Kind of Cruel Read Online Free

intones, ‘and the very top of your head. And just . . . let it . . . relax.’
    Why is she doing this? She must know that she sounds like a cliché. Wouldn’t she be better off talking normally?
    ‘And then your forehead . . . let it relax. And moving down to your nose . . . breathing slowly and deeply, calmly and quietly, just let your nose relax. And then your mouth, your lips . . . let them relax.’
    What about the bit between my nose and my lips, whatever its name is? What if that part’s rigid with tension? She missed it out.
    This is hopeless. I’m rubbish at being hypnotised. I knew I would be.
    Ginny has reached my shoulders. ‘Feel them drop and relax, all the pressure melting away. Breathing slowly and deeply, calmly and quietly, letting go of all stress and tension. And then moving down to your chest, your lungs – let them relax. There’s no such thing as a hypnotised feeling, only a feeling of total calm and total relaxation.’
    Really? Then why am I paying seventy quid? If all I have to do is relax, I could do that at home on my own.
    No, I correct myself. I couldn’t. Can’t.
    ‘Total calm . . . and total relaxation. And moving down to your stomach . . . let it relax.’
    Septum. No, that’s the bit between your nostrils. I used to know the name of that indentation between the nose and top lip. What do people mean when they talk about someone’s elevens being up? No, that’s the groove at the back of the neck. It looks more like the number 11 the closer a person is to death. I’m almost certain the same isn’t true of the . . . philtrum, that’s what it’s called. Now that the name’s come back to me, I have a clear picture of Luke announcing it triumphantly. A pub quiz. The kind of question he always gets right, the kind I’m useless at .
    I force myself to pay attention to Ginny’s droning voice. Has she got to my toes yet? I haven’t been listening. She could save time by grouping all the parts together and instructing the whole body to relax. I try to breathe evenly and keep my impatience at bay.
    ‘Some people feel incredibly light, as if they might float away,’ she’s saying. ‘And some people feel a heaviness in their limbs, like they couldn’t move even if they wanted to.’
    She sounds like a children’s TV presenter, doing ‘light’ and ‘heavy’ voices to match her words. Has she ever experimented with a more deadpan delivery? It’s something I’ve often wondered about actors on Radio 4: why doesn’t anyone tell them the phony voices really don’t help?
    ‘And some people feel a tingling in their fingers. But everybody feels lovely and calm, nice and relaxed.’
    My fingers are tingling quite a lot. They were even before she said it. Does that mean I’m hypnotised? I don’t feel relaxed, though I suppose I’m more aware of the buzzing neuroses in my mind than I was before, more intently focused on them. It’s as if they and I are trapped together in a dark box, one that’s drifted away from the rest of the world. Is that a good thing? Hard to see how it can be.
    ‘And now, breathing slowly and deeply, calmly and quietly, I’d like you to imagine the most beautiful staircase in the world.’
    What? She’s springing this on me with no warning? A dozen desirable staircase images crowd into my mind and start scrapping with each other. Spiral, with wrought-iron fretwork? Or those open, slatty steps that look as if they’re floating on air, with a glass or stainless steel balustrade – nice and modern, clean lines. On the other hand, a bit soulless, too much like an office building.
    ‘Your perfect staircase has ten steps,’ Ginny goes on. ‘I’m now going to take you down those steps, one by one . . .’
    Hang on a second. I’m not ready to move anywhere yet. I still haven’t got my staircase sorted out. Traditional’s the safest bet: dark wood, with a runner. I’m seeing something stripy . . .
    ‘As you descend, I want you to see yourself