the metal speaker grille in an angry flare
and Rachel cowered away and stumbled against the doorframe. The
young man caught her arm, supported her into the building and
sheltered her from any other possible sparks. She thanked him and
stared back at the smoking intercom that increased her sense of
being unwelcome.
In the lift Rachel struggled to
compose herself and focus on the small talk that Claire Chambers
was making with her. Claire was talking about the building, about
tower blocks in general, giving examples of how different The
Heights were to the stereotypes of high-rise flats, selling her the
community and the views. It struck Rachel as rehearsed, something
she did with new guests to make them feel at ease, or to ease her
own discomfort with the stereotype, but her pained grin and
glistening eyes that accompanied her description of the friendly
community within the tower told a different story. Rachel didn’t
normally like colluding with the games people play. Beyond her
ability to talk to the dead and see the past she had developed a
keen psychological insight from spending so much time with people
in pain. It wasn’t a psychology you might find in a text book, it
was a mix of the otherworld intuition, keen observation and
listening and a first hand understanding of grief, pain and
hopelessness. Rachel didn’t need a text book to understand those
things. After a short while of talking with someone she could
imagine things from their perspective and quickly spot
inconsistencies in what they said or how they acted. She would sow
her conversation with musings and wonderings from her perspective,
inviting the other person to own the thoughts as their own, to
encourage them to challenge themselves, to be honest with
themselves. However, Rachel could see that Claire was desperate to
believe in the community spirit of the building, and still shaken
from the incident at the door Rachel also needed to believe it was
a safe place to be.
Catherine had demanded that
Rachel stay away from her and the building, and as much as Rachel
wanted a reunion she didn’t want it to happen in front of Claire,
Cat had so much resentment for her. If the dread of that hadn’t
been enough to unsettle her, when Claire had emerged from the lift,
the old man, Harry as she now knew he was called had retreated but
hissed a final warning in her face; “Your type aren’t welcome
here.” What did he mean? How could he know about her abilities? She
could also sense something, some presence in the air, but the
emotions the building conjured within her and the shock of her
encounter at the main door made it impossible to concentrate. She
was also distracted by the large mosaic panel that took up almost
an entire wall of the lobby. It was a crude gaudy display of rich
colours, it reminded her of the mosaics at Tottenham Court Road
Underground Station, yet there weren’t any individual pictures,
just patterns of colour that weaved in and out. She had examined it
further while she had chatted with the young man that had come to
her aide. She had seen something in the mosaic. Areas of the mosaic
where the colours deviated by subtle degrees creating a discrete
shape. When she walked to the lift with Claire she had tried to
take in the mosaic as a whole, to see the shape for what it was but
lost the image within the twists and angles of the pattern.
The lift stopped and her
thoughts, like the ghostly image within the mosaic, were lost to
concentrate more on Claire as they walked to her flat.
Rachel wiped her feet on the
mat as Claire shut the door behind them.
“ Would you like a cup of
tea?”
“ Lovely! Milk, three
sugars. Thank you.”
Claire walked over to the
kitchen.
A man’s voice greeted Rachel
from the lounge. “Sweet tooth.”
She found the man sitting on a
sofa leaning forward on his knees so he could see her more clearly
round the doorway. He looked her over warily.
“ I need all the energy
rushes I can get,” she puffed and
and Rachel cowered away and stumbled against the doorframe. The
young man caught her arm, supported her into the building and
sheltered her from any other possible sparks. She thanked him and
stared back at the smoking intercom that increased her sense of
being unwelcome.
In the lift Rachel struggled to
compose herself and focus on the small talk that Claire Chambers
was making with her. Claire was talking about the building, about
tower blocks in general, giving examples of how different The
Heights were to the stereotypes of high-rise flats, selling her the
community and the views. It struck Rachel as rehearsed, something
she did with new guests to make them feel at ease, or to ease her
own discomfort with the stereotype, but her pained grin and
glistening eyes that accompanied her description of the friendly
community within the tower told a different story. Rachel didn’t
normally like colluding with the games people play. Beyond her
ability to talk to the dead and see the past she had developed a
keen psychological insight from spending so much time with people
in pain. It wasn’t a psychology you might find in a text book, it
was a mix of the otherworld intuition, keen observation and
listening and a first hand understanding of grief, pain and
hopelessness. Rachel didn’t need a text book to understand those
things. After a short while of talking with someone she could
imagine things from their perspective and quickly spot
inconsistencies in what they said or how they acted. She would sow
her conversation with musings and wonderings from her perspective,
inviting the other person to own the thoughts as their own, to
encourage them to challenge themselves, to be honest with
themselves. However, Rachel could see that Claire was desperate to
believe in the community spirit of the building, and still shaken
from the incident at the door Rachel also needed to believe it was
a safe place to be.
Catherine had demanded that
Rachel stay away from her and the building, and as much as Rachel
wanted a reunion she didn’t want it to happen in front of Claire,
Cat had so much resentment for her. If the dread of that hadn’t
been enough to unsettle her, when Claire had emerged from the lift,
the old man, Harry as she now knew he was called had retreated but
hissed a final warning in her face; “Your type aren’t welcome
here.” What did he mean? How could he know about her abilities? She
could also sense something, some presence in the air, but the
emotions the building conjured within her and the shock of her
encounter at the main door made it impossible to concentrate. She
was also distracted by the large mosaic panel that took up almost
an entire wall of the lobby. It was a crude gaudy display of rich
colours, it reminded her of the mosaics at Tottenham Court Road
Underground Station, yet there weren’t any individual pictures,
just patterns of colour that weaved in and out. She had examined it
further while she had chatted with the young man that had come to
her aide. She had seen something in the mosaic. Areas of the mosaic
where the colours deviated by subtle degrees creating a discrete
shape. When she walked to the lift with Claire she had tried to
take in the mosaic as a whole, to see the shape for what it was but
lost the image within the twists and angles of the pattern.
The lift stopped and her
thoughts, like the ghostly image within the mosaic, were lost to
concentrate more on Claire as they walked to her flat.
Rachel wiped her feet on the
mat as Claire shut the door behind them.
“ Would you like a cup of
tea?”
“ Lovely! Milk, three
sugars. Thank you.”
Claire walked over to the
kitchen.
A man’s voice greeted Rachel
from the lounge. “Sweet tooth.”
She found the man sitting on a
sofa leaning forward on his knees so he could see her more clearly
round the doorway. He looked her over warily.
“ I need all the energy
rushes I can get,” she puffed and
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