The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

in his London bedroom. ‘Can you contact the police and tell them where she is, Felix? I can’t hang around. I have to try to find her. I’m not sure I’ll be much use in the dark, but she’s so scared up there alone.’

She had said there were wolves. He felt a rush of panic in his throat. There were no lights anywhere. Were there wolves in these mountains? He had heard they were thinking of reintroducing them back into parts of Scotland, but not in Wales, surely? Or was she back in the past in one of her dream states? He went round to the back of the car and pulled out his walking boots, first aid kit and his waterproof jacket. He was about to close the boot when his phone rang. ‘Mr Armstrong? This is the police. We have your daughter’s location from your son. Please, stay where you are. If you get lost as well, it won’t help anyone. The mountain rescue team are on their way. If you’re in touch with Emma, please tell her to stay exactly where she is and then cut the call so she doesn’t waste her battery, but tell her to leave the phone switched on so we can track her. That will help us find her more quickly.’

Simon stood there, staring up at the sky. A swathe of stars was visible above his head, but the mountainous sides of the narrow valley were impenetrably black around him He kept hoping to hear a car or better still a helicopter, but the night was totally silent. He found his torch in the glove pocket of the car and with its powerful beam he found a signboard at the edge of the car park with a map of the valley. He scanned it with an ever-increasing sense of panic at the size of the vast mountain range around them. Eventually he switched off the torch and made his way under the lychgate into the churchyard. He could see the church in the starlight. It was a long low building with a small square tower. All round him were gravestones, old and shining in the damp. He found himself wondering if they were slate. According to the maps he’d studied there were old slate quarries all round these mountains. Cliffs, quarries, mineshafts. Disused mines up on the moors. Don’t think about it. Emma was safe. She had promised she would stay put.

He was standing under an ancient yew tree. Somewhere an owl called, a sharp, unexpectedly loud sound in the silence. Its mate hooted in the distance and he realised he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stirring. He could smell the resinous tang of the yew, and the fresh cold sweetness of the mountain air. Why was no one coming? Surely the police would be on their way by now? He checked his phone. The battery was still 60 per cent. Resolutely he pushed it into his pocket. If there was news, someone would call him. He wandered further up the narrow path towards the church porch. Perhaps he should pray. Say a prayer to St Melangell herself. He found he had closed his eyes, squeezing them tight shut as he used to when he was a little boy. His mother used to tell him to say his prayers at night when he was frightened of the dark. He gave an inward groan. He had had no concept then, in his cosy little bedroom with red and blue zoo animals on the curtains, of just how empty and lonely and scary the real dark could be. He surveyed the silent churchyard. ‘Please, please, look after my little girl. Keep her safe. She was coming to find you, to pray at your shrine. Tomorrow we’ll come together and bring flowers, offerings. We’ll give thanks if you keep her safe tonight.’ He took a deep breath, trying to contain his despair. Here he was, trying to bribe a saint. But surely she would understand. She had been a compassionate woman, keeping the hare safe, away from a king and his hunting dogs. She was brave and kind and obviously beautiful as the king had wanted to marry her on the spot. It was when he had failed to lure her away from God that he had given her this whole valley. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. It was still dark. There had been no missed calls.

Sandra sat staring at the table in front of her. An ambulance had come in the end and the two women had sat with her on her own sofa for ten minutes, making her breathe slowly. ‘You’re all right, Sandy,’ they kept saying. ‘It’s a panic attack. Relax. Breathe. You’re not hurt.’

Not hurt! When she had been knocked across the room by the force of the psychic blast. She could still feel the bruises. But they had found nothing. No bruises. No injuries. One of them had made her a cup of tea in her own kitchen and they had treated her as if she was senile, holding her hand and talking to her as if she was demented. Then they had had a call out to a real case, someone who was genuinely hurt, and they left, telling her to remember to breathe and to go and see her doctor if it happened again.

She groaned. The parting shot from one of them had been, ‘It must have been a bad dream, love.’ She wasn’t supposed to hear the next comment, made to the other paramedic as they crossed the pavement back to their ambulance, ‘Either that or her imagination. What an imagination! As if!’

Imagination. As if! Was that it? She pulled up her jumper and stared down at her own front. They were right. Their delicate probing had found no damaged ribs, no bruising, no scars, and there weren’t any. She was completely unhurt. She realised there were