In the Moors Read Online Free PDF

the telly. They found bodies buried on the moors. Matthew, Joanna, Nicolas, and John. Everyone poring over the gruesome details like ghouls.” Cliff shifted on his seat, almost tipping the metal frame. He was perched right on the edge of the chair like some flightless bird. It’s better to rest back on the lounger, but he seemed unable to relax. “They never found the murderer,” he went on, “but after a while, the kids round my way were let back out to play. I guess people thought it was over.”
    â€œI wonder what makes someone do something so evil and then stop, all of a sudden?”
    â€œTheir consciences, I hope.”
    I was silent for a while. “You remember it very well. The names and details.”
    â€œYou could say the whole year is burned on my memory. Dad was sick around then, then he died, and I never felt the same again.”
    I could see that Josh’s death might very well have brought back memories of Cliff’s own pain and loss, confusing past with present in his mind.
    â€œIn our first session, you said you felt as if something was making you depressed.”
    â€œYeah, well, the doctor calls it depression. But to be honest, none of the tablets he’s given me has done anything. It’s the mornings, mostly. At least, it always starts as I wake. I feel so … afraid … for no reason. Getting out of bed is impossible. That’s why I shelf-stack in Morrison’s. I do the night sessions. I don’t have to wake up till the evening, and if I’m lucky, the feeling of dread goes away more quickly.”
    â€œCan you remember your dreams?”
    â€œNo. Never. I don’t have dreams.”
    â€œDreams often slip out of sight, but if we write down all the tiny fragments we remember, we can nudge our ‘dream memory ’ .”
    I took a new softbound A5 book of unlined pages from a pile I keep in a drawer and wrote Cliff’s full name in the front. I flicked a few pages in and sketched out the room I’d visited on my journey. I belong to the Mickey Mouse school of art, but even I could draw a cartoon sack. Then I sellotaped the copy of my journey in beside it and dated the entry. I showed him the notebook.
    â€œEach session, I’ll describe what I’ve seen in your spirit world in this book, and I want you to use it as a memory jogger in between sessions. If any thoughts or coincidences happen that take you back to the description of my journeys, I want you to put them down. Add all the dreams you remember. Leave the notebook by your bed and jot down even the tiniest scrap as soon as you wake.”
    Cliff gave a snort. “Why should I to do that?”
    â€œYou’ve come here because you want to know why you feel so wretched all the time. Dreams are part of the shamanic work we’ll do together.”
    â€œOkay, that makes sense.”
    â€œI want to see you next Saturday,” I said, writing the date in the notebook and passing it to Cliff. He flapped it in his hand as if he needed extra air.
    â€œWhat will you tell the police?” he asked.
    â€œWhat did you tell them?”
    He grimaced. “I see your point. I told them mostly everything I’ve just told you. They’ve allocated me a solicitor—Miss Smith. She’s insisting I should be careful what I say, but I hope I won’t have to say anything to them again. Surely they’ve done with me.”
    I checked the time on my mobile, which was lying on the desk. I usually leave a good space between appointments—I never know just what’s going to happen in a shamanic consultation—but the doorbell for my next client was going to chime at any moment. I offered Cliff a handshake. His palm was hot with sweat. When he pulled away, I felt his hand tremble, as if he’d just received bad news.
    It wasn’t until after he’d left that I realized he’d forgotten the sovereign—or maybe he’d