(1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James

long time, aware of the silence, waiting for him to speak, waiting for something to happen. The silence continued. The microphone slipped out of focus, turned into two, then back into one. She wondered how long she had been looking at it. A minute? Two minutes? Five? Another train went by.
    ‘Velvet, Charley. I want you to think of velvet, soft velvet all around. You are in a tent of velvet. Your eyes are feeling heavy. Everything is soft, Charley.’ His voice droned, the tone unaltering. ‘You are safe.’
    She tried to imagine being in a cocoon of velvet.
    ‘How old are you, Charley?’
    The banality of the question surprised her. She glanced at him, saw the frown of disapproval, then looked back at the microphone. ‘Thirty-six.’
    ‘Close your eyes now. Think back to your thirtieth birthday. Can you remember what you did on your thirtieth birthday?’
    She racked her brains. Thirty. Yes, she could remember that one, would never forget it. She opened her mouth, but it was difficult to speak; she had to strain to get the words out; they came out slowly, sounding slurred, almost as if someone else was speaking them.
    Tom had taken her to dinner to a new Italian restaurant in Clapham to celebrate. They’d had a row, one of their worst rows ever, and Tom had stormed out of the restaurant, leaving her to pay the bill. She could feel the burning embarrassment now, six years later, could see the faces of the other diners, a woman with long blonde hair studying her disdainfully from acrossthe restaurant as if she was an exhibit in a zoo, whispering to her dinner companions and the whole table chortling with laughter. Then it got even worse. When she opened her handbag and found she had not brought her purse. The manager had not let her leave, had locked the restaurant door and stood guard over her while she called Tom.
    ‘Did he come back?’
    ‘Yes.’
    The microphone seemed to nod at her sympathetically.
    ‘Go back in time, Charley. Go back to your twenty-first birthday. Can you remember your twenty-first birthday?’
    Her eyelids drooped. She forced them open. Slowly they closed again and she felt herself sinking down through a soft darkness towards sleep. ‘Camping.’ The word seemed heavy. It rolled out of her mouth and dropped away into an abyss. ‘Tom and I. In Wales. The Brecon Beacons. It rained and the fire wouldn’t light. Had champagne … a bottle of champagne in the tent. We were giggling and it collapsed. That’s when he proposed to me.’
    ‘Go back to sixteen now, Charley. Feel sixteen.’
    Silence.
    ‘You are sixteen. Look down at yourself, tell me what you are wearing.’
    ‘A red miniskirt. White boots.’
    ‘How is your hair?’
    ‘It’s long.’
    ‘Do you like being sixteen?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I’m going out with Tom.’
    ‘Are you going out tonight?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    Charley began to tremble. ‘There’s something bad.’
    ‘What do you see?’
    ‘Sharon Tate. People murdered. It’s horrible.’
    ‘Are you there?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘I’m reading a paper. We’re going out. To a movie.’
    ‘What are you going to see?’
    ‘
Easy Rider
.’
    ‘Is Tom your boyfriend?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When did you meet him?’
    ‘On my birthday.’
    ‘On your sixteenth birthday?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Let’s go back to your sixteenth birthday. Can you remember it?’
    ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded slurry.
    ‘Are you having a party?’
    ‘In a pub — with Laura — other girlfriends, to celebrate. I’m really pissed.’
    ‘What are you drinking?’
    ‘Cuba Libre. He’s laughing at me.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The fella. With the Beatle haircut.’ She giggled. ‘He thinks he’s so cool. Joe Cool! He’s laughing at me. I’m feeling sick now, going to be sick.’ Her head spun.
    Silence.
    ‘Go back to your tenth birthday, Charley. Can you remember your tenth birthday?’
    Images of childhood drifted past her, flashed