Free Dreams of Origami by Elenor Gill

sight of a stranger coming up to the main door of the building. The summer sun is still high above the horizon, burnishing the river. It is that restful time of the day between the frantic commercial rush and the evening pursuit of pleasure. A few people are walking along the riverbank, couples hand in hand, a man exercising his dog. Over on Jesus Green a game of cricket is in progress, a local friendly match with spectators spreading blankets on the grass and opening picnic baskets. Gideon loves this city. Cambridge is where he grew up; the university gave him his education, this building grants him a haven whenever he has tired of travelling. It is a city of narrow, overcrowded streets and graceful buildings, cut through by swathes of open grassland where people cross from one busy place to another; green spaces where students lie on their backs in the sun to study a book, or gather in groups to reshape the world with their rhetoric. A city of contrasts, ancient and modern, town and gown. A place to come home to.
    When the doorbell rings he is startled. He hadn’t noticed anyone approach, but then his gaze had wandered over to the river as it usually does. He hurries through to the hallway. As he opens the door, an image flashes on his inner eye: a white horse, long-legged and prancing,tail flying in the wind. He gasps. But no, it’s a woman, that’s all. She’s wearing a cream suit—almost white—with a short skirt, and her legs are long in her high-heeled shoes. She turns towards him, and her hair, caught up in a high tail, swings around over her shoulder. He can almost feel Cassandra behind him. There, you see, I was right. For a moment, he cannot catch his breath. He steps back and the woman enters.
    ‘Mr Wakefield? I’m Lacey Prentice, the Fenland Herald.’ She flashes her identity card, but he doesn’t look at it. ‘It’s good of you to agree to see me. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, I’m sure you’re very busy.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. I mean…I’m sorry, please come through. Can I offer you something? Some tea? Perhaps a glass of wine? Do take a seat.’
    She moves to the sofa, crossing her legs as she sits down, and looks around the room. He can imagine the trained reporter’s eye taking in the antique furnishings, Persian rugs, and paintings. Would she know they are originals, recognize the artists? Probably not. She seems one of those ‘I know what I like’ people, although he senses she is bright and intelligent, and yes, there is something graceful about her like a young horse; a free creature, filled with the energy of living. He has recovered from the first shock of seeing her overlaid with the vision, and now his intuition kicks in. He senses that there is more to this interview than interest. This woman is deeply troubled.
    ‘You’re covering the Matthew Caxton story, aren’t you? Is that what you’ve come about?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. How did you know? Of course, yes, you’re a psychic.’
    ‘Yes, I am—but it wouldn’t take a great leap of logic to figure that one out. I did read last night’s paper.’
    ‘Look, I was going to tell you. And I do genuinely intend to write a feature about the supernatural—you know, strange happenings in the Fens. But yes, that’s how I got the idea in the first place, from the missing-person story. You see, the whole thing sounds odd. I’ve spent a long time talking with his wife, and I think there’s more to it than himjust clearing off, although that’s what everyone else seems to think.’
    ‘And what do you think?’ Yes, he senses she is worried about this, far more than can be accounted for by a professional concern. And behind that, something deeper still—a great sadness. Please, for my sake, do not dismiss her.
    All right, Cassandra, I hear you. He sits down in an armchair opposite Lacey. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me what you know.’
    Lacey starts at the beginning, with the police handover and the