The House on the Cliff Read Online Free PDF Page A

lipsalve and a hairbrush. I couldn’t find my powder compact, so I applied both without using a mirror. Then I walked over to my chair, sat down, and looked up at the white-on-white relief on the wall, determined to meet him with the composure he would expect from me.
    The circle was sitting, as ever, in its rightful place among the squares. But as I gazed at it, I began to notice that it was throbbing very slightly. The movement was almost imperceptible, but it was there. I’d never seen it before. The circle had always rested quietly in the middle, its serene stillness emanating into the squares around it. I told myself it was merely a trick of the light, but even so, it unnerved me. And then I began to feel an intense heat rising up from my chest into my neck, onto my face and along my arms.
    Just then there was a knock at the door.
    “Come in.”
    The door opened and Gwydion walked in. This time he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Underneath it, I noticed, was a white T-shirt like the one I’d seen him wear for his publicity shot.
    I gestured toward the empty chair opposite me. “Do take a seat.”
    He walked over to the chair and sat down. As he did, I couldn’t help but see the curve of his chest underneath the jacket, outlined by the T-shirt. I looked away.
    “Thank you.” He settled himself in the chair. There was a pause, and then he said, “I’m not sure where to start.”
    “Wherever you like.” I tried to keep my tone neutral.
    He didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at me searchingly, trying to meet my gaze. I looked back as steadily as I could.
    He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Wherever I like . . .” He knitted his brow. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten me. “Let’s see . . .”
    There was a silence.
    “Well, I’ll begin with something that’s been bothering me. Something apart from the buttons. It’s a dream I’ve been having—sometimes as often as twice a week.”
    This was turning out to be a good day for dreams, I thought. And at least this one had been brought up at the beginning of the session, not the end.
    “More of a nightmare, really,” he went on. “I don’t know what it relates to, but it scares me.” He stopped speaking, and started to chew his lip.
    “Well.” I began to relax. Gwydion seemed to be the kind of client who could get straight to the point, instead of having to be coaxed to focus on the real issues at hand. And now that we were getting down to work, my silly fantasies about him seemed to have receded. “Maybe you could start by telling me what happens in the dream.”
    “Yes, of course.” He sat back in his chair, half closing his eyes and lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’m a child. I don’t know how old.” He paused. “But I’m small. And the place I’m in is dark. Pitch-black.”
    His eyes were completely closed now, and there was an expression of deep concentration on his face. I was surprised at how quickly he’d responded to my suggestion, but I put it down to his training as an actor.
    “I’m locked in a box. Someone has shut me in here. I can’t see, and I can’t breathe. I’m running out of air . . .”
    Although he was deeply serious, and I didn’t doubt his sincerity, there was also something a little theatrical in his manner. I couldn’t help thinking that he’d begun to sound like someone from a book you’d find in the “Painful Lives” section of Waterstones— Daddy, Don’t Do That Again , perhaps. But then I glanced down and saw him scratching at the fabric on his sleeve, picking at it, twisting it in an ungainly fashion, just as Jean had done earlier, and I sensed that this was no performance.
    “I want to shout for help,” he went on, “but I know I mustn’t. I have to be quiet. So I begin to count to myself in the dark. One, two, three, four . . .”
    Gwydion came to a stop. He opened his eyes and looked at me. Then he closed them again.
    “Five, six, seven . . . I keep