Midwinter of the Spirit mw-2

by Phil Rickman

  ‘The way you do.’

  ‘It’s surprising how easily that can happen. Anyway, I don’t like guys who are too secure and full of themselves, do you? Like, a certain degree of pathos can be kind of sexy.’

  Rowenna looked unimpressed by this. The sound of slow waves breaking on rocks cascaded serenely out of the speakers – which sounded pretty naff in a damp tent in a field near Leominster.

  ‘So I was telling Lol that Mum was now an exorcist, like in that film where the kid gets possessed and spews green bile everywhere, and how there was no call for dealing with stuff like that around here. But like… I mean there is, you know? When you think about it, it’s really like that. And, whereas in that film you had these heavy-duty, case-hardened Jesuit priests and even they couldn’t handle it…’

  ‘ “Come into me… come into me,” ’ Rowenna intoned. ‘And then he crashes out of the window to his death. What do you mean, it’s really like that?’

  ‘She had this mega-nasty job,’ Jane said soberly. ‘Nightmare stuff – and, like, no warning, you know?’

  ‘I don’t actually believe you.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’m not supposed to talk about it anyway.’

  ‘All right, if you tell me I’ll buy you a Circlet of Selene.’

  ‘Not good enough. You have to promise never ever to buy me a Circlet of Selene.’ It was probably OK to talk about this one, with him being dead and everything. ‘All right. Guy in the hospital – this really awful rapist kind of slimeball, gets off on degrading women, and he’s dying, OK?’

  ‘OK by me,’ said Rowenna.

  ‘But he can’t let go of his abiding obsession. You can see it glistening on his skin, like grease.’ Jane shivered with a warped sort of pleasure. ‘Like, she didn’t tell me all of this, but I put it together. Anyway, the nurses, they’re all like really shit-scared of this pervert, because he’s got this totally tainted aura.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Mr Joy. Isn’t that excellent?’

  ‘You’re embroidering this.’

  ‘I so am not! His name was Denzil Joy, he was in the Watkins Ward, right up at the top of the hospital where it’s old and spooky, and the nurses were genuinely scared of him. Takes a lot to scare nurses, all the stuff they’ve seen.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say, but I could tell she was still, like, trembling with revulsion hours later. Heavy trauma scenario. What I think it was… was that this man could like make you feel like you’d been raped; he could invade your body just by thinking about what he wanted to do to you. And that got all boiled together with the sickness and the frustration inside him. The nurses are convinced he was possessed.’

  ‘Creepy.’

  ‘The hell with creepy – this was bloody dangerous, if you ask me. And the Bishop just sends her in to sort out this evil scumbag without a second thought, on account of she’s like a priest and priests know what to do. But – seriously – is she equipped for this? Does she know what she’s doing? Does she hell. Occult-wise, she’s probably as naive as all these idiots cooing over the frigging Circlet of Selene. Like, I feel there’s probably a lot I could tell her – to help, you know – but would she listen?’

  ‘Jane,’ Rowenna said, ‘listen to me. You cannot change other people – only yourself. In the end, the winners in this life are the people who go in with their eyes open and say: I’m not going to let God or Nature or the Bishop of Hereford or whoever fuck about with me. I’m going to call the shots.’

  ‘Right,’ Jane said. ‘I suppose that’s right.’

  ‘And it’s great if you can actually see that while you’re still young enough to do something about it – like us, you know?’

  And, of course, Jane knew it was right. When someone like Rowenna, who was just that bit older and a cool person too, said this is right, it conferred a kind of responsibility. You felt you had to do something about it.

  She tossed her paper cup into a litter bucket. ‘Let’s get out of this amusement arcade.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rowenna. ‘Go find the real stuff.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘This is just a front, isn’t it? The real heavy-duty clairvoyants are in little back rooms in the pub.’

  ‘You want to consult a clairvoyant?’

  ‘Check them out, anyway – see if they’re genuine. If they’re not, it’ll just be a laugh.’

  ‘Cost an arm and a leg,’ Jane said doubtfully.

  ‘They usually leave the amount up to you. Hey…’ Tenderly, Rowenna bent and stroked back Jane’s hair and peered into her eyes. ‘You’re not apprehensive, are you?’

  ‘Christ, no,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s go for it.’

  Twice Lol had been down to the shop. Once to see if Moon wanted any help; but she explained that running a record shop wasn’t as easy as he might think, and shooed him away. The second time to see what she was doing for lunch; Moon had brought along two apples and a banana.

  Moon insisted she was fine. Dick Lyden also said Moon was fine. If Dick was in two minds about anyone it was probably Lol, who’d claimed that Moon was living in squalor in the barn – until Dick had seen the place looking like a suburban villa, and Moon poised like she was ready to serve the canapés.

  Denny also seemed a little happier when he called in, appearing at the door of the flat wearing a plaid overcoat and a big hat with a red feather, halfway to a smile.

  ‘She’s looking almost healthy,’ he conceded. ‘Is there something I don’t know?’

  Lol shrugged. What could he say to him without reference to ghosts or disembowelled crows?

  ‘Listen, I don’t mind.’ Denny spread himself in the armchair. ‘I think it’s good. I’m glad, all right?’

  ‘She’s working on her book.’

  ‘Book? Oh.’ Denny looked uninterested, a touch pained. ‘That’s not really gonna happen, is it?’

  ‘Does your family go all the way back to the Iron Age?’

  Denny’s smile shut down altogether. ‘Could be.’

  ‘Is it a Celtic name, Moon?’

  ‘I really don’t know. We weren’t always called Moon. A daughter inherited the farm back in the eighteenth century, married a bloke called Moon. Look…’ Denny pulled on his earring. ‘There’s a little something you gotta help me with here, mate.’

  ‘Unblocking drains is not my responsibility. You are the landlord, Dennis.’

  ‘Nothing that simple, little friend. This is a really distasteful job. Dick Lyden fill you in about his kid? This Bishop-for-a-day crap – the kid refusing to play along?’

  Lol nodded warily. ‘If they’d told me at sixteen I’d been picked for Boy Bishop, I’d’ve tried to get expelled first.’

  ‘This kid attends the Cathedral School,’ Denny said. ‘So his father pays good money for him to be publicly humiliated in front of his peers.’

  Lol brought two lagers from the fridge, as Denny spelled it out. Dick, it seemed, had resorted to bribery: if the boy James swallowed his cool for just a day, Dick would finance a professionally produced CD by James and his rock band.

  Lol winced. ‘What are they called?’

  ‘Tuneless Little Twats with Fender Strats. Fuck knows, does it matter? I told him you’d do it, Lol.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Produce them. You’ll get paid, of course.’

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘Laurence, we’re talking EP-length, that’s all. Four tracks – two days’ work, max. A hundred copies, which is where I make my profit. It’s common enough these days – how I keep the studio up and running. I said you’d do it. James knows your stuff. James even likes your stuff.’

  ‘Suppose I hate his stuff?’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Denny, ‘I appreciate this. I said we’d give their material a listen tomorrow afternoon, OK? Good. And I’m glad about Kathy and you. I am really glad. God knows, I would do anything, give anything to get her away from there. Meanwhile, if she’s not alone, that’s
the best thing I could hope for under the circumstances.’

  Lol went still. ‘What has she said?’

  ‘I’m her brother,’ Denny said. ‘She doesn’t have to say anything to me.’

  Later, after Denny had gone, it started to snow a little.

  Lol stood by the window in the dark, looking down into lamplit Church Street/Capuchin Lane, the centuries seeping away along with the colours of the day. It was snowing briskly, all the shops had closed, most of the people had gone. If he leaned into the top corner of the window he could see the blackening tower of the Cathedral. Below him, a young guy guided a young woman gently into a shallow doorway and they embraced.

  Lol thought of Moon in her dusty white nightdress.

  ‘If she’s not alone…’

  ‘Fucking hell, I didn’t expect that.’ Rowenna had gone in first, and when she came out she raised her eyebrows, pulled Jane over to the door.

  ‘She was good?’

  ‘She was, actually.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty. I paid for you as well.’

  ‘There was no need for that. I’m not—’

  ‘Forget it. Go on, don’t keep her waiting. She might hang a curse on you.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Jane.

  ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She didn’t, to be honest, like fortune-tellers one bit, and for the very reasons Rowenna had put to her earlier. Suppose the woman told her she was going to die soon? Or that Mum was? Not that they ever did; they just looked at you sadly from under their headscarves and said: Take your money back, dearie. All of a sudden I’m not feeling too well… And that was when you knew they were genuine and your card was marked.

  ‘Go on,’ Rowenna hissed.

  The booth was just an alcove in the public bar with a wicker screen set up to hide it.

  ANGELA. TAROT READINGS.

  Rowenna had opted for her because, like she’d said, she herself knew a bit about the tarot, so would be able to tell if Angela was the real McCoy.

  Oh, shit. Another thing Jane didn’t like was the way you were kind of putting yourself and your future in someone else’s hands. Whatever they wanted to tell you, it would stay with you, colour your dreams, frame your nightmares. Not Jane’s idea of New Age, which was about self-exploration – wasn’t it?

  ‘Jane…’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  No alternative, no way out. Jane squeezed behind the partition.

  17

  Wise Women

  ANGELA SMILED.

  ‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘There’s no need to be. Have you consulted the tarot before?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Jane lied.

  Angela smiled. She was sitting at a long pub table of scratched mahogany with wrought-iron legs. Behind her was a narrow window of frosted glass; the light it shed was cold and grey. It was going rapidly dark out there.

  Angela’s hands were already in motion, spreading the cards and then gathering them together. Her hands were slender and supple; there were no rings. Suddenly she pushed the full pack in front of Jane.

  ‘Pick them up.’

  ‘Me?’

  Angela nodded. She was not what Jane had been expecting: no headscarf, no big brass earrings. Jane saw a long oval face and mid-length ash-blonde hair. She wore a pale linen suit which seemed no more suited to this event than Rowenna’s cashmere. Jane reached out for the cards.

  ‘And shuffle them.’

  They were quite big cards and Jane was clumsy. Cards kept sliding out as she tried to mix them up. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, you’re doing fine. Now cut the pack.’

  Angela’s voice was the most unexpected thing. It was warm and surprisingly cultured.

  Jane cut the cards and left them in two piles.

  ‘What I want you to understand,’ Angela said, ‘is that the cards are merely an aid. They form a psychic link between us.’ She put the pack together and then lifted her hand sharply as though it had given her an electric shock.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Jane…’

  Christ, what’s she seen?

  Jane said nervously, ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I’m psychic.’ Angela laughed lightly. ‘No, your friend told me, of course.’

  ‘What else did she tell you?’

  ‘Well, she certainly didn’t tell me how powerful you were. Has no one told you that before?’ Angela began to lay out the cards, one on top of another.

  ‘Not that I recall.’ Ah. Right. She was beginning to get the picture now.

  ‘They will,’ Angela said with calm certainty.

  Oh, sure. I wonder how many other people you said that to today. Jane nodded and said nothing. Now she knew it was a scam, she was no longer worried. Did Rowenna realize it was a scam? Of course she did. When she came out she’d just been taking the piss, picking up on Jane’s manifest trepidation.

  Angela had the cards laid out in a neat semicircle. They were beautifully coloured, and Jane started looking for the ones she’d seen pictures of on the covers of mystery novels: Death, The Devil, The Hanged Man, The Last Judgement. But none of these was obvious in the dim light; all the designs were unfamiliar.

  Angela placed one card face-down below the others, contemplated it for a moment and then turned it over to reveal a faintly smiling woman in a long white robe, sitting on some sort of throne with mystical symbols and artefacts all around her. There were lights on in the pub, but somehow they didn’t penetrate into this alcove, or at least not as far as Angela.

  ‘Tell me something, Jane. What do you know of your ancestors?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean, are you aware of – how can I put this? – wise women, in your family?’

  ‘I guess that depends on what you mean by wise.’

  ‘I’m picking up a… I suppose you would say a tradition. I feel… I believe you have much to inherit. Whether it’s immediate ancestry or something further back, it’s hard to say, but it’s there. It came up immediately, no mistaking it at all. So I double-checked and the cards are reinforcing it. There’s a very strong tradition here.’

  Mum? Does she mean Mum? Jane found herself holding her breath.

  ‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Well… maybe.’ Mum had sometimes talked of experiences she’d had in churches, visions of a cosmic benevolence in blue and gold, the feeling that she really had to—

  Don’t tell her what Mum is!

  Astonishingly, Angela held up a hand. ‘No, you don’t have to explain – as long as you understand.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jane breathed out. Jesus Christ.

  Angela was gazing intently at the cards, her attention locked on the layout. She was absolutely still, as though she and the cards were encased in glass. Eventually, without looking up, she said, ‘It’s a big, big responsibility.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It needs to be nurtured.’ Angela turned over two more cards which seemed to be in conjunction. ‘Ah, now… there’s been a gap in your life, I think. Someone missing. Would you…? Do you perhaps have just the one parent?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said awed. ‘How did you…?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s been such a big handicap for you as it might have been for others. You have reserves of emotional and psychic energy which have been sustaining you. But now that reservoir of psychic energy ought to be plumbed, or it may overflow. That can cause problems.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jane felt a slow excitement burning somewhere down in her abdomen. She looked at Angela’s halfshadowed face and saw intelligence there. And beauty too – fine bones. Angela must be over fifty but Jane thought men would find her awfully sexy.

  ‘Jane, I don’t want to alarm you, but if one is given a talent and one fails to develop it, or allows powerful energy to go its own way, it ca
n become misdirected and cause all sorts of problems, physical and mental – chronic ailments, nervous trouble. Quite a lot of people in hospitals and mental institutions are simply people who have failed to recognize and channel certain energies.’

  Angela looked up suddenly. Jane saw her eyes clearly for the first time; they were like chips of flint. She was serious about this. She was dead serious.

  She said faintly, ‘What does that mean?’

  Angela reached over and touched her fingers. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Please don’t worry. Sometimes I’m concentrating so hard I say the first things that come into my head. It’s just so rare that I get anything as clear and specific as this… I’m probably getting carried away.’

  ‘No, please go on.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Angela swept all the cards together. ‘I’ve been overloading you with my own impressions, and that’s not a good thing to do. Let’s relax a moment and I’ll tell you about some less far-reaching aspects of your life.’

  She asked Jane to shuffle and cut the pack again, then did a couple of smaller layouts and told Jane a few things about herself and her future which were more in line with the stuff you expected to hear. Well, a bit more intimate perhaps… like that she was a virgin but wouldn’t be for long. That she would have more than one serious lover before she was twenty.

  Jane smiled. At one time she’d have been fairly excited about that, not to say relieved, but right now it didn’t seem as vital.

  Angela told her that she was extremely intelligent and could have her pick of careers, but she might feel herself drawn towards communications or even performance art.

  Cool.

  But her main choices – Angela sighed, like she’d tried to get away from this but couldn’t – would be in the spiritual realm. Other levels of existence were already becoming accessible to her.

  ‘Other planes,’ Angela said, ‘other spheres. Someone who has gone before has opened the way. Does that make any sense to you?’

  Jane thought at once of her old friend, the late Miss Lucy Devenish, writer of children’s stories and proprietor of the magical giftshop called Ledwardine Lore, who had introduced her to rural mysteries and the mystical poetry of Thomas Traherne. And showed her that spirituality was a shining crystal, of which Christianity was only one face.