Angel's Fury (7 page)

For one moment I hang suspended from the fence, a deformed scarecrow. There the rain washes my face and I catch my breath, trying to gauge how badly I’m cut.

Too late I hear a creak. I start to wriggle but, before I can escape, the posts give way – and this time when I fall barbed wire is tangled around me.

Every time I hit the hillside it’s agony. The thud and crash of plummeting fence posts surrounds me and I try to cover my head as I come to rest at the bottom of the slope.

Foolishly I roll and my movement tugs at the last post standing. The rain disguises the crack of rotting timber, but then the final stake hammers into my thighs and drives quills of wire through my trousers.

I scream and curse; my uniform is as much protection as soggy paper. Every breath forces metal thorns into my skin and I can’t move without unbelievable pain.

Whimpering I strain to pierce the curtain of rain. I can see nothing but swampland, empty of life. I hitch a breath and raise my head, looking for help. Seeing no one, I let my cheek fall into a hollow.

For a moment exhaustion overtakes me. I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed and, even then, nightmares drove me awake. A trancelike state brings relief that’s almost pleasant. I allow myself to drift, not quite conscious.

But then the hollow fills with water, I have to lift my head and the twin torments of pain and panic return.

Someone must have been tracking me. They had to have seen me fall.

Volleys of rain drench my back. Chilled, I groan through chattering teeth. Even that small movement works the barbs further in.

My blood fouls the puddle as it creeps up my cheek. I turn one eye to face the lashing rain. The horizon is grey. No sunlight spears the earth; no blue breaks the cloud. It looks like the end of the world.

With every other breath now I have to clear my mouth. My neck
cramps as I try to hold my head out of the deepening quagmire and, although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, the cramp hurts as much as the barbed wire does.

I try to squirm free of the wood that pins me. I only have to move a few inches to escape the water but I can’t. The wire and my cramping muscles keep me frozen in place. For the first time in my life I cannot make my body obey me.

The rain pounds on. It is as though God himself intends to hold my face in the water. I let my neck droop, but when my lungs set on fire I pull it up again.

My neck seizes and a spasm crackles along my back. Wire tears my skin. Too weak even to scream, I cry for the woman I love and let my head fall; I cannot lift it again.

And yet at the end, I am almost relieved. Now there will be no more nightmares.

‘Help me.’

‘Describe the dream – don’t let it go.’

‘Somebody help!’ It must have been the drugs but I was in a strange half-and-half place. I knew I was awake, but was so filled with the dream that I was drowned in the terror of it.
I struggled against the wires that held me down and cracked my head on the metal helmet. I screamed for help and although I barely knew what I was saying I was unable to resist the Doctor’s instructions.

‘Gun’s jammed. Blood in my eyes. Can’t see. They’re after me. Killed the others. Falling into barbed wire. Wraps like a Nixe.’ I screamed as pains sizzled once more along my arms and legs. Distantly I registered the hoarseness of my own voice. ‘Post landed on me. Can’t move. Help me.’

Mum’s arms enveloped me. ‘Cassie, I’m here, it’s alright.’

‘Mrs Farrier, you’re ruining my readings. You need to step away.’

‘You have enough. Get my daughter out of this thing.’

‘What’s a
Nixe
?’

‘What?’

I was huddled in a chair back in the Doctor’s office. A blanket was wrapped around my shoulders but my teeth still chattered and my thighs twitched with phantom pains. This new dream had been the worst by far and my shaking wasn’t only due to the memory of unutterable cold.

‘A
Nixe
, what is it?’

‘I d-don’t know. I’ve never heard that word before.’ Something tickled the back of my head, a thought like a feather, but I couldn’t grasp it.

‘You said it when you woke up; you must know what it means.’ The Doctor didn’t seem worried or annoyed. She typed a note on her computer and looked at me, quizzical.

‘I really d-don’t.’ I shook my head and clutched the blanket tighter.

‘Interesting.’ The Doctor met my gaze and in her eyes I saw an abyss. Disorientated, I rocked in my chair as she turned to my mother and cut me out of the conversation. ‘Mrs Farrier, we need to run more tests.’ She held up a palm as Mum’s back stiffened. ‘I don’t want to get too technical, but the equipment showed that when Cassie was asleep it wasn’t just her brainstem, the part of her brain that normally deals with sleep, that was active. It was her whole brain, particularly the amygdalae, which deal with what’s called emotional memory.’

Mum shuffled her feet.

Good . . . Mum doesn’t understand either.

The Doctor sighed. ‘Basically, Mrs Smith, your daughter wasn’t just dreaming, she was remembering.’

Mum pursed her lips. ‘How can she remember something that hasn’t happened to her?’

Mum’s right – that’s impossible.

The Doctor steepled her fingers. ‘The event did happen to her, but not in this lifetime.’

Mum frowned. ‘But the dream she just had, it’s different from the one that she’s been having about the little girl.’ She looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.

The Doctor regarded me as if I was an autopsied frog. ‘Do you have a number of different, violent dreams?’

I thought of the recent variations in my night-time horror show. This was the first time the Doctor had said anything that sounded as if she truly understood what was happening to me and I nodded eagerly.

The Doctor hummed and turned to Mum once more. ‘If your daughter has been reincarnated, there’s no reason to assume it has only happened once. Her strongest memories will be from the most recent lifetime and, strengthened even more by the physical stimuli of her visit to Germany, they may have led her to the gravesite.’ She tapped her nails on the desk and went on. ‘However, she could also be experiencing memories from earlier incarnations
and there may be any number of them. From the description she gave us, the dream-memory she experienced today could have been from any historically recent conflict, the First World War for example.’

Mum nodded but I struggled for breath.

I’ll never be cured.

I hunched further into the chair as the weight of a hundred lives pressed down on me. The image of the little Jewish girl floated in front of my eyes.

If the Doctor manages to get rid of Zillah another ghost will be there to take her place.

Hopelessly I opened my eyes to find the Doctor still speaking.

‘When your daughter first woke up she may have been speaking partially as an earlier personality. She was using words that her conscious self doesn’t know. I had Sandra do some research.’ The Doctor consulted her notes. ‘A
Nixe
was a water spirit that caused the drowning and miserable death of many German men.’ She smiled faintly. ‘It seems your daughter’s previous self was rather superstitious.’

Mum’s grip tightened. ‘Can you help her?’

The Doctor’s lips twitched. ‘This would have been easier if she
had been younger, but we can use hypnosis to bring her most recent previous self forward. Then there’s a technique called Rolfing, in which we stimulate certain muscles to reactivate repressed memories and help emotions to the surface.’

I pulled my hand from Mum’s and jumped to my feet. ‘Wait a minute! I don’t want to remember this stuff more clearly. You’re supposed to be finding a way to get rid of my nightmares.’

The Doctor cocked her head at me. ‘You need to experience these repressed emotions on a conscious level so you can learn to deal with them on every level: waking and sleeping.’

As if my legs had been cut out from under me I sagged back into the chair.

The Doctor removed a glossy brochure from her desk drawer and addressed Mum. ‘Look at this and get back to me, Mrs Farrier. We can talk about a financial plan later, if it’s an issue, but if I’m really to help, I need your daughter
here
.’ A manicured nail brushed the front of the leaflet.

I craned my neck as mum turned the brochure over. It looked like a country house. ‘I-is this is where you wanted to take her thirteen years ago?’

The tip of a very pink tongue appeared between the Doctor’s
lips. ‘It’s a facility where I work with a small team on
real
cases of reincarnation. If you decide you want my help, your daughter would have to move in. She would receive the best physiological and psychiatric care, all the techniques we talked about.’ She glanced at me. ‘We also have a pool and tennis court for leisure time.’

Absently Mum gave her stock answer. ‘Cassie doesn’t like the water.’

I leaned over her arm for a better view of the brochure. ‘How long would I have to stay?’

‘Until we agree you’ve made progress.’ The Doctor shrugged. ‘Normally a few
months
.’

‘A few months.’ Mum’s head shot up. ‘What about school?’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘I can see you have a lot to think about. Don’t hesitate to call the office once you’ve made your decision.’

Our appointment was over.

‘Heaven shall remain closed to you . . . Unless the spirits you created in your lust overcome the restrictions of their fleshly bodies you will remain in this prison until the end of the world.’

S
omething had come loose. It had been rattling in the boot for the last ten miles. Dad twitched every time it knocked into my case but he didn’t stop to fix it.

‘It’s raining again,’ Mum murmured.

It had been a nice day when we’d set off but sporadic showers had begun just beyond Leeds: they changed lumbering lorries into terrifying beasts and painted the world grey.

Now off the motorway the colours changed and all around us rambling dry-stone walls cut across moors that glowed silver and mauve through the sheets of rain. It almost looked as if we were driving underwater.

Despite the jolting of the pock-marked roads I held my forehead to the window. I should have been feeling anticipation or excitement, but instead my stomach rolled with a jumble of travel sickness and queasy dread.

After a while I rubbed the tops of my shoulders and wondered if I could face Mum’s concern if I asked for a Nurofen.

Dad glanced at Mum. ‘Have you got the map?’ It was the first time he’d spoken since we’d left the motorway.

Mum unfolded a piece of A4 paper from her handbag and a lump settled in my throat.

We must be nearly there.

Mum obviously thought so too, because she turned in her seat. ‘You’ll behave, won’t you?’

I nodded.

Dad grunted. ‘Don’t think this is some sort of holiday. You’ll work to get well and when you come home you’ll study. Seeing as you won’t be able to do your exams this year, I expect your grades next year to be massively improved.’

I thought about the part-time work I’d just given up. ‘I’ll help pay for this. I can get another job.’

Dad jerked and Mum twisted aginst her seatbelt. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Her shoulders dropped. ‘Pumpkin, if you want to get a part-time job when you get home, that’s up to you. We want you to enjoy feeling healthy and happy, and if getting a job is part of it, that’s okay, but the money you earn, you keep. Dad and I are paying for this.’

Dad nodded.

‘But . . .’

‘Enough, Cassiopeia. We’ll manage.’ Dad slowed the car. ‘What turn am I looking for?’

Mum looked at the paper in her hand. ‘We’re coming up to a village called Harmon and looking for a left turning by the post office.’

Sure enough, as we turned a corner, a village appeared as if dropped there by the mist that coiled over the streams.

Over the village green a pub sign creaked loud enough to hear over the engine. It read
The Blacksmith’s Arms
. The crimson Post Office sign glowed next to it and an old-fashioned red telephone box guarded the other side of the road.

‘There.’ Mum pointed to a half-hidden junction and Dad turned the wheel.

The houses quickly thinned until only occasional outlying properties were left. They clung to the village boundary like remote stars in an expanding universe.

As we passed the final house, chickens reacted to the sound of our car and lined up the garden wall like a militia. The house had once been painted white but giant peeling patches and brown
mottling gave the appearance of diseased neglect. With no little sense of irony I read the crooked sign pinned to the gatepost: Hope Farm.

Mum’s knees began to jump up and down uncontrollably.

‘Mum?’

She started to speak as if I hadn’t. ‘You have to work to get well, Cassie. If this fails . . .’ She balled her fists on her knees. ‘Doctor Ashworth thinks she can help you, so you have to let her try.’ I met her eyes in the mirror. They were as wet as the car window. ‘This is all we’ve got,’ she whispered.

I didn’t know if she meant that the Doctor held all our hopes or all our money and I didn’t ask, because it didn’t matter either way.

If the Doctor can’t help me, I’ll have to stay this way for the rest of my life.

Suddenly the car crunched on gravel and Dad slowed. Whatever was rattling in the boot crashed into the suitcase and stopped.

There was a sign in front of us: Mount Hermon. Beneath the name was the Orion’s Belt logo I’d last seen on the Doctor’s laptop; it was the colour of blood. There was no building and no
gate, just the sign and a long gravel drive. We speeded up again.

Finally we rounded a corner and I had my first view of Mount Hermon. It was bigger than it had seemed on the brochure and I gasped; it looked like the set of an old film.