I started down Douglas Street with the plan of taking a closer look at Chinatown before somehow finding the coastal beach from my vision. I only had to walk two blocks before I saw the ornate archway which unmistakably marked the district’s entrance. It wasn’t as large as I remembered. As I passed underneath, the accuracy of what I’d seen started my stomach churning. Cluttered shop windows–check. Carts on the street–check. The scent of meat and noodles–also present.
I had brushed off my impression of the Inner Harbour and Parliament. I knew I’d seen it on television and probably in magazines. I’d lived in British Columbia all my life and the center of the Provincial capital boasted iconic status. Victoria’s Chinatown on the other hand, I felt fairly certain I had never seen.
My rushed introduction to downtown left me wanting to explore a bit more. I hadn’t experienced the excitement of a city in years. So I walked briskly through the block of themed storefronts and veered back toward the Inner Harbour. I passed a trendy looking street stretching up from an arched blue bridge. I caught sight of a gate for the ‘Market Square’ and those wrought iron words grabbed my attention like a glimpse of a long lost friend in a crowd. Something important waited for me on the other side of that arch.
I closed the distance. A few meters inside, the structure opened up into a three-story open-air courtyard with very little signage on the top level, so it looked mostly like office space. The ground and basement levels held confections, clothing, toys, gifts and more. If I had money, I’d waste a lot of it behind many of those doors. Instead, I slowly browsed.
I played my childhood game of Things-I’ll-Never-Own as I peered inside each window. The game consisted of picturing an alternate version of my life in which I’d actually buy said item, and what I’d do with it if I did buy it. I usually preferred not to actually go inside any shops and risk snooty stares or overwhelming temptation. I did have some money, but to make it last through a few more days at the motel and the trip home, I couldn’t buy one extra coffee or croissant.
Time to get back on track and do my door-to-door examination of Chinatown. I retraced my steps back through the gate and onto the street. The moment I stepped out from the protection of the building facade, the cold air blowing in off the ocean assaulted me. Combined with the heat of the mid-day sun, the effect nauseated me, blending warm air and a chilly wind. Like the air and the earth couldn’t agree on the temperature.
Halfway back to Chinatown a fight broke out on the sidewalk ahead. I felt instantly alert. I stopped, froze, and then took a step back. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a real, live, shoving and punching fistfight in person. The two men started bouncing, almost like a dance. The blank, bored pedestrians on the street around them very suddenly woke. Eyes widened. Bodies recoiled. Faces frowned in disapproval or grimaced nervously, but everyone gave the pair a wide birth as they shuffled aggressively along the sidewalk.
The larger man with a crew cut had burly, deeply scarred arms under a tight white T-shirt. I watched as he lunged repeatedly at an average height, muscular skater boy in baggy pants. They looked like they were yelling, but I could only hear the odd syllable over the traffic. My first impulse was to backtrack, cross the street and keep walking on the other side. Something odd about the fighters mesmerized me. I stood bolted to the ground, frantically wanting to know what had generated such rage. More pedestrians kept walking around them, so I moved closer with a few cautious steps.
As they closed in on each other the big man shoved the smaller one again. The skater boy stood his ground fairly well, leaning back towards the aggressor with a challenging glare. The large one yelled, “Oh, you think I’m starting shit!” and punched the boy in the face.
The blow had little impact. The skater returned fire with a small jab into the larger man’s torso–which had a stunningly devastating effect. The crew-cut guy in the T-shirt doubled over in pain. He stumbled backward, recovered, and beckoned the skater with a wild expression.
Weaving back and forth, their dance floated from an alcove below a fire escape. Then they surged back and forth along the sidewalk, and finally out into an empty parking spot. I couldn’t see them clearly anymore. Oncoming cars honked and their drivers yelled as they swerved around where one or both must have lunged into the road.
The men shuffled back onto the sidewalk. The older man lunged and missed. The skater hit back, this time with so much force that his adversary flew up into the air and struck the bottom of the fire escape in a clatter of metal-on-metal. Dazed and winded, he stayed sitting on the ground and rubbed the back of his head where he’d bounced off the metal frame. The skater scanned the area nervously, looked behind him, and bolted past me running south until pedestrians and the crest of the hill obscured him.
The larger man finally stood up, still catching his breath, with his hands on his knees. Another man, weathered, dressed in tattered denim and a dirty plaid shirt stepped forward and tugged on the large man’s arm. The guy in the plaid shirt kept tugging as his friend mumbled something to himself that ended in, “You’d better run, you little asshole. I ever see you in my bar again, I’m gonna pummel the ever livin’ shit outta you.”
I waited another moment, hoping he’d come to his senses and leave before cops arrived. The two lingered on the corner curb, the fellow with the crew-cut winded and enraged. Pedestrians resumed their indifferent strolls. Everyone blindly marched past, so I looked straight ahead and walked briskly around them.
No distant sirens wailed only cars and buses rumbled. I had a strong sense that the guy in the dirty plaid shirt stared after me, but I didn’t dare turn to face him. I thought I heard someone whisper, “Ir-eeee-na,” as though right next to me. My heart pounded in my chest and my stride grew longer until I finally reached the parking lot of the Capital City Motel.
A man in a ratty trench coat with a faded red baseball cap pinning down stringy grey hair sat under a sign for “Steak Dinner ONLY $8.95!” A handkerchief on the pavement in front of him held a few coins. Was steak why he wanted money? Probably not.
I looked at the ground as I passed. I always felt guilty walking by anyone begging because I never gave them money. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in it. I was too shy to stop and look a stranger in the eye, especially someone in need. It always felt too harsh.
Back in my room, I sat down at my table and found myself face to face with my Tarot deck. Did the cards have anything more to show me? In all likelihood, I’d stare at the faded drawings again without incident. I’d get back on a bus and go home, skipping the trip to Chinatown. I wondered what my responsible and respectable half-sister Gemma would say if she caught me playing at divination.
The best approach to the cards was to duplicate what I’d done earlier. Divide the deck into three, flip the top card off each, and just look at them. I still didn’t know what I was doing. From left to right, I flipped over a smiling man holding a wand, a crowned goddess upside down, and an intricate wheel lined with symbols. A trance took over again. With my waking eyes, I saw young and cheerful images of Mom and Darryl putting up wallpaper in our house. Her belly swelled with the late stages of pregnancy.
The scene faded and I saw Mom younger still with a tall rusty-haired man I didn’t recognize standing next to rain-soaked ruins. The rusty man placed his hand on an altar. A dark pulse shot up from the ground, through the stone and into his body. In a blink, Mom and her companion held hands and he opened her palm, placing something in it. Mom’s face wrinkled in pain and she tried to pull away, but failed.
Suddenly I saw Mom and Darryl sitting on the living room couch, both arguing and gesturing at someone. Their faces wore looks of fear and desperation that made my gut feel hollow. Then the picture cut to black in a blink. The hotel room reappeared around me. I touched the cards again, lightly at first, then slapping them, frantically trying to restart the vision. I sat at the table for a mome
nt and stared at the paper rectangles in front of me, trying to accept that I wasn’t going to see any more. I scraped the cards back together and looked out the window.
The last conversation I’d had with my parents in person was strained and unpleasant. Darryl told me not to screw around in Victoria because he wasn’t going to send money for accommodation or food if I ran out. Mom tried to ease the tension by assuring him I was serious about looking for work. What really hurt me was that he’d been right. I hadn’t really planned to look for work. I’d left home for Victoria because I thought I’d been having psychic visions. I was being irresponsible.
My mind flickered to the moment long ago when I stood in a courtroom with Mom and Darryl watching them sign papers in front of a judge. I think I was about five or six years old. It was one of the few photographs of only me and my parents after Gemma was born. We stood smiling for the camera as Darryl shook the judge’s hand. Darryl had just adopted me. Now, I remembered the photograph more than the day itself.
I’d spent my teen years arguing with my parents and being jealous of Gemma. But, I always thought all that garbage would blow over and everything would work out. I’d grow up and grow back into step with my family. Questions crowded my mind. Why did I have visions of Victoria? What compelled me onto a bus, only to see a cryptic glimpse of my parents back home? Was I suffering from delusions? Had I been drugged or accidentally poisoned? Did I have a brain tumor? Was it time to throw away the cards? What would happen if I did?
Chapter 2
I turned on the television and cycled through re-run sitcoms, news, and game shows. Nothing drew my interest. I couldn’t shake the need to complete my journey. Chinatown waited for me right down the street. I’d come here to set foot in the scenes from my visions, to see if a tactile experience would provide some indication of why I had visions. I grabbed my hoodie, wallet, and key card.
I strolled casually for about a block, looking up at the canyon of high rises which intermittently reflected the blazing yellow-orange of the afternoon sun. The city looked beautiful in a new way, more than just a cosmopolitan scene. The buildings stretched upward like giant temples in an ancient city.
I cast my gaze back down to the street. In the flow of pedestrian movement, one body remained still. He looked directly at me–the plaid-clad, greasy-haired friend of the fighting bouncer. His stare was intense, broken only by people passing though the space connecting our eyes.
Fear welled up inside me and overtook my body. I sped back to the motel. The pressure escalated until I reverted to the raw panic of a child worrying that the monsters chasing me up from the basement might catch me. I hopped up the stairwell two steps at a time. Sprinting down the interior hall, I whipped my door shut behind me, immediately locking it. Relief swept through me. I’d reached safety.
The evening passed slowly with only sitcoms, local news and infomercials to keep me company. I ordered a club sandwich from room service and made it last a few hours. As soon as the sun set, I turned off the television and tried to sleep. I shifted in bed from my right side to my left. I flipped back again. I took mindful deep breaths. Nothing helped. I couldn’t stop thinking about my visions, about my parents, about the bizarre incident on the street. I listened to the hum of the floorboard heater for what felt like hours before sleep finally silenced my restless mind.
Around three o’clock in the morning I woke suddenly and sat up, disturbed from a nightmare I couldn’t remember. Something malicious had been in the room or just outside. I looked over at the window, out into the monochrome orange-black street. I’d closed the blinds, but one of the thick vertical slats was missing. Something flashed past my window. I clamped down on the blanket, gripping it hard as I leaned forward in bed.
The movement blipped quickly in my cropped view of the sidewalk. I froze. The figure flashed by again, larger and closer. My heart thumped in my throat as I forced myself out of bed and over to the window. I leaned towards the opening in the blinds, waiting. I imagined that a vicious face with fierce red eyes would appear in a blink and scream at me through sharp rotting fangs. How could I defend myself? Why hadn’t I found a motel with kitchenette units? Then I’d at least have a knife or two to grab. I had nothing more than my house keys as weapons.
Somehow I knew the thing that passed my window was real and searching for me, sniffing the air for my scent. I leaned closer, feeling my face throb with my heartbeat. A flash of light blinded me. And then I sat bolt upright, suddenly in bed, again. The orange-tinted darkness around me had less malice in the air now that I’d woken for real. I made a mental note to tell Bridget about my fascinating experience with lucid dreaming–once I returned to my proper life.
The next morning I woke with a headache. I immediately made a tiny pot of motel coffee. It wasn’t because of the nightmare or the headache. I would have made coffee anyway. On every family vacation we always scavenged the little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, and whatever other toiletries and supplies a hotel or motel provided.
Mom was always bitter about the cost of a room. She ranted about ‘wanting her money’s worth’ as she rounded up the room’s consumables. I sipped my coffee, but I didn’t feel much like packing. Instead, I felt light, fit, and energetic. The more coffee I drank, the better I felt. After two cups my mood drifted between the hopeful anticipation of Christmas morning and the first day of summer vacation glee. I had the whole city at my feet. I didn’t have to rush right back to Prince George.
My loneliness and boredom evaporated. I had a strong sense something fun waited for me downstairs. I felt utterly confused, but not too worried about it. I craved crepes so badly I almost tasted them. I didn’t waste time grooming. I whirled into jeans and a long sleeved oatmeal-colored waffle shirt, and bounded down the stairwell with 110 pounds of thunder.
I reclaimed the booth from my previous breakfast and picked up a menu. I knew I’d order the same meal, but I needed to busy my hands while I waited.
“I thought you’d never come down,” said a gravelly voice. A figure had slid into the booth across from me. I snapped up from the menu and there he was, the greasy-haired man, calmly sitting across from me. I froze. His frame was dramatically bony up close. Under the oily sheen his hair was a grey-speckled mouse brown. Grey stubble covered the bottom half of his leathery face.
I thought to myself and I know I did not say it out loud. Holy shit, it’s the lunatic from the street! He’s stalking me. He’s going to kill me!
“You do like crepes, don’t you? I took the liberty of ordering some. I hope that’s all right. I felt pretty sure they’re your favorite, but I’ve been wrong on occasion. The meal has been paid for, including a gratuity. I’m not a lunatic. I’m not stalking you and I mean you no harm.” He smiled smugly.
I stared back, speechless.
“Sorry, I realize we haven’t been introduced and you’re still new to the city. My name is Rubin. And you must be Irina.” He extended his hand across the table. His blotchy skin had a reddish-purple tinge.
I shook his sticky hand reluctantly. “It’s nice to meet you, but it seems like you’ve got me at a disadvantage here. How do you know me?”
“That isn’t important, but not entirely irrelevant,” he said cheerfully. “However, I do believe that’s also not for me to explain. I wouldn’t do the story justice and I’d probably catch hell for talking about it. I can ask you to go shopping in Chinatown today. You don’t need to worry about getting back on the Greyhound or burning up more money on another night here.” He stood. “Be sure to let the front desk know you’re staying another night. The room is yours as long as you need it. Enjoy your day.” He walked away abruptly.
The crepes arrived, although my grandmotherly waitress was gone, replaced by a weary blonde who might have been pretty if not for a glum expression and the bags under her eyes. I smiled, thanked her, and stared at the plate
of food as she walked away. Should I call the cops on this guy, Rubin? What would I report? Did he have anything to do with my visions?
I knew I wasn’t really scared. The instinct to run should have dominated me. I felt only curiosity about Chinatown. And a strong urge to eat. I shook my head and relented. One soft, fluffy bite after another made me feel more and more at ease.
A few more motel guests took seats around me. The pedestrian traffic outside picked up with the start of the workday. I watched as an elderly lady inched along behind an aluminum walker, passed easily by a balding man in a trench coat and a brunette woman with immaculate, bold make-up and a beige suit.
A girl around my age tromped past clinging to the straps of her backpack with both hands. She wore dark skinny jeans under an intricately embroidered trendy skateboarding hoodie. She bounced along as though flitting off to a coffee date with a painfully cool hipster crowd. She belonged in the city, probably had an apartment, probably halfway through a reputable degree. I could hear Darryl’s voice asking when I would find something ‘to do’ and get on with my life. His words were never angry or loud, just laced with disappointment and frustration. I gulped down the rest of my orange juice, signed the slip the waitress had left to charge the meal to my room, and then slung my bag over my shoulder.
I walked out of the restaurant into the lobby and hesitated. Crazy street guy did have a point. I knew I’d stay at least one more night, so I stopped at the front desk and let them know.
The sidewalk outside had filled with people. I felt claustrophobic for a moment and seized the opportunity to sit on an empty bench in an alcove outside an office building next door to the motel. I looked up to clear my head. Clouds rolled across the sky quickly, remaking the ceiling of the world before my eyes in mere moments. It reminded me of the time Mom took Gemma and me camping at 100 Mile House, a popular resort. We’d stopped for the night on our way south to drop Gemma off at the University of British Columbia. Darryl hadn’t been able to get time off work, so it was the three of us–as Mom said, ‘just us girls.’
In Irina's Cards (The Variant Conspiracy #1) Page 2
