Free Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller by Jane Holland Page A

time.
    ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven … ’
    I drift, hanging onto a last dim memory. My mother’s face, smiling
as I show her the bird’s feather I’ve found. A strong black feather, slightly
dusty from the ground. She takes it and holds it up to the light, then laughs,
stroking it across my cheek.
    ‘Six, five, four … ’
    I look up into dappled sunlight and see her face change, the smile
fading to a look of surprise. What has Mum seen behind me?
    Hearing footsteps at my back, I begin to turn my head, curious,
taking a little alarm at her expression.
    ‘Three, two, one.’
    Something clicks in my head. My mother disappears.
    I struggle to get her back, to rebuild that half-forgotten face in
my memory, suffering an almost intolerable sense of loss. Yet after only a few
more seconds I can’t even recall what I’ve lost.
    My mind begins to empty and
I find myself floating in the silence.
    Light
burns against my closed lids.

 
 
    I am aware of a
strong feeling of relief, as though I have been standing too long on a
precipice and someone has drawn me back from the edge at last. The past begins
to fade away, and reluctantly I let it go, allow myself to return to the
present. Slowly I grope for my surroundings, hearing muffled voices in another
room, a telephone ringing in the distance, traffic in the street below, the
sounds of a busy town.
    ‘Wake up, Eleanor.’ The voice is insistent.
    I open my eyes.
    I’m lying on my back on a long, low couch. There’s
a large rectangular window facing me across the immaculately tidy office, the
cream blinds only pulled down partway. Afternoon sun is pouring in below the
slats, filling the office with golden light. I’m dazzled at first, squinting up
at the woman bending over me. There’s a momentary confusion, then I remember.
    Not
my mother. No longer the dream but reality. All the same, her face is familiar.
Familiar and unsettling at the same time.
    I study her face, my eyes adjusting to the light.
Honey-brown hair, neatly cut in an easily manageable bob about an oval face, a
trace of face powder and pink lipstick, tiny creases about her mouth and eyes.
    Dr Quick.
    ‘Welcome back.’ She studies me closely, eyes
narrowed on my face. ‘How are you feeling, Eleanor? Any headache? Dizziness?
Nausea?’ When I shake my head to each of these questions, she straightens.
‘Good, that’s very good.’
    I sit up groggily. ‘What happened?’
    My throat is dry, a bad taste on my tongue. I turn
blindly, reaching for the glass of water she always used to place at my elbow
during these hypnosis sessions. It’s not there.
    ‘Oh,
sorry. Water?’ The doctor leans forward and hands it to me. ‘Give yourself a
minute. Try not to hurry.’
    I
remember Dr Quick from my childhood as an uber-friendly doctor, habitually clad
in a colourful wool cardigan, soft-voiced, always cracking little jokes to put
me at my ease. Today she is sombre in dove-grey and black, the small
red-jewelled brooch pinned to her blouse her only concession to colour.
    ‘I’m fine.’ I take a few sips, then replace the
water glass carefully. I’m aware of a slight tremor in my hand. ‘Did the
hypnosis work? What did I say?’
    ‘You don’t remember?’
    I shake my head, though I do remember vaguely. Snippets
of dream-memory, flashing images, half-truths. Nothing I can quantify, and
certainly nothing I can take to the police.
    Her mouth tightens. She retreats to her desk,
sitting in her black leather swivel chair, and looks down at her notes. ‘That’s
a pity. I was hoping to be able to discover the root cause of your nightmares
by probing your memories outside hypnosis. For instance, when we talked
earlier, you mentioned a “shadow man” you see at night sometimes, standing at
the foot of your bed.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I
asked you to identify it during the session, to give the “shadow man” a name of
some kind. You didn’t seem very cooperative. I’m still not sure what that
signifies. But I would