‘Sweet,’ said Heather, ‘but … if you ask me, I think that after our trip to the cemetery and finding Lily’s grave as well as Grace’s, and then discovering that Lily had a daughter who died at an early age, on top of what Saranya Ji told you about Billy going off to the war, it’s been on your mind, literally. Also, if Grace had had a child, surely she’d have been in the grave with her. I think your subconscious concocted it all into a story to make sense of it all: that’s the power of dreams. And I seem to remember reading somewhere about how death in dreams isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It can represent the death of something – of a chapter in your life, and that birth usually means new beginnings, so maybe this baby indicates a new start for you.’

‘Maybe.’ I took a sip of the tea that Heather had bought me. ‘Sounds like gobbledygook to me, certainly felt like that – a mishmash of events and thoughts and ideas. Whatever the explanation, I get a very strong feeling that it is time to move on. Whatever happened in that session, if I really did go back to a past life, or if I just fell into a deep in-between-sleep state and, as you say, reimagined the story that Saranya Ji had told me, it doesn’t matter which, but I don’t feel that dwelling on it all is helping. Grace, whoever she was, lived a long time ago. I, on the other hand, am alive now. This is my time. This is the real time and I need to focus in this century, this decade.’

‘I agree,’ said Heather. ‘Will you talk to Marcia about any of this?’

I shook my head. ‘Maybe … So far I’ve told her that the hypnosis helped with my sleeping and she seemed happy enough with that. You know what Marcia’s like. If I told her what I’d experienced, she’d be off on one and telling me to do all sorts of whacky things. It’s been so intense and I’d like some time to mull it over myself. It’s different talking to you, you’re more impartial.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

I laughed. ‘Move on, stop hanging about in graveyards, get on with this life.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

34

On our way home, I took the route through Muswell Hill. As we drove along the High Street, I spotted Joe Wilding with an attractive redhead who was holding hands with a young lad. Joe was pushing a pram. He said something and the woman laughed and kissed his cheek.

‘Looks happily married,’ I said as we continued on our way. ‘And really well too. Maybe he’s kicked the demon drink. I do hope so because he was a nice guy when he wasn’t high on something.’