'You can only bury your head in the sand for so long. That is, if it's been affecting you the same way it's affected me,' Church began cautiously. He tapped the side of his head. 'I can't remember a thing about what happened, but my subconscious can see it in full, glorious Technicolor, and that little bastard at the back of my head won't let me rest until I sort it out.' Ruth nodded. 'So,' he added, almost dismissively, 'what I'm saying is, you were right.'
'I do love to hear people say that.' Ruth appraised Church carefully behind her smile. She instinctively felt he was a man she could trust; more than that, she felt he was someone she could actually like, although she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was that attracted her. There was an intensity about him that hinted at great depths, but an intriguing darkness too. 'So what do you suggest?'
Church took out a folded printout of the email he had received from Bob Rickard, the Fortean Times editor. 'I made a few enquiries online about what options are available for people with repressed memories.'
'This happens all the time, does it?'
'You'd be surprised. Apparently, it's de rigueur if you've been abducted by aliens. You thought that aching rectum was just haemorrhoids? Here's how you find out you've really had a nocturnal anal probe. Regression hypnosis. To be honest, the expert I contacted wasn't, let's say, enthusiastic about its effectiveness. Some people think it can screw you up even more. There's something called False Memory Syndrome where your memory's been polluted by stuff that's leaked in from your imagination, things you've read, other memories, so your mind actually creates a fantasy that it believes is real. The Royal College of Psychiatrists has banned its members from using any hypnotic method to recover memories, so this guy says. But then there're a whole bunch of other experts who claim it does work.'
'And the alternative?'
'Years, maybe decades, of therapy.'
Ruth sighed. 'I'm not too sure I'm comfortable with someone stomping around with hobnail boots in the depths of my mind.'
'So we'd only do it if we were desperate, right?' Church's statement hung in the air for a moment before he turned over the printout to reveal several scrawled names and numbers. 'I've got a list of qualified people here.'
Ruth closed her eyes and jabbed her finger down at random. 'They say a leap of faith can cause miracles.'
'Don't go getting all religious on me,' Church said as he circled the name. 'I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. The last thing I need is you telling me it was the Devil we saw.'
The appointment was fixed for three days hence. As the time grew closer, Church and Ruth found themselves growing increasingly anxious, as if whatever lay deep in their heads sensed its imminent removal and fought to stay in the comforting dark. Church received his first email from LauraDuSC~legion.com. She was Laura DuSantiago, a software designer at a computer games company in Bristol. She didn't actually say how the strange phenomena were connected, but she dropped some broad hints of a personal experience which had given her a unique insight. The ever more disturbing aspects of his own life had left Church oddly intrigued by what she had to say and he fired back an email straight away.
The day was bleakly cold, with depressing sheets of rain sweeping along Kensington High Street as Church and Ruth made their way west from the tube. There was no hint of spring around the corner. The street scene was a muddy mess of browns and greys, with the occasional red plastic sign adding a garish dash of colour. A heavy smog of car fumes had been dampened down to pavement level by the continuous downpour.
'When you're a kid the world never looks like this. What happened to all the magic?' Church said as they negotiated the honking, steaming traffic which was backed up in both directions for no apparent reason.
'Didn't they pass a law or something? It was putting the workers off their toil.' Ruth led them to shelter in W. H. Smiths' doorway for a while in the hope that the cloudburst would blow over, but their anxiety to reach the therapist's office soon drove them out again with Ruth holding a copy of Marie Claire over her head.
Their destination lay up a side road just off the High Street. They buzzed the entryphone and dashed in out of the rain. 'The pubs are open now,' Church suggested. Ruth smiled wanly; for a second she almost turned back.
The reception smelled of new carpets and polished furniture. It was functional and blandly decorated, with a blonde Sloane smiling behind a low desk. Stephen Delano, the therapist, stepped out of the back room the moment they entered, as if they had tripped some silent alarm. He was in his forties, with light brown hair that had been blow-dried back from a high forehead and a smile that wasn't exactly insincere, but which made Church uneasy nonetheless. He strode over and shook their hands forcefully.
'Good to see you. Come on through.' He led them into the rear office which was dark, warm and filled with several deep, comfortable chairs. The blinds were down and it was lit ambiently by a couple of small, well-placed lamps. Several pieces of recording equipment were sitting near the chairs. 'Welcome to the womb,' Delano said. 'I think you'll feel comfortable and secure here. You need to feel at ease.'
Ruth slipped into one of the chairs, put her head back and closed her eyes. 'Wake me when it's over.'
'You're absolutely sure you want to go through this together?' Delano continued. 'I think it would be more effective to do it separately, if only to prevent what one is saying influencing the other. This isn't like surgery. Memories are delicate, easily corrupted by outside sources.'
'We do it together,' Church said firmly. When they had discussed it earlier, they both instinctively felt it was something they could only face up to together.
'Well, you're the bosses.' Delano clapped his hands, then ushered Church into a chair next to Ruth's and manoeuvred a reel-to-reel recorder between them. 'So we have a good record of what you say,' he explained. 'I can transfer it to a cassette for you to take away, and I'll store the master here.'
After a brief explanation of the principle, he dimmed the lights even further with a hand-held remote control. Church expected to feel sleepy in the gloomy warmth, but the anxiety had set an uncomfortable resonance which seemed to be buzzing around his body. He turned to look at Ruth, her face pale in the dark. She smiled at him, but the unease was apparent in her eyes. Delano pulled up a chair opposite and began to talk in measured tones that were so low Church occasionally had trouble hearing him. After a minute or two, the words were rolling in and out of his consciousness like distant thunder and he was suspended in time.
For what could have been one minute or ten, the sensation was pleasurable, but then Church began to get an odd feeling of disquiet. On a level he couldn't quite grasp, he was sensing they were not alone in the room. He wanted to shout out a warning to Ruth and Delano, but his mouth wouldn't respond, nor would his neck muscles when he tried to turn his head so he could look around. He was convinced there was a presence somewhere in the shadows in the corner of the room, malign, watching them balefully, waiting for the right moment to make its move. When the sensation faded a moment later, Church convinced himself it was just a by-product of Delano's hypnosis, but it didn't go away completely.
'It is the morning of February 7,' Delano intoned calmly. 'Where are you, Jack?'
Church found himself talking even though he wasn't consciously aware of moving his mouth. 'I can't sleep. I've gone out for a walk to wear myself out so I'll drop off quickly. I have bad dreams.' He swallowed; his throat felt like it was closing up. 'It's foggy, a real pea-souper. I've never seen it like that before, like something out of Dickens. I see a woman washing something in the river …' A spasm convulsed him. 'No..
'It's okay, Jack. You rest a moment,' Delano said quickly. 'Ruth, where are you?'
Ruth's chest grew tighter; she sucked in a deep breath until her lungs burned. 'I've been to The Fridge. Clive is whining on. He realises we've got nothing in common.' Her voice turned spontaneously singsong: '`Why don't you do this? Why don't you do that?' He doesn't really want me, just the woman he thinks I am. He gets wound up … blows his top … walks off. I'm a bit frightened-it's so quiet, so still-but I try not to show it. I can make it home in a few minutes if I walk quickly. Then I hear the sound of … a fight? … coming from under the bridge.' Her breath became more laboured. She wondered obliquely if she was having a heart attack.
'Jack, do you hear the fight now?' Delano's voice seemed to be floating away from both of them.
'Yes. I was frightened by the old woman, but when I hear them fighting I forget her. I could walk on … ignore it … but that's not right. I've got to try to help. Somebody might be in trouble.'
'Are you afraid for yourself?'
'A little. But if I could do something to help I've got to try. Too many people walk by. I find the steps down to the river. They're wet … I go down slowly. There're more scuffling noises. A grunt. I wonder if there's an animal down there. Maybe a dog or … something. I can smell the river. Everywhere's so damp. My heart's beating so loud.
