In the Moors by Nina Milton

no previous job losses, no reason at all that her psyche might have taken this knock. Four weeks into our contract, I was wondering if I’d ever be able to help. I’d cut some old greetings cards into a pile of data sheets and noted down every scrap of information I had on her, setting my record cards out over the desk, trying to make sense of it: the stages of her life, the people she knew, the events of the last year, the symbols I’d brought back from my journeys, details of Marianne’s dreams, conversations, memories, repetitions. I’d shuffled them randomly then tried them in various orders, but it wasn’t until I laid them in columns that I saw the weight I’d put on Marianne’s past—her childhood, her lovers—rather than looking at her workplace. My gut feeling was that her problems had little to do with her job, but I was more than happy to be proved wrong.
    I had taken time to spiritually journey to Marianne’s office. I had left my brook with Trendle trotting at my side and walked in my mind until I’d suddenly found myself in a confined space no bigger than a box room, nearly filled with a desk of dark polished wood. In the centre of the desk a black telephone sat up proudly as if begging to be answered. It had to half a century old, with a circular dial and a fabric cord. It shrieked an outmoded ring tone … brum, brum … brum brum … that echoed inside my head like a constant cry of pain.
    â€œAnswer it , ”Trendle had said. I’d lifted the receiver. It was as heavy and cool as a stone. It smelt of chemicals and dust.
    â€œHello?” I said, feeling foolish.
    â€œYour name is on this document.” It was a man’s voice, cultured but gruff, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes.
    â€œWho is this?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t tell anyone I called you.”
    â€œWhat?” My voice rose. “Are you a spirit?”
    â€œI suggest you try to stay calm. Panic is your enemy.”
    â€œI’m not panicking,” I threw back, but suddenly that wasn’t true. The receiver was sticky with sweat under my hand.
    â€œDon’t bother packing your things.”
    The lined clicked dead and buzzed in my ear.
    I had stood in the silent, close room and felt it revolve around me until it faded from my sight. At last I had something different, something with an edge. I had no idea what I’d been given, but I was eager to tell Marianne.
    I gave her a spontaneous hug as we settled down in the therapy room. “How’s work going, now you’re back?” I asked, as I retrieved the notes of that last journey.
    â€œThings are all right. I feel sometimes wobbly.”
    â€œBut you manage.”
    Marianne nodded. I wouldn’t have noticed in normal lighting, but in the flickering glow of the candle, I could see that her cheeks were covered with a fine layer of perspiration. “I get through the day.”
    â€œHave you heard anything further about the redundancies?”
    â€œRumours are still flying around the building. But there are many people affected, not just me.” She examined her delicately pinked nails. “I don’t know why I took it that bad. No one else on the list had such a reaction. I did not know how pathetic I could be.”
    â€œRubbish. You come across as a strong person.”
    â€œNo longer. When they re-interview the posts, going off sick like that will count against me.” Marianne sat on the lounger with her hands folded like tidy napkins in her lap. They didn’t fidget, those hands, ever. They exuded utter composure.
    â€œWe are going to discover what this is about. Then you can walk into work like the old Marianne and knock ’em flat.”
    She shook her head. “I lost my nerve. You should never lose your nerve. At Simpson and Grouche, if you lose your nerve, you are as good as dead.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œDead in the water, as they