Torey Hayden - Overheard in a Dream

Torey Hayden

Overheard in a Dream

A novel

Cover

Title Page Torey Hayden Overheard in a Dream A novel

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Other Works

Copyright

About the Publisher

The boy was so pale you would have thought he was a ghost. A wraith. Something insubstantial that would vanish into nothing at all. He was small for nine, slender and fine-boned. His hair was pale as moonlight, very fine, very straight. His skin was milky-white with a dull translucence to it, like wax. Such fair colouring meant that at a distance, he appeared to have no eyebrows or eyelashes at all, and this incompleteness only emphasized his ephemeral appearance.

“Meow?” said the boy.

“Hello, Conor,” James replied. “Won’t you come in?”

“Meow?”

Around his waist he wore numerous coils of string with bits of aluminium foil wrapped around them. Four of these trailed down behind him and onto the floor. He gripped a small toy cat by its hind legs. Extending the cat out in front of him, as if it were a scanning device, he rotated it slowly, pointing it at every corner of the room. Then he began to make an oddly mechanical noise, a sort of ratcheting “ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh” that sounded like a sluggish machine gun. Then a new sound started, a soft whirring sound. “Whirrrr. Whirrrrr. Whirrrrrrrr.” He stepped into the room just far enough to allow Dulcie to push the trailing strings forward with her foot and close the door.

The child avoided looking at James. His eyes darted nervously here and there. A hand came up alongside his face and he flapped it frantically. “Whirrrrrrrr,” he went again.

James rose from his chair in order to encourage the boy into the room, but the child reacted with panic, pointing the stuffed cat at James like a gun. “The cat knows!” he said loudly.

James stopped. “You don’t like me coming towards you.”

“Ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh. Whirrrrrrr. Whirrrrrrr.”

“You would like me to sit down again.”

“Whirrrr.”

“That’s all right,” James said quietly and returned to the small chair beside the playroom table to sit down. “In here you can decide how things will be.”

Conor remained rooted just inside the door. He looked James over carefully, or at least that’s how James interpreted his behaviour, because Conor’s eyes never met his. Instead, the boy flicked his eyes back and forth repetitively, as if he had nystagmus, but James sensed it was simply a method of gaining visual information without eye contact. Then he extended the toy cat again and took a step further into the room. Still gripping the cat tightly by its hind legs, he raised and lowered it as if scanning James’s body. “The cat knows,” he whispered.

The play therapy room was spacious and painted pale yellow, a colour James had chosen because it made him think of sunshine. Not that this was really necessary, as there was usually a surplus of the real stuff pouring through the large east-facing windows and in the heat of summer, the room had a downright Saharan feel. Nonetheless, the colour pleased him.

As did the room itself. All the toys and other items in the room James had chosen with care. He knew exactly what he intended to create in the playroom: a place where nothing would constrain a child, where nothing looked too fragile nor too fancy to be touched, where everything invited playing with. When he’d first described to Sandy how he wanted to create a playroom, she had remarked that he’d never grown up himself, that it was his own childhood he was equipping. No doubt there was some truth in this, as the boy does make the man, but what she’d failed to appreciate was that these were also the tools of his trade and he’d quite simply wanted the best.

Very cautiously Conor began to move around the perimeter of the room. Holding the toy cat out in front of him like a divining rod, he went in a clockwise direction, keeping very close to the walls. The cat’s nose was touched to the furniture, the shelving, the various playthings along the way. “Meow? Meow?” he murmured as he went. It was all he said.

Having circumnavigated the room once, Conor immediately started on a second round. There was a low bookcase on the right-hand side where James kept many of the smaller toys. On top of the bookcase were wire baskets full of construction paper, glue, string, stickers, stamps, yarn, sequins, and other odds and ends for making pictures.

“Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Meow?”

“If you want, you may take any of the things out of the baskets,” James said. “Everything in this room is to play with. All things are for touching. In this room, you decide.”

“Meow?” the boy replied.

The direction Conor was moving meant that he approached James from behind. The first time he had skirted widely around James as he sat at the small table. This time Conor slowed down as he drew near.

“Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.”

James sat motionless so as not to frighten the boy.

“Whirrrr,” came the whisper behind him.

The child’s breathing was fast and shallow, giving a hollowness to the sound like a rheumy dog panting. Then came the very soft touch of the toy cat against the back of James’s neck. With staccato quickness it touched him and then was gone. The boy whirred. The nose of the cat came again, so lightly that it just tipped the hairs on James’s skin.

“Meow?”

James turned his head and there was the briefest moment of eye contact between them. James smiled.

“The cat knows,” the boy whispered.

Thinking that someone as well known as Laura Deighton wouldn’t want to sit out in the waiting room with Dr Sorenson’s clients, Dulcie had allowed her to go into James’s office to wait for him there. James hadn’t expected this. A flicker of alarm went through him when Dulcie told him, because, of course, Laura Deighton would notice that he had her books on the shelf and, quite understandably, she would then assume that he had read them.