by Sam Short
The bathroom door opened, spewing a cloud of steam into the boat. “That’s better,” said Barney, emerging from the mist. “There’s nothing like a hot shower to get the blood pumping.”
Granny sat up straight and wiped her eyes with a paper towel. “Not a word to anyone else about what just happened at this table,” she hissed.
“Barney knows,” I reminded her.
“He doesn’t know that I know he knows,” whispered Granny. “And I want it to remain that way. This is woman talk. I won’t discuss emotions with a man — it makes them flighty and hungry. That’s why men with over emotional wives tend to be anxious and fat. It’s not fair on them. Men aren’t built to speak about love as openly as us women.”
The sound of hooves thudding on the decking put a stop to anymore conversation concerning Granny’s love life, and Granny wiped the final tear from her cheek as Boris pushed past Barney and stood next to the table. “I’ve found the shop that the trolls mentioned last night,” he said. “Twiggy’s General Store and Tattoo Parlour. It’s just around the corner. Shall we go? If Twiggy is as much of a gossip as the trolls made out, then you never know what she might be able to tell us.”
“Clever goat!” said Granny. “Let’s get going, right this moment. We’ve got a mystery to solve! There are six witches out there who need our help. Time is of the essence!”
Chapter Eleven
Two hours and twenty minutes later, we all stood outside the shop. Granny had wasted an hour insisting on finding the hairbrush she’d misplaced, finally admitting reluctantly that she may not have brought it with her, and even more reluctantly using Mum’s brush instead, pulling handfuls of black hairs from the bristles before taking the risk of running it through her blue hair. The second hour had been taken up by carefully removing tiny splinters of wood from Rosie’s gums. She’d discovered a small twig in Willow’s bedroom while searching for her stuffed mouse, and had chewed it into a yellow mush which Willow scooped up with a paper towel and tossed in the bin.
The final twenty minutes had been spent strolling along the waterfront, taking in the atmosphere of the city by day, and looking out for the red boat we’d seen the night before. Mum had cast a spell over the Water Witch before we’d left, making it impossible for anyone to get within a foot of the hull. If the man on the red boat did return, he’d have no luck if he tried illegally boarding my boat again.
Twiggy’s General Store and Tattoo Parlour stood on a corner, the open door spewing the tantalising aromas of spices and herbs which mingled with the yeasty smell of fresh baked bread. The term General Store seemed a little tame as we stepped inside. Twiggy’s seemed to stock everything — more a universal store than a general store. Shelves brimming with huge ripe melons sat opposite shelves crammed with thick woolly sweaters, and a glass cabinet placed next to a rack full of wine bottles was filled with magic wands of various lengths and aesthetic appeal.
A huge oven stood near the doorway, and I watched fascinated as a man dressed in traditional baker’s clothing withdrew a large brown loaf, using a long wooden paddle to retrieve it from the hot interior. Women and men browsed the aisles, and children gathered around a stand displaying hand carved wooden puppets — some of them painted and dressed as clowns and others as witches and wizards. One child had removed a particularly colourful clown from the stand, and with expert control of the strings, was making it dance, much to the delight of the other children. The whole shop smelt delicious, and I had already decided that the evening meal was going to consist of one of the fat honey roast hams which stood on the meat counter, accompanied by a few of the soil covered freshly harvested new potatoes which filled a wooden barrel.
Barney pointed towards the rear of the shop. “That’s where we should be,” he said. “The trolls said people gossip while they get tattoos.”
Twiggy’s Tattoos, read the sign hanging from the ceiling, painted with an arrow which pointed to a staircase leading to the upper floor. The staircase creaked as we trudged up it and took a turn to the right near the top before opening into a spacious room, the high walls adorned with tattoo designs and fantastical paintings of dragons, and other strange creatures, which I hoped were mythical and not accurate representations of haven residents.
Old leather sofas and chairs provided seating for customers awaiting a tattoo, and a single seat beneath a bright light was the chair in which customers were inked. Nobody was waiting, but a huge man with a bare chest and full beard was currently being worked on by a tall woman with a body that ran straight up and down, with no discernible bumps or curves beneath the green velvet body hugging dress she wore. “No prizes for guessing that she’s Twiggy,” I said under my breath.
Twiggy leaned over the man in the chair, and with a wand in hand, made shapes in the air a few inches above his bulging pectoral muscle. “Wow,” said Boris. “No needles.”
Colours and shapes appeared on the customer’s sun browned skin as the wand danced through the air, and as I approached the chair for a better look, the shapes shifted on the man’s skin. The tattoo was of a ship, but what was remarkable was the way the vessel rode the incandescent blue waves which Twiggy was working on. The galleon dipped into deep troughs of water and rode the peaks of tall waves, tilting from side to side as it ploughed through the rough sea, going nowhere on the man’s chest.
“That’s amazing,” I said, standing behind Twiggy. “Do you mind if I watch?”
“I don’t mind,” said the tall woman, her eyes resting on me briefly. “Do you mind, Jimmy?” she asked, returning her attention to the magical tattoo she was creating.
The big man smiled at me. “Watch all you want,” he said. “You thinking of having one?”
“No, she is not!” said Mum, standing beside me.
“I’ll have one if I want, Mum,” I said. “But I don’t think I’m ready for one just yet. If I ever get one I want it to mean something special.”
“Like this one,” said the big man, tapping his chest with a wide finger. “The ship you’re looking at is the galleon that I took my last voyage aboard. It went down with all hands lost apart from me. I was lucky. It happened in the mortal world and I’d already been given my haven entry spell. The ship was completely underwater and sinking fast when I manged to open a portal in the captain’s cabin doorway. I was almost out of air when I swam through. The other poor souls had no chance.”
Twiggy made a final mark on the man’s skin, adding a sailor to the crow’s nest at the tip of the tallest mast. “There,” she said. “All done.”
I moved nearer to the man’s chest for a better look. The sailor in the tattoo was small, but the thick beard which blew in a non-existent breeze gave away his identity. “That’s you, isn’t it?” I said, resisting the urge to touch the tattoo as the ship dipped and rose on the man’s chest — going nowhere, but giving the illusion it was moving at speed through the swelling ocean.
“Aye,” said the man. “That’s me. I was on look-out duty. I never saw the iceberg that broke the bow, and I’ll never forgive myself either. This tattoo is a reminder of how I failed all those men I sailed with.”
Mum drew a sharp intake of breath as an iceberg floated into view in the path of the boat. I was almost convinced that I heard the splintering of wood as the boat was torn apart by the sharp ice and began sinking, the broken bow sliding quickly beneath the surface. The man drew his shirt over his tattoo. “There’s no need for you good ladies to see the worse part. That’s my penance. Each time I look in a mirror I’ll be reminded of the people I let down that day.”
Twiggy put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Try to forgive yourself, Jimmy, and when you do, come back so I can remove it. You’ll be alive a long time in The Haven, and having that reminder on your chest will do no good for your soul. It’ll send you mad.”
Jimmy smiled and handed Twiggy some coins. “I don’t want to forgive myself,” he said. “I want to remember. It keeps those men alive in my heart.”
Twiggy and
Jimmy hugged, and when the large man had left, Twiggy looked around the room. “Who’s next?” she said, with a smile. “The goat? I’ve never tattooed an animal before, it could be fun.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re not here for tattoos. We were hoping you could help us. We’re looking for six witches who have gone missing.”
Twiggy looked down at me, her thin neck decorated in swirls of black ink, and her eyes piercing and thoughtful. “How do you think I can help?” she said. “I know nothing of the missing witches. I’ve heard about them, of course, but I don’t think I can be of help to you people — whoever you are.”
Barney joined us and stood at my side. He withdrew his notebook and looked at Twiggy. “We’re just people who want to help,” he said. “Would you consider answering some questions?”
“I don’t know where you come from,” said Twiggy. “But nobody likes a loose tongue in the City of Shadows. They don’t tend to stay in the mouth for long, and I’m quite attached to mine. I’m sorry, but you’ll be getting no help from me.”
Barney glanced at his notes. “It really would help,” he said. “Just a few simple questions.”
Twiggy ignored Barney and stared over my shoulder. “Who’s that woman?” she said. “The one sneaking down the stairs. The one who hasn’t turned to face me since she came in here and saw me? The one with blue hair. I know her. I’d recognise that plump bottom anywhere. I recognise all the flesh and bone canvases I’ve worked on.” She took a few steps towards Granny. “It’s you, isn’t it… Gladys…Weaver?”
Granny paused on the third step down. “My name is not Gladys,” she said without turning around, her voice a few octaves higher than usual. She took another step. “I am a simple woman. My name is… erm, my name is…. John Jones. No! Joanne Jones, my name is Joanne Jones and I am but a simple washer woman who wandered into your place of business by accident. Please forgive me, I should be going now. I have washing to… wash.”
“I’d know you anywhere, Gladys,” said Twiggy, crossing the room. “Why do you hide from me? Do you not remember me? We spent time in prison together. I tattooed your right buttock using a sewing needle and the red ink you stole from the warden’s office. Of course it’s you, Gladys — I’d never forget the person I created my first ever tattoo on.”
“You have a tattoo, Gladys?” said Boris. “How exciting.”
“I’m not Gladys,” said Granny, her shoulders slumping.
“The game’s up, Granny, come on,” said Willow. “And what’s she talking about… tattoos and prison? We knew you’d spent an hour or two in the Wickford police cells in the past, but you’ve never mentioned prison!”
“We spent a terrible time together in prison,” said Twiggy, holding a hand to her chest as if to calm herself. “Here in The Haven. We shared a cell, and during our incarceration we became blood sisters, cutting our flesh and mixing our lifelines with the promise that we’d always be there for one another.” She took a step closer to Granny. “Why do you hide your face from me now, Gladys? Does our pact no longer stand? Are we no longer sisters of blood? I tattooed you, Gladys, you bare my artwork on your fleshy behind, surely that still means something to you?”
Granny turned to face Twiggy. “Of course it means something,” she said, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I didn’t want my family to know my shame, that’s all, and I certainly didn’t want them to know I wear a tattoo. I’d have never come in your shop if I’d recognised the name, but you weren’t known as Twiggy when we were held in that prison hell-hole, like rats in a trap.”
“I took the name after leaving prison,” Twiggy said. “I needed a change. I wanted to feel reborn when I felt the first breath of free air on my cheeks and the grass beneath my feet. Twiggy was the name my brother gave me when I was young, due to my build. I thought it fitted quite well.”
“It fits beautifully,” said Granny, climbing the stairs and approaching her old friend. “Illyria never really rolled off the tongue. Twiggy is simpler.”
“Tattoo?” I said, staring at Granny. “What tattoo do you have on your arse, Granny?”
“It’s nothing,” said Granny. “Forget it was ever mentioned.”
Twiggy gasped. “Nothing! How can you say that? It meant so much to you back then!” She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. “Its meaning was lost on me of course — I left the mortal world centuries ago and never kept up with developments, but your grandmother assured me that one day the symbol and slogan I inked on her derriere would be known throughout your world, and worshipped by all.” Twiggy smiled at Granny. “Did it happen, Gladys Weaver? Did the red-heaven you spoke and sang of come true? Is your world a place of equality and peace as you predicted it would be?”
Granny looked at the floor. “Not quite,” she said.
“What’s the tattoo?” said Willow.
“It was beautiful,” said Twiggy. “It was never my best work of art, of course, but it was my first, and the fact it was a prison tattoo made it so much more special. It was a simple design, but with great meaning to your dear grandmother. I can see it now, a crossed hammer and sickle, above the slogan — Rise, Comrades! The cleverest part was the phrase above it though, wasn’t it, Gladys?”
Granny grunted.
“Unroot evil, it reads,” said Twiggy. “An anagram of revolution! Beautiful.”
Granny blushed. “It was a long time ago. My politics have changed a little since that time.”
“I think it comes as no surprise to most of us that you lean very much to the left, Gladys,” said Boris. “Maybe just a tad too far on some occasions, but it seems the revelation that you were incarcerated in a haven prison is news to your family. What did you do, Gladys? What crime did you commit?”
“What crime did we commit?” said Twiggy, laying a hand of solidarity on Granny’s shoulder. “Gladys was the founder and leader of our movement — the Social Justice Witches. We made great changes in The Haven, until one night we were betrayed.” She lowered her eyes. “Betrayed by one of our own.”
“Big Bertha,” spat Granny, her fist clenched. “The big bitch.”
“Yes,” said Twiggy. “Big Bertha let it be known that we were planning an operation — Gladys was planning an operation, she was the mastermind behind all our actions after all. Gladys planned to disrupt a man only event, in protest against the patriarchy and their refusal to allow female participation. Sexist pigs!”
“What was the event?” said Barney.
“A competition,” said Twiggy. “To see who could grow the fullest beard in two weeks without the use of magic. We never got close enough to the event to disrupt it though, did we, Gladys?”
“No,” muttered Granny, a vein in her forehead pulsating with angry blood. “Big Bertha had given the game away. Derek and his cronies were waiting for us. They confiscated our scissors, eggs, and hair removal potions — and tossed us into prison without trial. That was the end of the SJW’s. The prison system tore us apart as a group and broke us as individuals.”
“It did,” said Twiggy. “But here we stand, Gladys Weaver — reunited after all this time, and with a bond between us so strong that only people who’ve been prison inmates could ever hope to understand it.”
“Good lord,” said Mum, pulling Granny close to her in a fierce hug. “I never knew. You poor, poor woman. How long were you locked up for, and why did I never know? Was it before I was born? Did you try to shield me from the shame? You needn’t have! I’d have understood!”
“Two nights and almost three long days,” said Granny, her voice faltering. “The worst weekend of my life. You were fourteen years old. Your father told you I’d gone to visit cousin Beryl in Cleethorpes. He couldn’t tell you that your mother was a lag. I wouldn’t allow it!”
Granny stumbled as Mum pushed her away. “A weekend! A bloody weekend!”
“A long weekend,” interjected Twiggy, “and they ran out of teabags on the Sunday. It was awful. It was inhumane!”
“You sang com
munist songs, became a blood sister, had a prison tattoo, and were broken by the system over a weekend?” I said. “It must have been some prison.”
“It was terrible!” said Granny. “You’ll never understand — not until your liberty is snatched from you by force!”
“Take comfort that I understand, Gladys,” said Twiggy. “I know your pain, and as your blood sister I will do all I can to help you and your family.” She turned to Barney. “Ask your questions. I will answer them.”
Chapter Twelve
After Granny had introduced us all to her old prison friend, Barney reeled off a series of questions. Twiggy looked around the room before answering, as if to search for eavesdroppers. “The depths,” she said quietly. “I’ve heard talk of it. Some of the men who sit in my chair come from work dirty with dust from their labour, and speak of a place known as the depths.”
“What is it?” said Granny. “I’ve never heard of it and I’ve been around The Haven a bit.”
“It’s said that The City of Shadows is built upon another city, a smaller city, a city that sank in swampland and was lost to time, a city that now hides beneath our feet… in the depths. The men who work there speak of it being discovered by a strange man who possesses great power. He employs people to build for him, beneath our feet, but what they build… I do not know.”
“Do you know what the man looks like, and if he has a boat?” said Barney. “A red boat to be specific.”
