In a thousand different.., p.15
In a Thousand Different Ways, page 15
‘Can I open a window?’ I ask Paul next to me.
He holds a finger up to stop me, he’s talking on the phone. I waft my T-shirt and look around, as if expecting to find air.
‘Thank you very much for your time,’ he sings gaily, then to me in a different tone: ‘The windows don’t open, it’s air con. Are you feeling okay?’
‘I’m so hot in here.’ Speckles of dots cloud my vision, I feel like I’m going to faint.
A trickle of sweat runs down my chest, between my boobs, soaks into my bra. I’ve a pounding headache.
‘It’s the machines,’ he says. He looks at me, concerned. ‘Have you got water?’
I toss my empty bottle on the table.
‘There’s chilled water in the tank in the corner, I’ll fill your bottle,’ he says, one eye on me, one ear in his headphones.
I feel a little less panicked now; his kindness has settled me, even if the heat is still unbearable. I look around. Everyone is glued to their screens, having conversations with strangers, using their skills to befriend and build trust in nanoseconds. Chirpy and helpful, despite what’s happening to them. The colours around the monitors are hotter and brighter than their own. I watch the girl in front of me, Parminder, and I fight the urge to shout out as the energy from her computer reaches out to her, like an alien creature trying to suck her into the machine. Over the duration of the morning the red-hot colours have emanated from the computers and reached out to heat up everybody in the room. Whatever colours these people once had, they are now surrounded by a burning red, an added layer, like insulation, that is starting to burn through their colours, as if it’s melting into their heads and torsos like hot lava.
‘Ozone depletion,’ Mr Walker, our science teacher, reads out the words on the whiteboard.
Someone groans. Everyone sits at tables of two, but they all know that I like my own space so I sit alone, wearing shades.
Saloni is in front of me with Gospel; she’s twisting her hair around her finger, winding it so tight her skin goes white and purple, as if it’s going to pop, then unravels it again. I can tell she’s not listening. She looks earnest but I know that look: she’s far away in her head, living a different life. In a prince’s harem, one of his women, she’s told me about that one before, or in a skyscraper in New York, running her own company. She has so many lives in her head it’s no wonder the wrong one pops out when she speaks sometimes.
‘What causes ozone depletion?’
‘Avocados, sir,’ Eddie shouts out.
The class laughs.
‘Close,’ Mr Walker says, trying not to smile. ‘Manufactured chemicals, greenhouse gases such as methane, especially chlorofluorocarbons or CFCs, are known as ozone-depleting substances. The ozone layer prevents most harmful wavelengths of ultraviolet light from passing through the Earth’s atmosphere. These wavelengths cause skin cancer, sunburn, blindness, harms plants and animals.’
He looks at the class for a reaction.
Most heads are on the table, looking out the window. Unaffected by his words.
‘Where is the ozone layer?’
Nothing.
‘I’ll give you a hint. It’s wide enough to wrap itself around the Earth.’
‘It’s Sully’s mum, sir.’
‘The ozone layer is high up in the stratosphere. If you look here’ – he points to the projected image on the whiteboard – ‘the ozone layer acts like a force field around the Earth.’
Saloni turns around and tries to catch my attention.
I ignore her.
She prods me with her pencil.
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Look,’ she whispers. ‘Him, outside. He asked me to marry him.’
‘Stop, I’m listening.’
‘Nerd,’ she says, insulted, then turns her back again and resumes staring out the window.
My interest in this lesson is surprisingly piqued. I look at the Earth in Mr Walker’s image. The ozone layer is highlighted like a green haze around the planet. It’s like the Earth’s energy.
‘So the ozone layer is protecting the Earth?’ I ask.
He seems as pleased to receive the question as he is to not receive one. He has switched himself off a long time ago. This school will do that to a teacher. ‘It shields us from the damaging sunrays, yes, like the Earth’s bio-field.’
‘What’s a bio-field?’ I ask.
Some kids laugh, thinking I’m messing, deliberately trying to prevent him from finishing a sentence. He looks at me to decide whether I am or not and takes their view.
‘Consider that your homework, Miss Kelly. Tomorrow you can tell me what a bio-field is. If you look at the next image to see the impact of CFCs.’ He presses a button. ‘This is the ozone hole.’
‘Not as dangerous as Alex’s hole, sir.’
He ignores that too.
‘How do we know the hole is there?’ I ask.
‘Chemistry happens in the air. You can’t see it, so you have to develop intricate instruments to measure its changes. It’s measured in Dobson units.’
‘Boring,’ someone groans.
‘But maybe that’s for another time.’
‘Or never.’
I look out the window and up at the sky, all the way up to the stratosphere. Above all of our energies, I picture a giant green haze around the Earth, an outer layer like we’re living in a snow globe. I wonder, if I ever travelled that far, could I see it and if so, I wonder what colours would the Earth have. Would it be in pain like most people, would it have joyful colours? What possible jealousy could the Earth hold? Fascinated by the idea, I more than anything want to see its aura. Or maybe I don’t need to see it, maybe just as it is the case with everyone around me, I already feel exactly how the Earth feels.
‘A bio-field is an energy blueprint that surrounds living systems. It’s the matrix that connects our physical, emotional and mental dimensions,’ Gospel reads from the computer later that day when we’re doing our homework. ‘Whatever that means.’
I write it down, then look back up to the monitor at his Google search. His question, what is a bio-field, has prompted more questions.
‘Do humans generate a magnetic field?’ I read aloud. ‘Click on that one.’
‘Every organ and every cell has its own field,’ he reads in a mock-dorky professor way. ‘Neurons, endocrine and muscles are called excitable cells, as electricity stimulates them, creating a magnetic field.’ He pushes imaginary glasses up the bridge of his nose. Twitches. Throws his head back. Grunts.
‘Can humans glow?’ I read.
Gospel laughs and starts reading. ‘Scientists now say that the human body literally glows, what the …?’ He drops the dorky professor voice. ‘Research shows that the body emits light one thousand times less intense than the levels to which our naked eyes are sensitive. That’s some weird shit.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ I say, ready to tell him, my face flushed with exhilaration at this discovery. ‘I can see people’s light, their magnetic field, whatever it is they call it. It’s easier for me to say that I see people’s colours. The colours are a reflection of people’s moods, like blue for sad, pink for happy, but it’s more complicated than that. The colours give me a headache. That’s why I wear the sunglasses.’
He takes a moment to see if I’m joking and, for some reason, he decides that I’m honest.
‘What colour am I?’
‘Honey,’ I say, smiling.
Paul returns with a bottle of chilled water.
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. Usually people are freezing in their first week. The air con is constantly on full blast. With the high heat levels from the computers, it has to be. It’s not for us, though, it’s so the computers don’t explode.’
I look around the room, at everybody’s bodies being slowly hacked at by the computer’s rays, suddenly understanding something that I hadn’t grasped before. Our energies are like the ozone layer, and the computer’s energy, the electromagnetic energy, is like CFCs that sear through us all, like a hot knife through butter, making a hole in a person, the bit around us. The bit you can’t see. The bio-field.
There’s panic over climate change. Earth is in crisis, but it seems to me that no one is paying any attention to the crisis of our souls. No units to measure all the holes that are appearing in each of us.
In Naomi’s flat, a woman is lying on the bed in the centre of the room. In her thirties, I guess. She wears leggings and a jumper, no shoes. She smiles at me when I enter, though her eyes are red and puffy as though she’s been crying.
‘Lucy, this is Alice,’ Naomi says, introducing us. ‘Lucy doesn’t mind you sitting in, we’ve just finished our talk so now we’re going to clear the chakras.’
I’m supposed to be watching Lucy, but I can’t take my eyes off Naomi. She has an aura of pure gold around her, the kind of colour I’ve only ever seen on newborn babies. It’s a golden light that moves up from the ground, streaming upward and around her like an uplighter. It flows within the bubble, like a sparkling wine, or a luxurious just-poured flute of champagne. It’s so bright, like pulling the curtains first thing in the morning and being faced with the morning rays. Almost squinting against her light, I watch her at work.
The prominent colour around Lucy is black. Not a scratchy black like the paedophile in the park, or the distressing metallic streaks of someone who is sick in the head and murderous with demon thoughts. I’ve seen this black before, regularly, lots of people carry it with them every single day; it’s the black of grief. A quiet, contemplative black of drawing the curtains so they can search inside. It speaks to me, politely and quietly, saying, Do not disturb, I’m exhausted and I’m resting, I’m trying to heal. The black is clear and transparent like a mourning veil, it covers Lucy from head to toe; in places there are darker black knots where she is clearly struggling emotionally, particularly around the centre of her upper stomach, where her ribcage ends.
Naomi needs to be careful here, if she does what I witnessed Esme doing, the only time I witnessed a reiki session, then she could send these black knots to the wrong parts of Lucy’s body, to her head or internal organs, which would be dangerous. Or the knots could resist and remain where they are, becoming tighter and darker, more knotted.
I watch as, with her eyes closed and hands out, Naomi correctly identifies the problem areas. Breathing deeply, the sound of calming water and pipe music in the background, Naomi gets to work on her first knot. I hold my breath.
When the heat emerges from Naomi’s hands, I almost gasp as I see it. Red and orange, warm and inviting as a sunset. The tight black knot is resistant at first, then it starts to tighten. Instead of forcing it, Naomi stops and looks around for something specific and returns with a crystal, a musky black-coloured stone. She holds it in her hands, as if warming the stone, inhales deeply, exhales slowly, then places the stone back in the path of the sun. She holds her hands out over the stubborn black knot for a second time. Slowly but surely, the knot begins to unravel. It unravels and hangs there for a moment, as if making a decision. Then it becomes a clear transparent colour and merges with the rest of Lucy’s weeping veil.
Naomi does the same with the other knots. A tear trickles down Lucy’s face from the corner of her eye, she lets it fall and it runs into her hairline near her ear.
Naomi unravels each of the knots of emotion, but the black veil hanging over Lucy remains untouched.
‘And now we seal the chakras,’ Naomi says softly, so as not to give the peaceful Lucy a jolt.
I think of the paramedic in our house who rubbed her hands together and rid herself of the blue when I was a child. I wonder if she did it subconsciously or if, with a job like that, she had learned how to leave other people’s problems behind. Leave them in the house before you return home. Naomi does the same now, she rubs her hands together, crumpling the lingering black into a ball like it’s paper, scrunching it up. The heat of her hands disintegrates it and she shakes them out as though she’s air-drying them. I watch in awe.
‘Now Lucy,’ she says, suddenly bringing us back to reality, to an apartment in Islington, in a tower block of flats where the horns and sirens of the traffic outside are audible once more. The magic spell is broken.
Lucy sits up, sleepy-eyed, with tousled hair. She takes a moment. ‘Thank you,’ she says, and she starts to cry.
Naomi allows her her human moment. She hands her a tissue and pours her a glass of water.
‘How did you do it?’ I ask, mouth agape after Lucy has paid and left.
‘What did you see me do?’ she asks, grinning. ‘Tea?’
‘No. No tea. This is, this is … phenomenal.’ I’m buzzing. The adrenaline is pumping through me. ‘Do you know what you just did?’
The gold bubble from around her is gone.
‘You were like a glass of champagne,’ I say. ‘A gold shimmering bubble, and then the heat of your hands untied every single black knot that was around her. The one over her pelvis was stubborn, I’ll give you that. It was threatening to tighten, I thought you were going to do her damage. It nearly did, but then you got that black stone thing and all of a sudden it untied itself. And poof, gone – only not gone, it joined the black veil, but it was far less harmful than it had been. And the same with the other ones. It was like they watched the first guy and said, No way we’ll get away with this! They didn’t even put up a fight. And there’s the paper thing – crumpling it up, dissolving it and throwing it away.’ I do a bad basketball throw impression with an exaggerated flick of the wrist. ‘And slam dunk, she’s all good. Well, still grieving, but you can’t fix that, right? It’s natural, you just cleared the way for her to do it herself.’
Naomi sits down, exhausted.
‘Does doing that tire you out?’ I ask.
‘No. You do.’
‘Oh.’ I stop pacing. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. You are phenomenal,’ she says. ‘I knew it. I sensed there was something special about you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Make me a tea, will you? I need something to calm me down.’
I keep an eye on her as a mini firework display of colours pops all around her body.
‘You saw everything that I did in colours?’ she asks as we settle down.
I nod.
‘Remarkable. Did I miss anything? Was there an energy I left behind?’
‘No,’ I shake my head. She’s the expert, it feels wrong for her to reverse it like this. Like she’s a pilot who has left the cockpit for passenger advice.
‘Remarkable,’ she says again. ‘You said I was like a glass of champagne?’
‘A flute,’ I say. ‘All gold and shiny and bubbly. It was around you like a bubble. What was that?’ I hand her a chamomile tea and sit in her mother’s chair. I get a little jolt as I sit.
‘It’s a shield,’ she says. ‘I create it whenever a client enters my home for a session. It’s important to protect myself and keep our energies separate.’
This is possibly the most important information I have ever received in my life.
‘You can build a shield?’
‘Of course. Alice, you can do anything you want with your energies. They are your energies.’
‘I wear gloves, a mask, glasses, I keep my skin covered, we have dividers at the call centre, but a shield? I would wear it every day.’
‘We don’t want to be shielded from everything in life, Alice. Some things must be experienced, some people we must experience. The gloves, the mask, the glasses – you have been telling people to stay away, instead of figuring out how to be among them. You have decided to become an outsider instead of engaging.’
‘A shadow,’ I say. ‘I’ve already decided I don’t want to be that anymore, but it’s the only way I know how to live.’
‘I’ll show you another way. I’ll teach you how to shield yourself. It’s one thing to be alone, Alice, it is quite another to be lonely.’
I feel another jolt beneath me and I stand up.
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Your mother is feisty today,’ I say, looking at the chair, which is glowing more than usual.
She opens her mouth in surprise. ‘Oh goodness, Alice. It’s her birthday!’
Naomi and I sit cross-legged on a rug on her floor. The scented candles are lit and relaxing music plays in the background. The balcony doors are open, a bright spring day, the surviving wind chimes tinkle in the light breeze. The oven is emanating coconut smells and, whatever it is, I want to be invited to eat it.
‘We are creating a shield of gold,’ Naomi says. ‘Once you create the shield, you won’t need to make it again for a long time. It’s like a pair of shoes, you wear it until you need to repair it or make a new one. It’s always there, but you call on it when needs be. Think of it like a helmet visor that flicks back when you don’t need it.’
‘This is so cool,’ I giggle. ‘Where am I flicking it to?’
‘Think of it as being there, but not being activated.’
I’m confused, unsure if I’ll be able to do this. It would be easier if there was an on-off button.
‘It’s not for everyday use,’ she says, warning in her tone, as if sensing my true intentions.
I nod but I plan to wear this bad boy everywhere I go. She looks disappointed by my lie; she may not have my aura-seeing abilities but her instincts are the sharpest I have ever encountered.
‘The shield repels all harm. You use it when feeling under psychic and psychological attack, to protect against people who are overbearing and threaten your aura.’
‘That’s everyone. Every day, all the time.’
‘It is not, Alice, and you know it,’ she says, as if admonishing a child.
I giggle. ‘Then why were you shielding yourself against Lucy? She wasn’t attacking you.’
‘I miss my mother,’ she says simply. ‘The greatest loss in my life is my greatest weakness. I had to do a lot of work on myself after losing her, and allowing Lucy’s grief to touch mine would be detrimental to me.’
‘Okay. I understand.’
