heâd seen before. She looked as though she wanted to tell him to bugger off, itâs none of your business, but she didnât. She just got up and belted her coat even tighter and he was sorry then, because heâd been sort of enjoying the company. He missed conversation. You couldnât have a cosy chat with Alys.
âWe have to be getting back. William has homework to do. What are you doing here anyway?â Her foot nudged up against the Tesco bag and they both looked down as if there lay the answer to the question.
Walt reached down and hauled the bag onto his knee. âYour sister sent me to a charming man called Moodie to collect a prop for her latest artwork .â The last word lingered in his mouth. He ripped away the plastic bag with a flourish.
âChrist,â said Mouse. âWhat next?â
12
âOne mini gallows.â Walt handed the package to Alys, pleased that his hand was as steady as his gaze. Sheâd been threading wire through the skull of a magpie with a tiny pair of pliers but when she saw the bag she dropped them on the bench, falling on the package like a child on sweets. The Tesco bag fluttered to the ground.
âAmazing! Moodie is so good! â
âIs that how he makes a living? Designing miniature instruments of death and destruction?â He was joking, but not quite.
Alys brushed the dead magpie to one side and set the thing up on the workbench. âIs it any worse than what you do for a living?â
âDid.â
Sheâd stopped listening. He moved to stand beside her, watching her in profile. There was a gluttonous look about her, and he couldnât resist asking about her plans.
âMy piece will be called The Death of the Wren , my homage to Walter . . .â
âPotter. I got that. So what poor creatures are you sacrificing for this?â
She turned to face him then. The light in her eye had frozen to pale silver and she held the gallows like a crucifix. He wondered who was the vampire. He picked up the pliers from the bench, tested them against his thumbnail. The swelling had subsided and the nail was still intact, although it felt weird down at the base.
âRobert, I donât know if youâre cut out for this job. Iâm not sure you have an artistic temperament.â
The memory of the art therapy came back like a punch in the stomach. Traumatic memories can remain frozen in the bodyâs central nervous system, the doctor had said. Was that why he felt so cold all the time, so cold inside? Like heâd eaten a block of ice.
A person will react to get through the experience, but the trauma remains unprocessed. The doctor had been an okay guy. Decent and earnest, just like Melissa the art therapist. They were all earnest, that was the thing. They all meant well, but they couldnât see inside his head, couldnât see the things heâd seen. Was still seeing. A person might get a sensory memory, like a sound or sight or smell, that is reminiscent of the trauma and all of a sudden they are experiencing it all over again. The past wasnât just with him, he was walking back through it, picking his way through a daily minefield of âunprocessed traumaâ.
Alys was still talking, half to herself. Her words didnât make sense. They seemed to be coming from some place inside the magpieâs skull. Echoing. She was threading a wire through his brain and he could feel the cauterising heat of it and he felt himself slipping away. He was back in the art therapy place, back with Melissa, and his soul was the colour of a bruise as she held it up, glistening, in the light.
The mask is a masterpiece. A work of art so good it lifts his heart, and for the briefest moment he thinks, itâs working, art therapy works and all the claptrap professionals might really know their stuff.
Oh, heâd listened to the introduction: âTrauma often affects the non-verbal part of the brain,
âWe have to be getting back. William has homework to do. What are you doing here anyway?â Her foot nudged up against the Tesco bag and they both looked down as if there lay the answer to the question.
Walt reached down and hauled the bag onto his knee. âYour sister sent me to a charming man called Moodie to collect a prop for her latest artwork .â The last word lingered in his mouth. He ripped away the plastic bag with a flourish.
âChrist,â said Mouse. âWhat next?â
12
âOne mini gallows.â Walt handed the package to Alys, pleased that his hand was as steady as his gaze. Sheâd been threading wire through the skull of a magpie with a tiny pair of pliers but when she saw the bag she dropped them on the bench, falling on the package like a child on sweets. The Tesco bag fluttered to the ground.
âAmazing! Moodie is so good! â
âIs that how he makes a living? Designing miniature instruments of death and destruction?â He was joking, but not quite.
Alys brushed the dead magpie to one side and set the thing up on the workbench. âIs it any worse than what you do for a living?â
âDid.â
Sheâd stopped listening. He moved to stand beside her, watching her in profile. There was a gluttonous look about her, and he couldnât resist asking about her plans.
âMy piece will be called The Death of the Wren , my homage to Walter . . .â
âPotter. I got that. So what poor creatures are you sacrificing for this?â
She turned to face him then. The light in her eye had frozen to pale silver and she held the gallows like a crucifix. He wondered who was the vampire. He picked up the pliers from the bench, tested them against his thumbnail. The swelling had subsided and the nail was still intact, although it felt weird down at the base.
âRobert, I donât know if youâre cut out for this job. Iâm not sure you have an artistic temperament.â
The memory of the art therapy came back like a punch in the stomach. Traumatic memories can remain frozen in the bodyâs central nervous system, the doctor had said. Was that why he felt so cold all the time, so cold inside? Like heâd eaten a block of ice.
A person will react to get through the experience, but the trauma remains unprocessed. The doctor had been an okay guy. Decent and earnest, just like Melissa the art therapist. They were all earnest, that was the thing. They all meant well, but they couldnât see inside his head, couldnât see the things heâd seen. Was still seeing. A person might get a sensory memory, like a sound or sight or smell, that is reminiscent of the trauma and all of a sudden they are experiencing it all over again. The past wasnât just with him, he was walking back through it, picking his way through a daily minefield of âunprocessed traumaâ.
Alys was still talking, half to herself. Her words didnât make sense. They seemed to be coming from some place inside the magpieâs skull. Echoing. She was threading a wire through his brain and he could feel the cauterising heat of it and he felt himself slipping away. He was back in the art therapy place, back with Melissa, and his soul was the colour of a bruise as she held it up, glistening, in the light.
The mask is a masterpiece. A work of art so good it lifts his heart, and for the briefest moment he thinks, itâs working, art therapy works and all the claptrap professionals might really know their stuff.
Oh, heâd listened to the introduction: âTrauma often affects the non-verbal part of the brain,
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