Free Dreams of Origami by Elenor Gill Page A

missing-persons report. When she tells him about Triss and the baby, her eyes swim with tears. His impulse is to offer comfort, but he knows he must allow her to talk. As she tells the story, his mind is filled with the image of Cassandra’s hands folding a white paper lotus.
    ‘And who is Drew?’ As he asks, he pictures a big man with a mop of curly hair. He thinks of him as a rock or an anchor. Lacey explains about their relationship, how he came to her house to fit a stained-glass window and how they ended up going to a football match together. Gideon sees the softness in her eyes when she speaks his name and senses the warmth between them. But there is also a sadness keeping them apart, like a dark cloud that hovers between them. He listens and nods. All in good time, he thinks.
    But the mention of Drew takes the conversation around to the weather vane and the bell that move on their own, although it’s probably something wrong with the tilt of the roof. And Audrey Stanton and Bill Henderson and his crop circles. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone,’ she laughs, ‘or I’ll never get another story out of the farming community.’ She remains quiet for a moment. The balcony doors are open, and they can hear sounds of passing cars from the street and, from across the river, a round of applause as the batsman scores another run. ‘So, what do you think?’ she asks.
    ‘I did offer you a glass of wine, didn’t I? Look, I’ve been working indoors most of the day and we’re missing a lovely evening. It’s even quite warm for a change. I wouldn’t mind a walk over to the pub—if you’re free, that is. Though you might have something else planned.’
    ‘No, no other plans. A walk sounds good.’
    They take the iron bridge over the weir, and then the river path to the Fort St George. The place is overfull, as it usually is at this time of year, mostly tourists and language students. A small outside table is being vacated, and Lacey quickly stakes a claim while Gideon fights his way to the bar. ‘I might be some time,’ he says, which turns out to be a true prediction. This gives Lacey a few minutes to think about what she’s got herself into, although she’s quite relieved as, according to what she found on the internet, Gideon Wakefield doesn’t usually give press interviews and certainly doesn’t invite reporters out for a drink. In fact, when she first arrived he looked surprised to see her, flustered even, and, although Jack had assured her that Gideon had agreed to be interviewed, she had expected to be thrown out after five minutes. She pulls the elastic band from her hair and shakes it loose. As they made their way along the river he had asked more questions about Gainsborough Street and then about her job. In fact, so far he’d asked all the questions and she’d done all the talking. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work at all.
    She sees him struggling through the crowded bar, heading back towards their table. She had asked for a red wine and he is carrying a bottle and two glasses. ‘It’ll save time,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to fight my way through that lot again.’ It’s a good label, too.
    ‘By the way, we saw you on Tuesday evening,’ Lacey says as he sits down. ‘You were at that talk, sitting at the other end of our row.’
    ‘Ah, yes, the Swami.’ He opens the bottle and fills the glasses. ‘Did you find it interesting? I hope this is all right; quite fruity, not too dry.’
    Lacey takes a sip. ‘Mmm, excellent. It was organized by the Parapsychology Forum, wasn’t it? I expect you’re a member? Can anyone join or is it exclusive to the university?’
    ‘No, I’m not an actual member, sort of affiliated. And yes, it’s open to anyone, although it attracts mainly university people. I joined when I was up at Cambridge, then left when I went overseas. Since coming back, some of the longer-standing members have approachedme. They’re trying to encourage me