The Lie. C.L. Taylor

a goat out-house.

      Kane stands opposite me, his legs spread wide, his arms crossed over his broad chest, shadow obscuring half of his face.

      “Come in, close the door behind you. Take a seat.” He gestures at the pile of blankets.

      I do as I’m asked but I don’t pull the door fully closed. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine incense. It fills my throat, the smoky fragrance so cloying I can taste it. I eye Kane warily as he takes a seat himself, sitting cross-legged opposite me.

      “Hi! I’m Kane.” He holds out a meaty hand for me to shake. He’s only an inch or two taller than me, and probably a couple of years younger, but with his shaved head and weighty frame, his presence dominates the hut.

      “Emma.”

      He smiles broadly as I shake his hand. It transforms his face. His heavy brow lifts and deep dimples appear on either side of his wide mouth, and any worries I may have had about sharing such a small space with a complete stranger dissipate.

      “Have you ever had reflexology before, Emma?” he asks.

      When I shake my head, he explains to me how all the parts of the body are connected to the feet and how, if I have a blockage in any particular area, he’ll be able to sense it.

      “I’ve helped a lot of people,” he continues. “They’ve come to me with back pain, skin conditions, depression, IBS, the lot, and, with a course of treatments, I’ve helped them. Really helped them. Look at this …” He slides a book across the floor to me. “These are testimonials from the people I’ve treated. Have a look.”

      I flick through page after page, words like “improved”, “transformed”, “magical” and “healed” jumping out at me. I’m just about to tell him about my panic attacks when he holds up a hand.

      “Don’t tell me what’s wrong with you. I’ll know as soon as I touch your feet. Lie down for me, Emma, and slip off your flip-flops. I’ll begin by cleansing your feet.”

      I close my eyes and try to relax as Kane rubs my feet with what feels like cold, wet towels and then slathers them with oil. I feel terrified and excited at the same time. Terrified that Kane may be able to sense why I have my panic attacks, and excited that he may be able to do something to relieve them. Now this is what I imagined when Leanne first mooted the idea of a retreat in Nepal – holistic treatments, massages and relaxation – not early starts, peeling potatoes and strange, staring men.

      “You’re a kind person.” I jump at the sound of Kane’s voice and open my eyes. He’s still down at the other end of the hut, on his knees, pushing his thumbs into the balls of my feet. “You care about others but you feel taken for granted, sometimes.”

      I try to reply but he shakes his head.

      “I don’t want you to talk. You carry a lot of pain around with you but you don’t talk to anyone about it,” he continues as he presses his fingers into the pads of my toes. “You feel like you deserve to hurt, but you’re wrong. You must forgive yourself for what you did, Emma.”

      I want to tell him that he’s full of shit, that he’s got the wrong person, but I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. I’m floored by what he’s just told me. I don’t know how he’s picked up so much about me, but it’s all I can do to keep breathing.

      “Okay.” He waggles first my left foot, then my right foot, from side to side. “Now let’s see what’s physically wrong with you. Tell me if anything I do hurts. If it does, don’t worry, that just means there’s congestion that needs to be cleared.

      “How about this?” A single tear winds its way down the side of my face as he presses into the ball of my right foot, but the pressure has nothing to do with the reason I’m crying.

      I shake my head to indicate “no”.

      “This?”

      He slides his fingers to the side of my foot, but there’s no pain so I shake my head again.

      “How about here?”

      I feel him jab at my ankle. “No.”

      “Here?”

      “No.”

      Kane inhales noisily through his nose and my first thought is that I’m doing something wrong. I’m not responding as I should. Why doesn’t anything hurt?

      “Here?”

      I yelp as he prods a tender spot under my ankle. I spoke too soon.

      “Family history of diabetes?”

      I nod my head, astonished.

      “And here?” I twitch as he rolls my calf under his hand. “Problems with your lungs?”

      I nod again. He must have picked up on the fact I feel like I can’t breathe when I have a panic attack.

      “And here?” His fingers dig into the soft, fleshy instep of my right foot. “Digestive problems,” he says, his tone jubilant, and I wince as he presses the same spot again. “Diarrhoea. Food passes right through you.”

      “Ummm … not really.”

      “Are you sure? Because I can definitely feel some tenderness here.”

      “Well, sometimes, I guess.”

      “And difficulty sleeping? You suffer from insomnia.”

      I shrug. I don’t want to say no. He was doing so well.

      “I can sort it.” He continues to knead the sore spot with his fingers. “If we do a couple of sessions a week, you’ll be good in no time. Now, if you’d like to strip down to your knickers, we can get started with your massage. There’s a towel to your right. If you lie on your front and pull that over you, I’ll turn my back. Shout when you’re ready.”

      He turns and stands with his back to me, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shorts. Do I really want his hands all over me? Having a massage from a woman in a beauty salon or spa is one thing, but letting some random man massage you? Kane clears his throat. If I wanted to, I could gather up my clothes and slip out of the shed. I could be back in the house before he even knew I’d left. I glance back at the door, at the thin shaft of sunlight illuminating my blanket bed, and I yank off my T-shirt and shorts and flip over onto my stomach. I pull the towel over me so it covers my knickers.

      “Ready?” Kane asks.

      “I’m ready,” I say.

      The massage stops and the cool breeze from the half-open door tickles the top of my scalp. My limbs are dead weights and my thoughts are jumbled, dancing on the edge of my subconscious as I fight sleep. I part my lips to ask Kane if I should leave now, but I’m so tired I can’t open my eyes.

      “Ssssh,” Kane soothes as he places his hands on my shoulders again. He presses the base of his palms into my flesh and circles them around slowly, sliding his hands over my oiled skin, then presses his thumbs into my tight muscles. They click and clunk as he rubs out months of tension, and I groan with relief.

      I mentally will him to work on my neck, sore and stiff after four nights sleeping on a thin mattress, but his hands remain on my back – slipping and sliding over my skin, skimming my shoulders. His touch is lighter now, his fingertips barely grazing my body, and a shiver runs through me. It feels sensual, like I am being caressed rather than kneaded, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I wait for him to continue to pound my knotty muscles.

      Kane’s hands slip down to the base of my spine and his fingers wrap around my hips then slide over my waist, and I gasp as he strokes the sides of my breasts as his hands travel back to my shoulders. Suddenly I am hyperaware, my body prickling, anticipating where his fingers will go next.

      “Sssssh.” His hands move to my shoulders and, as his thumbs rub at the tight knots above my shoulder bones, I force myself to relax again. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do that.