Free Beneath the Tor by Nina Milton Page B

suggestions, and it turned out they were enigmas after all. Mirrors, masks … turn things on their heads was her guidance for Laura Munroe, and she’d said Babette’s sketchpad would help in ways you cannot yet imagine . She’d told me to confront my past,insisted I called her by her true name.
    I didn’t know how to do either of those things. I stashed my journal away as I went to answer the doorbell.

    Laura Munroe looked flustered as she stood on the doorstep, but I was used to that. People keep my card in their wallet for weeks, until they reach a peak of distress. On the phone I’d guessed she wasn’t much out of her teens and now I could see I’d been right. I took her jacket, damp from the rain, and her motorbike helmet. She was almost entirely in blue denim, tight jeans perhaps a size too small, and a baggy shirt buttoned over a camisole. I showed her into the therapy room and directed her to the two wicker chairs by the desk.
    â€œYou got here without trouble, then.”
    She managed a nod and a smile, but didn’t speak. I held my hands steady in my lap as a calming gesture; her hands were wringing each other. Her fingers were plump, her face a little puffy, while her ankles and wrists were narrow, almost sinewy.
    â€œYou need to catch your breath. Shall I put the kettle on?”
    â€œOh, I’m okay, really.”
    â€œTell me what attracts you to shamanism.”
    â€œOh … er … well, I …” Her voice was soft. Her hair was parted in the centre, clipped to fall just below the nape of her neck and hang like open curtains at either side of her temples. She wore hoop earrings, the sort that are used as starters.
    â€œLook, let’s go and have a cuppa. I’m gasping, even if you aren’t.”
    I got up and led the way out of the therapy room. I could see Laura was not going to tell me why she was here until she felt more relaxed, and I reckoned the best place for that was the sofa in my kitchen.

    â€œD’you live around here?” General questions were best, as if we were chatting in a pub.
    â€œWeston.”
    â€œ Weston-Super -Mare?” She gave a nod and I added, “My family have a caravan at Brean Down.”
    â€œOh, right.”
    â€œBeen there long?”
    â€œYes, all my life. I live with my mum and dad.”
    â€œNo shame in that; my brother’s only just moving out and he’s older than me.”
    â€œI did live away. For four years. I joined the Royal Navy when I was sixteen.”
    â€œSounds an interesting career.”
    â€œYeah. I loved it. I did all sorts. I got my able seaman certificate and saw loads of countries—the Philippines, Libya … seven seas, and all that. I left it a few months back.”
    I thought navy life would suit her. She looked beefy enough to haul ropes around capstans, and smart enough to read sensors. “What made you leave?”
    â€œI got ill. A virus, something a bit foreign, I think.”
    â€œWhat was it?”
    â€œIt didn’t really get, sort of diagnosed , you know? I just kept getting these symptoms. The Royal Navy don’t like you being sick. I had to work twelve months notice.”
    â€œIf you were ill, surely they’d discharge you.”
    â€œI dunno,” said Laura. I could feel the distress coming off her like a scent.
    â€œSorry—none of my business, I suppose. I’m just curious about how such things operate. What is it that makes you feel ill?”
    â€œSometimes, I just … can’t breathe. It gets so bad I think I’m going to suffocate.”
    â€œBut you don’t?”
    â€œAnd this buzzing. Inside my head. It stopped me doing my job.”
    A silence grew between us. We were at opposite ends of my sofa, leaning against the squidgy arms. My mind went back to Dennon’s experience of PMA. “Laura,” I said, at last, “this didn’t start with taking …