D. Connell - Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘I know that! I’m a certified professional. Royal Academy.’ He rolled his eyes impatiently and pointed to the table. ‘If you would feel more comfortable in less clothing, go ahead and remove it. I’m not averse.’

‘I’d prefer to keep my clothes on.’

‘It’ll make my work a lot harder.’ Mr Tanderhill sighed and held out his long fingers for me to view. ‘God has given me golden fingers. If you keep your clothes on I’ll have to send my healing rays through the layers.’

I did not want to displease Mr Tanderhill, especially not before receiving hypnotherapeutic assistance. Reminding myself that he was there to help me, I removed my cardigan and climbed on to the massage table, which wobbled in a disconcerting way. I then lay back stiffly with my arms at my sides. To take my mind off the possibility of the table collapsing, I imagined myself as a soldier on duty outside Buckingham Palace. These soldiers are called Grenadier Guards and wear a controversial headdress called the busby, which is made from the fur of the Canadian black bear. I was trying to guess the weight of one of these large, impractical hats when Mr Tanderhill told me to shut my eyes; he was going to perform a ‘Chakra Flush’ in preparation for hypnotics. As I closed my eyes, I told myself that all my bad habits would be flushed out of my system forever.

I remained still with my eyes closed for several minutes listening to the swish of his movements until the desire to know what he was doing got the better of me. I opened an eye and was surprised to find him making circular motions in the air over my torso. He could have been polishing a Ford Escort or, the thought occurred to me, doing an air massage over my chest. I opened the other eye and crossed my arms over my chest.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘I was working your higher chakras but you’ve ruined it now,’ he replied with a sigh. His shoulders sagged. As he bit his top lip, I noticed that his teeth were stained and uneven. ‘We’ll have to skip the flush. I only hope you’ll be more cooperative with the hypnotics.’

‘You were standing very close.’

‘I’m a professional!’

‘That’s reassuring.’

‘When I look at you I don’t see a nondescript young woman in an unattractive woollen top and tartan trousers. I see unhappy chakras. I see spiritual blockage, corporeal malfunction, psychological disarray. To my professional eye, you’re a soul in a sac and your sac is leaking energy. It’s called soul fatigue.’

‘I do get tired in the evenings. I thought it might be iron deficiency. I’m a tea drinker and tea is known to rob the body of iron. Do you think you can help?’

‘Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Listen this time, for God’s sake! Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’

‘We’re not friends.’

‘I’m thoroughly aware of that. Strict professional distance is part of my creed.’

‘Perhaps it would be better for me to sit on the couch.’ It was unsettling to lie on a table without a cardigan.

‘Stay right where you are. The soul is more receptive when the body is prone.’

He leaned over and stared with his bulging eyes into mine. A shiver travelled up my spine and tightened my jaw. My face became hot. Either I was alarmed or Mr Tanderhill’s hypnotherapy was taking effect. Again, I reminded myself that he was a certified professional and tried to relax.

‘I am now removing this valuable Hindu medal from around my neck. I want you to keep your eyes on it. Concentrate, and keep your eyes on the medal.’ His voice was firm and his movements were slow as he removed a chain with a metallic disc from around his neck. He began swinging it over my face.

‘Concentrate! You are going to feel sleepy, so sleepy that you will fall asleep. You will hear my voice and remember only what I tell you to remember. You will tell me all there is to know about this Chin and I will cleanse your mind of its psychic toxins. When I say, “Hello, anybody home?” you will wake up and feel that no time has passed. Now concentrate on the medal.’

I willed my body to relax and my pulse rate to slow. I concentrated on the disc swinging above my face. It was the size of a thumbnail and the colour of aluminium. My eyes moved up the chain to Mr Tanderhill’s fingers, which were thin and hairy. His nails were grimy and short enough to be those of a nail biter. I thought of Mr Chin and blinked before bringing my eyes back to the medallion, willing myself to concentrate on its movements. On its surface was an embossed pattern that made me think of Mr Da Silva. The butcher had been a serious Catholic who closed his shop on Fridays and kept plaster figurines of the Virgin in the meat display of his window. At Christmas, he would create a full nativity scene with mounds of sausages and rows of lamb chops as a backdrop. My mother was a big fan of these displays and called Mr Da Silva an artist. She also said it was a shame he was Catholic and a tragedy that he had married. He was a swarthy man with very hairy forearms. I brought my attention back to the medallion and reminded myself to feel sleepy.

Mr Tanderhill noticed my restlessness. ‘For God’s sake, just concentrate on the medal! I haven’t got all day.’

‘Sorry.’

‘The medal. Watch the medal. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’

Strangely, I did feel sleepy. My body seemed to sink into the massage table. As my eyelids fell shut, an image of Mr Chin flashed before me. He was sitting in his Komfort King executive chair, shouting. When I tried to work out what this unsettling image could mean, my thoughts would not align. I struggled to stay alert but sleep, like one of those enormous Hawaiian surfing waves, knocked me down and pulled me under.

‘Hello, anybody home?’ The words were like an alarm clock going off in the centre of my brain. This area is known as the third eye and is the seat of the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland shaped like a pine cone.

The question had come from a strange man in the doorway. He was of medium height and wiry, and had the sharp features of an operator of a sideshow shooting gallery. He was dressed in flared blue jeans, cowboy boots and a John Wayne hat. His checked shirt had press-studs and pointed pocket flaps. He could have passed for a country and western singer if not for the haloes of grease around his pockets. There were dark smudges on his hands and face, which made me wonder whether he was a bicycle mechanic. He winked at me. I looked away.

Strange!

I was no longer lying on the massage table but seated on the couch next to my handbag. Its zipper was undone and the bag was open. I could not remember opening it or getting off the table. I pushed my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed hard until neon points of light appeared. When I opened them again Mr Tanderhill was striding over to the cowboy.

‘How dare you!’ He was trying to whisper but the absence of furnishings gave the room excellent acoustics.

‘Didn’t know you were entertaining,’ said the cowboy. He called out to me. ‘Howdy tooty, darling.’

‘Get out, Shanks!’ Mr Tanderhill made a wild pointing gesture. ‘You’re interrupting a professional session.’

‘I can see that.’ Shanks howled like an American coyote, which was appropriate given his Wild West clothing.

‘Get out!’

‘Well, pardon little ol’ me.’ He winked at me again and flattened a hand against his greasy chest in the manner of an apologetic duke. He smirked at Mr Tanderhill. ‘I need your professional opinion on some merchandise. A van load of very nice Husqvarnas.’

Mr Tanderhill threw the balls of his palms on to Shanks’s chest and shoved him into the hall. Shanks was still protesting as the hairy hand of the hypnotherapist snaked around the door and pulled it shut. I could hear them talking loudly as I hunted for my cardigan.