Vicious Circle

This time it didn’t take a while: it didn’t take any time at all. Raw emotion hit me like a wall. I must have gasped, because Steve was staring at me with surprise and concern—and maybe, underneath that, with something like distaste.

Abbie’s emotions when she held her foam-stuffed friend must have been enormously powerful: powerful enough to linger there, like a recording, for me to pick up. Or maybe the power came from the sheer simplicity, because there was really only one impression there: desperate, aching unhappiness, so deep it was like being at the bottom of a well without knowing how you’d fallen into it.

It took an effort not to throw back my head and howl. If I’d been alone that’s probably what I would have done, because emotion that strong, even when it’s somebody else’s to start with, throws you off balance in all kinds of surprising ways if you can’t vent it somehow.

It was an equally intense effort to put the doll down again: it seemed welded to my hands. After I’d done it, I took a few seconds to recover before I tried to talk.

So Torrington got in first. “Is there anything there?” he asked.

I nodded wordlessly.

“A—a trail you can follow?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I said. It came out more brusquely than I intended—probably the after-effect of all that black misery, still sloshing around my system, but in any case I’m lousy at the bedside manner stuff. I hate having to explain myself, even to intelligent people who can meet me more than halfway. I tried anyway. “I’m reading old emotions, not current ones. I’m not reaching out to Abbie wherever she is now, just . . . getting a sense of her, as she was when she was alive. But yes, there’s something there. Enough so that I’ll recognize her if I ever see her, or get close to her. It’s a start.”

“A start?” Steve repeated. Solicitors know the importance of a contract, even when it’s just a verbal one.

“Can I keep this stuff overnight?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I nodded, feeling a weight settle on me that was different from the weight of Abbie’s emotion. “Then here’s what I’m offering, if you’re still interested. I don’t know if I can bring Abbie back to you. Like I said, that depends where she is. If her spirit’s gone on to the next station on the line, whatever you want to call that, then nobody can find her for you and nobody can get to where she is. But I may be able to give you an answer to that question—let you know what the odds are. And if she is still around—still with us—then there are a few things we can try. If she isn’t . . .” I shrugged. “Well, at least you’ll know where you stand. Is that any use to you, or would you rather shop elsewhere?”

Torrington was nodding emphatically, and he started to discuss payment—which most prospective clients get to at a much earlier stage of the conversation. I decided to dodge that issue for now, because I still wasn’t sure how far I could run with this. If I did hit a brick wall I’d want to just tell them that and get away clean: the hassle of returning a deposit would add all kinds of awkwardness to a situation that was already nasty enough. “You can pay me if I decide to take the case on,” I said.

Torrington looked alarmed. “But you said—”

“This first part is just triage. Just—testing the ground. Let’s keep it on that basis for now. There’s no point you laying any money down in case I come up with a blank. But if you leave it with me overnight, we can talk some more tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to go over this stuff a bit more thoroughly.”

Torrington took the hint and stood up to leave.

“Should I call you in the morning?” he asked.

“I’ve got your number,” I countered. “I’ll call you.” Looking into his eyes, caught in the headlights of his grief, I relented slightly. “Tonight. I’ll try to call you tonight. I should have a bit more information for you then.”

I saw him to the door, and he started down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom he looked back, as if conscious that I was still watching. Caught out, I closed the door. There’s something magnetic about tragedy. What I was doing was the equivalent of slowing down on the motorway to watch a wreck in the opposite carriageway. I felt a brief twinge of unease and self-disgust.