by Ann Mann
He gave a groan and kicked off his shoes. The family had gone to bed and the weekend was just beginning. The first weekend he had freed up since the disappearance and he had promised them a film and pizzas and whatever else they wanted to do as they had hardly seen him while his working days and nights had taken him out of the city.
He had now been reminded so sweetly by his wife that the year was almost over and that the so-called season to be jolly would soon be sprinkling its tinsel trail through stores and homes across the world. But it wouldn’t be so jolly for those families of the missing dancers and, to be blunt, would be bloody awful for him too if they weren’t found by then.
His phone buzzed and he saw that the caller was Gerry Doyle. They had become mates over the last few months, drawn together by their common professional bond and the joint frustration it had produced for both of them.
“Hello there, Gerry. Any news?” He was getting accustomed to using the question as a form of greeting but it was beginning to sound hollow and rhetorical.
His friend surprised him with his answer. “Joe, have you by any chance seen a copy of this morning’s Boston Herald?”
“Is this a trick question Gerry? Why would I have seen an American newspaper?”
“I’ll copy it and send it through. You should get it in a few minutes. Okay?”
Joe was already on his way to his computer. “Okay. I’ll call you back.”
Nursing his whisky glass in one hand he switched on the machine with the other and waited for the e-mail attachment to appear. Sure enough, the ping signalled its arrival and Joe Tierney pushed the mail key to read what his colleague had forwarded.
The newspaper print that the article had been copied from was small so he fiddled around for a while trying to get the font enlarged. What he read produced a combined reaction of surprise and exasperation for under a headline that read ‘Could this be the person who solves the mystery of Arcanum?’ a photograph of a woman with big hair and lots of jewellery smiled out at him. The article went on to state that Blossom Fayard, a well-known local psychic and Tarot card expert had flown to Ireland to meet with her childhood friend Silas Murphy, the creator of the troupe, in order to solve the strange case of their disappearance. “Although there appear to be very few leads at the moment,” Ms. Fayard declared, “I am confident that I can use all the powers at my disposal to get to the bottom of this very unusual occurrence.”
Joe Tierney clicked off his computer and returned to the dwindling bottle of whisky. How many had he downed this evening? Two, three? He promised himself this would be the last one as he flopped back on to the sofa wondering how he should handle this latest addition to the puzzle.
Yes, he had been offered so-called psychic investigators in the past. Many had contacted him directly over the years swearing that they could solve murders or find missing persons but he had never had any confidence in their abilities, had been sceptical of their sworn successes and therefore had declined their offers with polite thanks.
But he was running out of options now so should this one be encouraged? Certainly, if she were here in Ireland and working with the dancers he ought to be involved. He would want to know exactly what a psychic investigation entailed in this particular case and how he could stop it getting out of hand if the woman got too carried away. It was a risk that he considered might be worth taking but in so doing he would possibly lose the respect of his peers and scorn could be poured on him publicly.
He found himself thinking of Sherlock Holmes of whom he was a fan. He recalled that his hero had stated that once you have eliminated the impossible then whatever you are left with, however improbable, must be the truth.
His fingers hovered over the keypad of his phone for the merest of seconds then reluctantly he called Silas.
*
Co. Clare.
1735
It gave him no pleasure standing within the dusty gloom of his barn where the raw odour of sex was all too discernable as were the cries of ecstasy and pain, guaranteed to bring the Devil out of his den.
Mick Gilligan had endured the sounds for more than two hours and had come from the house in the desperate hope that the pair would finally reach some degree of mortal satisfaction, and that Kathleen would attend to the business for which they had agreed her lover had been summoned.
Now at last there was a kind of uneasy quietude. In the welcome light from a full moon, he shifted further towards the ladder of the hay loft, not wanting to be heard but knowing he would have to intervene if they fell asleep up there, for time would wait no longer for a truth that had to be plainly spoken and for the fear of God to take the place of indifference.
Then he heard them. A giggle from her and a phlegmy cough from him followed by a spit and then his voice telling her he had to go.
Mick Gilligan jumped back into the shadows as the boy’s tousled head appeared at the entrance to the loft. He saw him angrily bat Kathleen’s hand away as she clung to his shirt, begging and crying for him to stay.
Then came the sound of ripping fabric and the boy turned and swore at her with a venom that caused the farmer to seethe. A brutal tirade towards the woman he had just filled with a fountain of sperm and who already had his seed growing inside her.
Still trying to release himself from her grip, the boy grabbed his jacket and climbed clumsily down the ladder as Mick Gilligan walked out of the darkness and Kathleen scrambled towards them, her blouse hanging unbuttoned and her eyes blazing with fear and uncertainty.
For a moment the boy looked vulnerable, cornered. Then he gave a shrug and tried to move out of the farmer’s way. But Gilligan held his ground and being the big man he was found it easy to bar the boy’s departure.
He just wanted to reason with him. And yes, plead with him if that’s what it took to have him face up to his obligations, for he knew now that Kathleen was in no fit state to persuade or to use her head instead of her heart.
But the young man was having none of it. Sullenly, he raised his fists like a child learning to fight. Leaping up and down on the spot as though he was performing some fiendish dance he lashed out with his left and then with his right, taking Gilligan by surprise by punching him squarely in the jaw before trying to make his escape.
Gilligan stood for a moment blinking the dizziness from his eyes then raced after him, the fierce anger that had been brewing inside for weeks now risen to boiling point. Catching up with him just outside the house he grabbed him from behind by the scruff of his neck, shaking him with a fury and a strength he had not realised until then he could ever have possessed.
The boy then started to blubber and plead for mercy as Gilligan marched him back into the barn determined to try and knock some sense into his vain and vacuous head, but before he could draw breath and as unexpected as a thunderclap on a summer’s day, he felt the heavy thud of a large object strike the back of his head and was given no choice but to fall to the ground when it struck again, this time against his shins, sending an excrutiating pain soaring through every nerve in his body.
From his position on the hay-strewn floor he stared up at Kathleen Dooley’s crazed features. She had thrown the broom aside and was now running to the boy covering him in kisses and enquiring if he were safe.
Mick Gilligan knew that he wasn’t seriously injured but he was pretty badly hurt and needed aid. Stretching out his hand towards her for assistance, this time he was kicked back by the boy who laughed in a somewhat hysterical manner at his helplessness while trying to disentangle himself from Kathleen’s cloying grasp.
What happened next was immediate and irrevocable. A dark shape loomed in the doorway then leapt like an uncoiled spring directly in Kathleen Dooley’s direction.
The giant black dog’s eyes were blazing, its jowls curled back over yellow teeth as the boy was knocked flying out of the way of its intended victim.
&n
bsp; Mick Gilligan could only yell at the dog and watch in horror from his inert position on the ground. He realised that although Thomas Dooley had given the dog a name he had never known it and to his dismay knew that it would do no good anyway. The animal was determined and focused on the terrified young woman who had run into the corner of the barn and tried to hide behind a pile of hemp sacks.
Snarling furiously, the dog dug away at the sacks, then hurled its weight against her, pinning her to the wall. Oblivious to her screams it tore at her throat as Gilligan continued shouting until he was hoarse and struggled to crawl across the barn towards her. The boy stared at the horrific scene then vomited as a torrent of blood poured from Kathleen’s wounds and she uttered one last chilling gurgle before shuddering into silence.
Mick Gilligan was unsure how much time had elapsed since the dog had completed its grisly task, but then watched with astonishment as it ran to his side, wagging its tail in a desire to be rewarded for its efforts.
As the minutes passed, he noticed that the boy was still there, sick and paralysed by his fear of the dog. He raised his head and saw a light bobbing its way towards the doorway and to his great relief his son ran across to him holding a lantern in one hand and a shot gun in the other.
Taking in the scene at a glance, his son embraced him and checked his injuries then walked over to Kathleen Dooley’s body and nodded grimly towards Gilligan to confirm that she was indeed dead.
It was then the young Dance Master found his voice, screaming at Gilligan’s son to shoot the dog.
“Kill sé. Kill sé.”
The farmer’s son looked towards the frightened young man who had brought much hope but also such a degree of tragedy to their townland. He gazed upon his pink and white complexion and pearly teeth with sorrow wondering how God could be so unfair to choose a knave for beauty and neglect a true and honest heart like his own.
The curse that the old Dance Master had laid upon them all was only unfolding its dark magic because of his actions and his alone. This intolerable state of affairs was destined to end somehow and over the last few months he had seen his strong father sapped of his precious energy in his endeavours to return the community to some sort of order. Anxiety saps energy, so does antagonism and young Gilligan had little time for either or for watching his father’s ever-growing sense of emptiness and physical decline.
Laying aside the lantern, he slowly raised the gun and pointed it at the black dog who fixed him with its golden eyes and gave a low howl.
If the old woman had been present she would have told him that he was aiding her in her quest to complete the cycle. The symbols of the Tarot resonating with real life events and therefore connecting with each other.
The Lovers, the Magician, the Fool, the Hanged Man, Death. It didn’t take a wise sage to work out that these cards of the Major Arcana were revealing and predicting the future.
Gilligan’s son then pulled the catch on the gun releasing the trigger and at the same time as he heard his father calling for him to stop aimed cleanly at his target shooting the boy between his wide blue eyes.
The deafening shot echoed into the distance of a moist, moon-filled night and the smoke from the black powder rose and then dispersed inside the now hushed barn. Father, son and black dog sat in contemplation as another symbol was subtracted from the pack. Justice.
*
Blossom woke up in Clodagh’s flat in Dublin on Monday morning still feeling bad about the newspaper article from her home city which had caught the attention of the Gardai and now seemed to be fairly common knowledge in Ireland.
She had explained to Silas that she had not been asked to give any interviews before leaving the U.S. but while the case was being covered quite extensively in Boston and because she was semi famous there because of her sex change, she had nonetheless been taken by surprise at the airport when a reporter who had found out that they were friends had thrown questions at her regarding her trip.
Silas had been magnanimous in his dismissal of her indiscretion and they had enjoyed a pleasantly relaxed Sunday, driving to Clodagh’s parents for lunch where Blossom had appreciated the warm normality of a family atmosphere and, even though the mystery was obviously still the main topic of conversation, it was good for them all to put their feet up, laugh and talk about other less serious matters like the weather, unreliable automobiles and home improvements.
Silas had returned to his apartment last night for the first time in weeks, while Clodagh decided to stay in Donnybrook, giving Blossom her keys and suggesting that she stayed in her place whilst checking it over for any problems that might have arisen while she had been away.
Inside the bright, tidy flat, Blossom studied the numerous framed certificates and prizes that Clodagh and her friend Sinead had acquired from years of dancing as well as several photographs of the troupe including one in which they were wearing their colourful Tarot costumes. She also noticed a fair amount of religious paraphernalia on the mantelpiece which, although it was not that surprising as they were both Irish Catholic girls, did give her pause for thought.
She had recognized as soon as she met Clodagh that she was a kindred spirit, deeply sensitive to elements not just confined to this worldly plane and Blossom was glad that she was able to enlighten the girl about her seven senses which in part had been awakened through the spirit of the dance. It was clear that the dancer had been aware for some time that there was something different about her and needed to be reassured that she was not delusional and that any gifts she was blessed with should be encouraged.
This morning they had been called to a meeting with Superintendent Joe Tierney whom she had heard about from Silas and whom it looked as though she would have to convince to keep an open mind if they were to work together. He sounded like a nice guy, but after all he was a cop and used to dealing in hard evidence.
At Gardai Headquarters where they met he shook her hand firmly and she was interested to observe that he didn’t show any outward signs of being bothered by the fact that she had once been a man. That, to Blossom, was a big plus in his favour and she felt that they could both enter the meeting without any feelings of awkwardness which might distract from the difficult conversation that was no doubt to come.
As she anticipated, he opened the meeting in a way that was both cautious and sceptical.
“Ms. Fayard, tell me what you think you can bring to this case that the Gardai, the MPB and the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation can’t?”
Silas and Clodagh both glanced at Blossom, awaiting her response.
Blossom leaned back in her chair with an expression of calm confidence. “Because, Superintendent, you are all looking in the wrong direction.”
“Enlighten me.” Joe Tierney said wearily.
Blossom smiled to herself, thinking that might take somewhat longer than the time they had put aside today.
“Superintendent, I am certain that you and your colleagues do not consider this to be a straightforward case of kidnapping or abduction, because by now, three months on, someone would have been in touch. I also know, as I’m sure you do, that it is almost impossible to hide twenty-five people and a large vehicle without somebody somewhere noticing and that in an age of such advanced technology, there has been no cell phone communication from them. Therefore, we have to look at the clues thrown up by something outside of our normal sphere of understanding. Silas has asked me to be involved because I believe more than ever, now that I am here in your beautiful country, that this is a paranormal disappearance and that I will soon begin to understand why it happened and how it can be solved.”
“What clues are you referring to?”
Blossom knew she would have to confess to what Silas had told her. “I do know that the driver has seen something, been somewhere if you like, which has so terrified him that he is unable to remember or speak clearly about
the experience. This would tie in with a natural reaction that some people have when witnessing a supernatural phenomena of some magnitude. What I am trying to work out from this particular clue is why he is the one to return from wherever he has been and the others haven’t.”
“Can you tell me, in layman’s language so that I can understand, just where you think this…mythical place might be?”
Blossom shook her silky dark hair. “It’s not a place as such. It’s another dimension. Perhaps another time in another dimension. Have you read about anything like this and does it make any sense at all?”
Joe Tierney gave a deep sigh and began doodling on a pad with his pen.
“Not really. What are the other clues?”
Blossom decided not to explain about their recent experience near the lake. This guy could only absorb so much and she would present that later if it became relevant. “One other clue, Superintendent.” She held out her hand to Clodagh who passed her the card. “Clodagh and Silas discovered this near the spot where the driver was found. It’s a Tarot card and I believe someone is trying to tell them something significant.”
Joe Tierney took the card which Blossom handed to him and flipped it over in his hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fayard, I can’t see why you would think that a card that could have just been dropped has anything to do with the disappearance.”
Blossom retained her patience, keeping her voice steady. “Because, Superintendent, it’s a Tarot card. Not just any card, but from a pack which not only is linked to divinatory practices but has been described as the universal key to all religions. The Tarot offers a way to personally connect with a variety of myths and visions. And surely you don’t regard it as coincidence that the name of the missing troupe is Arcanum and the dance that gave them that name was based on these cards?”
