Free In the Moors by Nina Milton

you when you live alone.”
    A grisly thought struck me. Cliff was genuinely obsessed with the murder of little Josh. Was that because his subconscious remembered his part in it? Had Cliff woken up at four, or had he been coming round after doing whatever it was he’d done to Aidan Rodderick?
    As I struggled with this, I began to wonder if Rey and his chums were moving along the same line of supposition. Why hadn’t they already called on Cliff? Had he been watched since he was released on Saturday? Perhaps the police already knew that he’d not left his flat all day. I was sincere in hoping this was the case. As I lay down beside him, a dark scarf over my eyes, my heart cracked like a flag in a gale.

    The drumming hit my ears, but the singing centre of its note entered my body through my solar plexus. For a moment or two, I could feel my client floating alongside, coupled to me by the silken umbilicus. I let the drumbeat reverberate around my mind and suddenly I felt the soles of my bare feet touch cool grass. I could hear the lullaby of the brook even before I saw it.
    My spirit portal. The grass is tightly cropped by rabbits, which are shy, but I often spot them loping out of sight. The heather has a dusty, light floral scent. If I stay still, the choristers—blackcaps, robins, and thrushes—belt out their tunes. At night, when there is usually a cloudless sky showing the moon, a nightingale sings. On the opposite bank of the brook runs a thick line of wild hedge, always ablaze with colour. There is hawthorn, blackthorn, and the autumn gold of field maple. In winter sun, the dogwood glows like amber. I’ve been starting out from here since I first journeyed with my shaman teacher years ago. The paths that stretch from this place in every direction have been forged by me on many journeys, and I never know when a new one will appear.
    I settled onto the mossy bank of my brook, my bare feet dangling in the water. I could feel a tickling sensation. Trendle was licking my toes. His thick coat shone with water.
    â€œCome on in,” he said, and I slid down into the dark green depths.
    When Trendle guides me into the stream, it becomes bottomless—it reaches into the underworld where shadowy spirits live. Trendle swam beside me as I sank, stems of weed tugging at my hair and ankles.
    â€œ Here,” said Trendle, and I followed him along a narrow, unlit tunnel of water. I could barely see his fur glisten in the darkness, but I felt the flick his tail on my outstretched fingers. I let myself breathe in—there was no need to hold my breath in the water of the spirit world.
    We came out into a muddy lane with high hedges of hazel and ash. The overhanging branches met above my head, winter bare and black. The lane was so gloomy, I had to squint to make out the silhouette of a cottage against the cloud-covered sky.
    I knew we were close to the grim little room where I’d seen the sack of hair. I willed myself towards the building until I was standing outside a door, the sort of door country dwellings had in the olden days, with wide, ornate hinges, rusting at their edges. The door’s black paint was peeling and smeared with mud, as if someone had kicked at it. The name of the house was prominently displayed on an iron plate.
    Brokeltuft Cottage.
    I put my hand on the round knob of the iron handle. It was as cold as a summer drink. When I turned it, I heard the clang of a latch lifting inside. The door swung open. Carpetless wooden stairs rose up before me. A passageway led past them, into a kitchen that hadn’t been replaced since the Fifties. I could see the gas cooker and the kettle steaming on its hob.
    â€œWhat … what shall I do, Trendle?”
    â€œGo on.” The otter lay along my arm. His coat still dripped from the journey, although I felt bone dry. His voice was in my head. “We have to put fear to one side and probe this world if we want answers.” He