turned on by the rubber boots, but I can’t imagine what you had in mind for that plank.’

‘Oh, shut up. Look, there’s a perfectly simple explanation.’

‘Yes, and I can’t wait to hear it. But Audrey should be here in ten minutes, and I really do need a shower.’

‘White will do very nicely, thank you.’ Audrey eases herself down into an armchair. ‘Pleasant room, Mr Burrows, I must say you’ve done well here, got it really shipshape. But I suppose being a builder—’

‘Please call me Drew. “Mr Burrows” reminds me of when I used to stand in front of a class of spotty kids.’

‘And I’m Lacey.’ She perches on the arm of the sofa next to Drew, trying not to spill her wine.

‘Ah, yes, now I think apologies may be in order. I’m afraid I was a little sharp with you the first time we met.’

‘No, that’s understandable. Reporters aren’t the most popular of people.’

‘And often for good reason. But I understand you’ve been very kind to Triss. They’re a nice young couple. I dread to think what may have happened to him, and the effect it’s having on Triss is terrible to watch. However, she seems to trust you. And I do understand the importance of publicity in these cases, although I don’t understand why you’d want
to drag up all those folk tales about the Fenlands. If you ask me it’s a lot of superstitious nonsense, so I can’t really help you there. Wouldn’t you be better employed looking for Matthew Caxton?’

‘I’m trying to help do just that. It’s really about keeping it in the public’s view. Anything you can tell us about the area that would keep the story on the page would be useful. Besides, with Drew being a neighbour, and me visiting Triss over the past few days…well—’

‘What she’s trying to say,’ Drew cuts in, ‘is that she’s got herself personally involved, which is totally unprofessional, and now she won’t let it rest until Matthew’s found.’

‘Ah, well, that puts the matter in a different light. How can I help?’

‘I gather you know quite a bit about Fenland history. Aren’t you something to do with local records?’

‘Archivist. Used to work for the Fitzwilliam Museum before I retired. Keep my hand in with the Historical Society now. Voluntary, of course.’

Lacey has all her fingers crossed. ‘So, do you know anything about Covington and Gainsborough Street?’

‘When I moved here, I naturally found out what I could about the village and this road. That would be, what, ten years ago now? It was mainly the cottages I was interested in, although I did come across some information about the schoolhouse. I do have access to most of the recorded history of the area, but this was a bit short notice. Still, if you can give me a day or two I could have a dig around, see what else I can find, if that would help.’

‘That would be fantastic.’ Drew thrusts a plate at her. ‘Here, have some cheese and crackers. Can I get you some more wine?’

‘Could you look out for anything odd that’s happened here?’ says Lacey. ‘That would be great. Meantime, perhaps you could tell us what you
do
know?’

‘About Covington? It’s a typical Cambridgeshire village, built right on the edge of the Fens. You must understand that Cambridgeshire was a very different place then. What we call the Fenlands is now an agricultural area. Back then, it was virtually all wetland. It covered
a good part of East Anglia. At that time, Cambridge itself was much smaller and Covington would have been a long way outside the city boundary. Likely a good stopping place on the way to the cathedral city of Ely; traders and the like, and of course pilgrims going to visit the shrine of Saint Etheldreda. A few of the Covington houses date back to the fifteen-hundreds, but there was, no doubt, some sort of community here long before that. This was a wild and desolate place, and once past Covington it was all bogs crossed by rough tracks, and for a good part of the year they were underwater. The Romans constructed the causeway to Ely, but that often flooded.’

‘Wasn’t it called the Isle of Ely?’

‘Yes, and for good reason. A lot of the time it was surrounded and completely cut off. The name actually means Isle of Eels. Waters were full of them; they were used as currency.’

‘You’re joking!’ Drew tosses an olive into the air, catching it in his mouth.

‘Not at all. The land was still worked. People farmed for fish and eels. They harvested reeds for thatching. Wetland birds and their eggs would have been plentiful in the summer, though God knows how anyone survived the winters. City people believed that the Fen dwellers had webbed feet—at least, that was the popular joke—and they were certainly uncivilized and probably dangerous.’

‘Hard to imagine now,’ says Lacey. ‘Ely is—what—less than half an hour’s drive from Cambridge. How did people manage to get there?’

‘Walked, usually, which wasn’t easy. It could have taken several days. A number of monasteries were established in this area. One of their functions was to accommodate the pilgrims. You’d know of Anglesey Abbey, and Denny Abbey, just up the road. There were quite a few others, one near Covington apparently, although there’s no trace left of it now. There were some inns, of course, in the villages. But travel was a perilous business; you took your life in your hands if you ventured out this way unescorted. If you didn’t get robbed, you’d likely miss the road and sink without trace.’

‘I’m amazed anyone survived out here.’

‘Fen people are tough, I can tell you. Somehow they scratched out
a living, despite being the poorest of the poor. Even those who found employment often saw their families go hungry. But there were good seasons, too—enough fish to go around, and there was always a market for thatching reeds. Trouble came when the land started being turned over to agriculture. While the farmers grew rich, others lost their livelihood, such as it was, and even those who found employment as farm labourers got a poor deal. Consequently, there was quite a bit of resistance to the changes.’

‘So, when were the Fens drained?’

‘It started in the seventeenth century, I believe. But Bill Henderson is your man for that. He’s something to do with the Fenland museum. The Hendersons’ farm was established, and this lane opened up, when the fields around us were reclaimed.’

‘How come it’s called Gainsborough Street?’ asks Drew. ‘It’s hardly what you’d call a street, is it?’

‘Samuel Gainsborough Street, that was his name—thought you would have known that.’

Drew tosses another olive and misses this time. Audrey watches it bounce across the carpet.

‘So it was actually named after someone? Who was he?’

‘A wealthy dignitary of Cambridge at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Businessman and landowner, with family connections in Covington. Very concerned about the welfare of the local farm workers and their families. They were disgracefully overworked and underpaid, and were forced to exist in dreadful conditions. The work was backbreaking, and even if the farmer owned workers’ cottages in the village—you know, what they call tied cottages—the workers often had to walk miles to reach the fields. Still, that was better for their families than living in isolation. Anyway, Samuel Street had this concept of a small community within walking distance of Covington that would give the labourers and their foremen easy access to their working areas. He financed the building of two rows of cottages for the labourers and a detached cottage for their foremen, nine dwellings in total, in the lane leading to the newly claimed farmland. They may look very basic to us now, but compared to what labourers’ families
were used to, they were the height of luxury. Street hoped it would be a model for other rural communities.’

‘Still sounds pretty grim being stuck out here.’ Drew makes another round with the wine bottle. ‘Covington isn’t exactly a metropolis.’

Audrey holds out her glass without prompting, much to Lacey’s amusement. She might look like a straight-laced spinster, but she can sure knock it back.