by EH Walter
“No Auntie. You know my birthday is at the end of the month, the thirty-first of October.”
“Yes I know, twenty five on the thirty first. What’s the date today then?”
“October twentieth.”
“Oh.” She sniffed.
“Why the interest in my twenty fifth birthday, Auntie?” I asked coyly.
“Got to go, Leonora. I’ve got Agatha Christie coming over for afternoon tea.”
Like many of her generation she hanged up without saying goodbye.
I shook my head sadly. Agatha Christie had been dead since 1976.
“Any post?” I asked Rose.
My office had been last decorated in the seventies, the decade that taste forgot. It might have been quite stylish when Great Aunt Mildred first moved Paranormal Investigations to Cockfosters. Now it was as dilapidated as the building that surrounded it. The furniture hadn't been new in the seventies and I suspected Great Aunt Mildred had herself inherited it. Some of it was Victorian, other pieces heavy pre-war oak and the rest unidentifiable clutter. Great Aunt Mildred didn't like to throw anything away and I didn't feel the business was sufficiently mine to do so myself.
On my messy desk I had a pot plant, a rubbery green thing which needed no watering as the leak in the ceiling above did that for me. The plants were the only sign of life in the office - you couldn't really count Rose, she was pretty ancient and gave no indication of a beating heart and breathing lungs - unless there was a plate of biscuits in the offing and then she had the instincts of a ninja.
I went into my office and shuffled papers for a bit. It did me good to make the office look used by moving things from one side of the desk to the other, in truth there was little work to do as the last case had been a missing cat three months ago and that situation had been wrapped up when I informed the client her cat had been adopted by, and was currently being overfed by, her neighbour. The business should really be called ‘Lost Pets and Errant Spouses’ rather than ‘Paranormal Investigations’. There was no hope of things ever getting better. You see, the problem was I just couldn’t believe in the paranormal. No sir. Not ghosts, ghouls, demons, aliens or anything else that might be described as paranormal or supernatural. I had long thought the name held us back, but Great Aunt Mildred would not hear of changing it, it’s part of her legacy she says, and the name stays. Stupid old bint. I hated the fact my work was a joke and there wasn’t even a decent wage in it for me.
Two years ago I was a jobbing actor, busy failing at auditions and being told a size twelve was too fat to fit in the pre-made costumes. I was used to rejection, poverty and defeat. It was my way of life and strangely – I was happy.
For years Great Aunt Mildred had told me there was a place for me at Paranormal Investigations and for years I managed to put her off without offending her – she was practically my only family after all. Then, two years ago, it had seemed everything was going wrong – the love of my life went to try his luck in Los Angeles and I crumbled. I was not sure I had ever told Jez he was the love of my life and perhaps I should have, it might have made things take a different path. It’s hard though, when you fall into a relationship from a friendship, to make that leap into saying ‘I love you’. I hadn’t taken the risk and had acted so cool at his leaving, he left thinking I didn’t care at all. See, those three years at drama school weren’t completely wasted.
Heartbroken and alone Great Aunt Mildred sucked me in. “Help me out for a while,” she had said and like a fool I had moved north to ‘help her out’. I started by watering the plants and doing the filing. Then she had asked me to do more and more: answering the phones, meeting clients and finally stake outs when her ‘varicose veins hurt too much’. Last year she had retired and left me to it. I had been out of acting too long to return and I felt I would be letting her down if I didn’t keep the business going.
“Better than post! We have a new client!”
I stopped. This was monumental. Goat men aside, I couldn’t remember the last time I actually had a genuine client. “For real? It wasn’t one of those prank calls?”
Rose nodded solemnly. “A concerned lady who goes by the name of Miss X…”
“The hell she does.”
“…wishes to inquire about a sensitive matter.”
Sensitive never meant a pet case. Sensitive always meant someone was screwing around.
“She’s not coming to the office is she?”
Rose laughed, then tried to look serious. “You are meeting her at half ten in your other office.”
My other office being the High Barnet branch of Starbucks, also known as my second home.
I looked at my watch. I just had enough time to shuffle some papers and catch up on Heat magazine before leaving.
*
Starbucks was, as usual for mid morning on a weekday, full of mothers and screaming toddlers. I sat in my accustomed seat, waiting and reading a book to while away the time. It was an absorbing book and the time passed rapidly without my realising.
I was studiously examining the Torso of the Week when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and without any noise or disturbance a figure had seated themselves in the chair opposite me.
It was a young girl - early twenties maybe - with pale blonde hair and an expressionless face as if someone had gone crazy over her skin with botox needle. She was exceptionally beautiful, the kind of beauty that can only be caught by the naked eye and does not transfer onto canvas or film. She smiled. It was not a smile that put me at ease. As her lips moved, I could sight of the slightest edge of her teeth, they looked like they had been sharpened into razor sharp points. Her pink tongue brushed over them as if she had been aware of my attention.
"Well," she said in a soft, tone-less voice, "you are interesting, aren't you?"
A sense of unease came over me, like someone had dripped liquid nitrogen down my spine. I couldn't move, an irrational sense of panic was beginning to overwhelm me. I didn't know who she was, but I knew I didn't like her and she didn't like me.
My head wouldn’t move so I used my peripheral vision to look around Starbucks. It was like everyone else had been paused. Movement had stopped. So had the sound. The grinding noise of the coffee beans was gone, the cup about to smash on the floor stopped an inch above the floor.
The young woman’s eyes worked over me, up and down.
"I had no idea the new Seer was so interesting."
I wanted to speak but my mouth would not open and no words would come.
"We haven't seen one like you for many generations, if ever. There is something unusual about you, I wish I could put my finger on it. I wonder if you know how special you are?"
She leant close and sniffed me, it was as if the smell of me was intoxicating. She lingered there for a moment before sitting back in her chair.
"Fascinating!"
I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
"They'll be all over you like a sweetshop. And you have no idea."
She clicked her fingers and something in me relaxed. I had my body back. Her tone of voice changed and became more business like.
"I am Orla of the Fae. You are Morgan Leonora Elizabeth Fey," she said, "Seer of the two worlds and you have something belonging to me. Answer."
Bugger you, I thought. I couldn't answer when I wanted to so I'll be damned if I will now! I looked down at my tea and stirred with the wooden stick. Then I looked up at her and smiled.
She stuck out her lips slightly and her eyes narrowed. "You would be wise not to play games with me."
"Shame," I said lightly, "I could just do with around of Scrabble."
Her smile became a sneer. "I want the faun child."
"The what? You must excuse me, this stuff is all rather new to me. What is a faun child?"
"I want the goat man. He belongs to us."
"What will you do with him if I give him to you?"
"Kill him." she said without relish.
"Right... okay -
you want to kill him? Seriously?"
"We gave our word he would be eliminated. We don't break our word. The word of the Fae is final."
I leant forward, but not too close. "The problem is, I think Bob is kind of used to being alive and rather likes it."
Her eyes grew wide, "You gave the slave a name?"
"I can't let you kill him."
She leant in and spoke on a whisper. "You really think you can stop us?"
I looked up at her and shrugged. "I'll give it a damn good go."
“You clearly have no idea who you are dealing with.”
With what may have been a scowl on a face that moved, she rose with no physical effort. “I shall enjoy destroying you Seer. It is your end of days.”
“Hey,” I said, “wait up…”
She paused.
“I left a tooth under my pillow when I was eight and never got my fifty pee…”
I came to with my face buried in Heat magazine and a loud snore erupting from my nose. Shaking myself, I looked around. The beans jumped around the coffee grinder and the cup smashed on the floor.
She was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
Miss X's Boyfriend
A chill descended on me. Bob was right - fairies were mean, I could feel it in my bones.
I went to drink the rest of my tea but when it hit my lips I realised it had turned into lumps of crystallised ice. I shivered.
As I left Starbucks, I felt uneasy and kept looking over my shoulder and checking my reflection in shop windows. It felt like someone was following me, however my eyes told me nothing was there. Could they follow me home to Bob? Would I be leading him into danger if I went home?
I stopped outside the Victoria Bakery. My heart was pounding and a sheen of sweat was over my face. Pressed against the shop window displaying Belgian buns and iced fairy cakes I thought carefully about what I should do next. I was unwilling to go home in case I led them directly there. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, my sweating hand slipped over the buttons as I tried to dial my home number. I had to correct it several times before I tapped in the correct number and managed to dial. It rang seven times before it was answered. I counted every one. If anything happened to Bob it would be my fault, okay he was kinda weird - but he was my responsibility. And it would make one hell of a mess in my flat.
"Hello," said a nervous voice, "she doesn't like me answering her phone."
"No she doesn't. It's me Bob - this fairy just found me in Starbucks."
There was a pause. "A fairy? Which one?"
"Orla?"
"Oh, that's bad - that's really bad!"
I thought he was going to cry.
"She wants to kill me, doesn't she?"
"Well, let's just say she wasn't overly happy with you. Is Trevor there?"
There was silence. I presumed this was Bob either nodding or shaking his head.
"Bob, I can't see you - this is a phone remember."
"Oh, yes. He's watching Homes Under the Hammer."
"How? I took the fuse out of the plug."
Silence again. A shrug?
"Never mind. Look Bob, I won't come home straight away. When I feel like I'm not being watched I'll come home."
"I was going to cook food," he said forlornly, "I found a book of culinary instructions and everything."
"Another time Bob, okay? I'm sure Trevor will eat it."
"Trevor says my cooking tastes like refuse."
"Is that a good thing coming from a troll? I mean, maybe he likes refuse?"
Bob sniffed, "Well - he didn't say it in a good way. I’ll keep your food for you. Food tastes nice cold doesn’t it?"
"Look Bob, I really have to go - I need to get a few things. Lock the door and be safe, okay?"
Silence - a nod.
"How do I lock the door?"
I sighed. "Never mind, just don't open it."
*
I spent the day darting in and out of shops, using their glass windows to check if there was anything odd behind me. Then I realised, unless it was Orla who I had met, I would have no idea if a fairy was following me since they could take human form. So I went home to face Bob’s cooking and get an early night as I would have to get up early to follow Miss X’s boyfriend.
The next morning I was up early. I had a cheating boyfriend to catch in the act.
I ate my healthy porridge to a background of the local London BBC Breakfast News. The presenters were talking about a theft from the British Museum. Good luck to anyone trying to sneak anything out of there. They also informed me the Prime Minister was having 'credit crunch crisis' meetings. What's new?
Miss X had given me a photograph of the suspect and on the back had placed his details and her phone number. The photo was one of those cheesy ones of a couple in love. They were at a party, there were fairy lights in the out of focus background, and he had his arms wrapped around her. He was decent looking, I suppose, but not the kind of man you would give a second glance to at a bar. She evidently adored him though, in the photo she looked a completely different person to the one I had met in Starbucks. Her eyes were alive and her face illuminated by a smile. The way she looked at him hit me in the guts. Would I ever be able to look like that at someone again?
I drove from my flat in East Barnet to Friern Barnet and parked the car on a quiet residential street. There was a wall around Princess Park Manor and I loitered behind it, hidden to anyone coming out of the large building at half six in the morning.
Princess Park Manor was a large and beautiful Victorian mansion - or so you would think to look at it. In truth it had been a Victorian mental asylum and had recently been converted into expensive apartments - the mad could stay there free a hundred years ago but now you needed to be rich to get a look in. Irony, I believe that is called.
The commuters gradually began to leave their nests and I kept my eyes out for Mr X. He was one of the last to appear, just as daylight began creeping over the horizon and I was about to give up. He was late, his pace was rapid although his whole body looked like it needed to crawl back into bed. It was hard to recognise him as the man in the picture - his eyes stared at the ground, his shoulders curved forward and his feet shuffled.
I followed him, at a discrete distance, to the tube. We had several changes and having my face mushed against the inside door of a dirty tube train made me grateful I did not have to commute every day. People filled every available inch, some of them asleep whilst hanging on the overhead poles or reading books folded into the most impossibly tiny space.
Wearily, Mr X trudged out of Canary Wharf tube and up a long escalator into an office building. He had a pass, but I would have to sign in. Luckily the receptionist was distracted long enough flirting with a man in a shiny suit for me to 'borrow' a name out of the appointments book so foolishly left upside down on the desk. When she turned back to me she frowned in that way that receptionists do when they work for big businesses as if, somehow, the size of the business reflects upon them.
"Name?"
"Abalunum Abaeze," I said coolly, "here to see Solomon and Company."
She looked me up and down, somehow doubting I was Nigerian but then surmising it might be racist to accuse me of this. She sighed and tapped her computer keyboard with acrylic nails. A pass printed out of the printer and she passed it to me between her pink talons.
I got lucky - in the time it took me to get through reception no lifts had arrived and there were large numbers of people still waiting in the lobby, Mr X was amongst them. I joined the clump closest to him. To be honest I got the feeling I could have put on a clown wig, nose, tap shoes and danced in front of him and he still wouldn't have noticed - it was like he was on autopilot.
The first people I looked at in infidelity cases were work colleagues, as life so often threw temptation at people this way. I watched the people around him, but there was no one paying him especial attention or trying to diligently ignore him to avoid drawing attention. It was like he was not there.
When the lift took us to his floor his colleagues greeted him, but he barely grunted in response.
I loitered in the reception area of his offices long enough to see him slump into his office chair and rest his head in his hands.
"Can I help you?" a woman in clicking high heels asked me.
"Solomon and Company?" I asked.
"This is Fenton, Fenton and Hutton."
"Oh goodness me! Wrong office!"
I smiled at her and left. I needed to leave before the real Abalunum Abaeze turned up anyway. My next opportunity for observation would be at lunchtime.
There's not much to do in docklands if you're not embezzling or causing Icelandic banks to collapse - the choice comes down to the Museum of London Docklands or shopping in the mall. Instinct would have led me to the shops, lack of money led me to the free museum.
I was back in plenty of time to loiter outside the office building during the period of time that could be described as ‘lunch time’.
At ten minutes past twelve I saw him stumble out. His first stop was a coffee stand where he ordered a double espresso and then wandered off towards a generic eatery. After discarding the empty coffee cup he entered the eatery and picked up food items, almost at random, from the chiller cabinet before joining the queue. I sat on a tall stool behind a discarded copy of The Financial Times and waited.
No lunch time assignations then. He sat and shovelled the food down with no sense of taste, threw down another coffee and shuffled off back towards his office.
I was pretty confident nothing more was going to happen, but I needed to file a complete report so I hung around until the end of the day and followed him home again.
By the time we got back to Princess Park Manor I was surprised he was still standing. His face was greyer than ever and it even seemed as if his hair had lightened over the day as well. The man looked like a shell.
I clocked off for the day when he entered Princess Park Manor. I would come back another night and finish up my report then. He certainly didn't look like he'd be up to any mischief tonight.
