In the Moors by Nina Milton Page A

say. Washed up.”
    â€œMarianne, could you describe your office to me?”
    She didn’t even blink at my sudden change of direction. She’d gotten used to my often-bizarre questions. “Oh, it is good. Very light, you know. We grow plants in the windows.”
    I nodded. “You’re not cramped for space?”
    â€œNo, it is open plan.”
    I beat a tattoo with my pen on the paper. “Remind me who phoned you that afternoon?”
    â€œMy line manager, Will Clyde. He is a nice guy. He sent me flowers when I was off.”
    â€œWhat’s his voice like?”
    She frowned briefly. “Like … any man’s.”
    â€œNo distinguishing features?”
    â€œYes, he is Scottish, he has a slight accent.”
    â€œCan you remember his exact words?”
    Marianne shook her head. “I can’t remember much about what happened, Sabbie.”
    â€œYes. Of course. You were in shock—”
    â€œFit. It was like a fit.”
    â€œYou collapsed.”
    â€œI could not move. Like Lot’s wife.”
    I tried to cast my mind back to my years with Gloria. She’d had a strict Pentecostal upbringing and was always quoting things from the Bible. “Like a pillar of salt?” I hazarded. “Like you’d been petrified?”
    â€œPetrified is a good word,” Marianne agreed.
    â€œYou don’t recall anything?”
    â€œNo. Strange, that is, as I generally have a good memory.”
    I placed the writeup of my last journey in her lap. “Just look at the words in capital letters.”
    She glanced down. Almost instantly, she gave a sort of hiccup, as though forcing back tears.
    â€œDo the words make you feel a particular way?”
    â€œThe same.” Her breath was scraping through her throat as if it were closing over. “The very same, Sabbie. The words he used … the list for re-interviewing … that is what he said, more or less.”
    â€œPhones are funny things, sometimes,” I said. “You can’t see the person. It’s easy to muddle voices or mix one turn of phrase with another. In the end, it’s the words that will have an effect.”
    She trained her gaze on me. The only indication that I’d rattled her was the way the paper quivered in her hand. “What do you mean, Sabbie?”
    â€œI just want you to consider the possibility that you didn’t have that dreadful reaction because your job was on the line. Maybe, sometime in the past, you heard a similar voice, or similar words that really were a threat. To your life, even.”
    â€œBut, I know that cannot be so.”
    â€œYou were never mugged, or anything like that?”
    â€œNothing, Sabbie.”
    â€œI’d like you to read the whole report of my last journey. I’ll go and make us drinks to give you a moment. The usual for you?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    Already, her head was bent. I left her to it and went to put the kettle on. I knew every word of my report almost by heart. It had been the shortest journey I’d taken for her, but it was pivotal. I carried two lemon and ginger teas back in and set Marianne’s in front of her. I took a quick sip of mine. Most of the ginger went up my nose, making me blink.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI do not think this is my office. But this man on the phone. The words make me tremble.”
    I was sipping away at my too-hot tea, as if I wanted to be in sympathetic pain with my client. “It’s not your office, of course not. It belongs in the Fifties, or even before. I’ve been wondering if the reason you can’t remember these words is because they didn’t happen in this lifetime.”
    I watched her mouth fall open in slow motion. I waited for her to reject my suggestion out of hand, but she was thinking about it in her usual unruffled manner.
    â€œYou think I lost my job in a previous life?”
    â€œNo, Marianne. I think