by Rod Rees
Vanka stared at Ella, dumbfounded, then slowly stood up, poured himself a tumbler full of Solution and downed it in one. “No wonder the Checkya are after you.”
“Look, Vanka, I’ve been straight with you. The question is, will you help me?”
“Quite frankly, Miss Thomas . . .”
Miss Thomas? What had happened to “Ella”?
“ . . . I don’t give a hoot about your politics, but what I most certainly do give a hoot about is my neck and ensuring Beria isn’t given an excuse to lengthen it. Therefore I think our partnership is destined to be a short one; I want nothing to do with rescuing Daemons in distress from Aleister Crowley. Crossing that bastard is as good as signing your own death warrant. You can stay here until the Checkya heat has died down and in return you’ll help me do a few séances. Let’s say a month.” He gave Ella a lopsided grin. “Then, Miss Thomas, we go off in opposite directions and I never, ever want to meet up with you again. As you Yanks—and here I am assuming that you are a Yank—would say, do we have a deal?”
The look in his eyes convinced Ella that further demurral would be a waste of time. “It’s a deal. And thanks, Vanka.”
Chapter 20
The Demi-Monde: 47th to 50th Days of Winter, 1004
Operation Barbarossa: Case Red
Case Red is to be undertaken by the ForthRight Army under the command of Comrade General Mikhail Skobelev. Commencing on the first day of Spring 1005, the campaign will last thirty-nine days. Case Red involves the invasion of the Coven, the defeat of the Covenite army and the imposition of total and uncompromised political, economic and military control on that Sector. Once said control is achieved the intelligentsia of the Coven is to be eliminated. Those eliminated are to include, inter alia: all members of Empress Wu’s Court, Imperial NoNs, army officers, politicians, government officials, HerEtical Priestesses, Suffer-O-Gettes, RaTionalists, scholars, teachers, businessFemmes, journalists, artists, playwrights, writers and others demonstrating leadership or creative potential.
—MINUTES OF THE POLITBURO MEETING HELD UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF THE GREAT LEADER ON THE 39TH DAY OF WINTER, 1004
Vanka might have been a cynic when it came to the more supernatural aspects of Spiritualism but he was a professional cynic. And if Ella was to be his assistant then he demanded that she aspire to the same professional standards he evinced in his act.
Over the next few days he made Ella practice hard until she knew her cues, her lines and her tricks from back to front. As she discovered, her role as a PsyChick was something akin to being a stooge who helped Vanka do some of the things that added a little pizzazz to his performance as a psychic. Specifically she was to attend his séances posing as a customer, gasp in amazement at crucial points in the performance, use the toe of her boot to set the table rattling at the instant Vanka was possessed by his “Spirit Guide,” and, most importantly of all, produce the calico ectoplasm from where it was hidden in her bustle and wave it around in the darkness of the séance room.
Learning how to conjure and then handle the ectoplasm was tricky but it had educated her as to why all séances were conducted in the dark. To pull out the luminous calico from the back of her dress, extend the thin metal rod hidden under her skirts, attach one to the other and then wave the calico around high in the air without anybody noticing was a nightmare to master. It also required her to have the use of both her hands, so Vanka had to teach her how to trick the couple she was sitting between and hand in hand with at the séance table into believing that they had an unrelenting grip on her hands when, in fact, Ella had arranged things so that they were gripping each other’s hands.
But she managed it.
And as they worked, Ella began to appreciate why Vanka was such a successful Spiritualist. Besides being handsome and very charming, he was a natural flatterer and a very good listener. She could easily understand why the customers at his séances—especially the women—would be convinced that they were in the presence of someone who could truly commune with the Spirit World.
Finally Vanka pronounced her ready. Two days later she found herself standing in the back room of the Prancing Pig as the customers began to arrive for their first séance. They were, so far as she could judge, a well-heeled group, but then to afford the one-guinea entrance fee that Burlesque demanded they had to be. As it was still early, only about fifteen people had gathered, and they milled around the room eyeing the séance table rather sheepishly, waiting for the show to begin.
The role Vanka had given Ella for her first performance was that of a recently bereaved widow. So it was a heavily veiled Ella, dressed in an all-enveloping black gown—her veil, her gloves and her widow’s weeds doing an excellent job of camouflaging her skin color—who sat amongst the audience waiting for Vanka to make his appearance. But despite her rather unflattering costume, there was no disguising that she was slim and young, and inevitably one of the male attendees wandered over to Ella and, doffing his hat, introduced himself. “Good evening, madam, I see we are to be co-travelers on this journey to the Spirit World.” He held out a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Nathaniel Warrington.”
They shook hands and immediately Ella knew everything there was to know about Nathaniel Warrington.
Knew that he was a liar.
Knew that his real name was Samuel Morris.
Knew that Morris had adopted an alias because he was a senior psychic assessor at the Ministry of Psychic Affairs who was attending the séance not to journey to the Spirit World but rather to unmask Mephisto—Vanka’s new stage persona—as a fraud.
Knew that Morris was attending the séance with his boss, an equally odious-looking man called Tomlinson, who was lurking on the other side of the room pretending not to know his colleague.
But Ella didn’t need PINC’s help to know that she had to warn Vanka. Reading Morris’s mind told her the fate of fraudulent psychics and it wasn’t pretty.
It took all her self-control to sit calmly through a few minutes of inconsequential chitchat, before she made her excuses. “You must forgive me, Mr. Warrington, but I’m quite overcome by the excitement of the séance . . . by the prospect of communing with my recently departed husband. Oh dear, I feel a little queasy.” With that she scuttled off to find Vanka.
Even the normally unflappable Vanka Maykov was stunned by the news.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. I touched his hand. I get my strongest insights when I do that.”
“Then I can’t go on. I’ve heard of Morris; he’s a devil for detail. He’ll spot my tricks for certain and then I’ll be for the high jump.” He paced up and down the room. “But if I pull, Burlesque will blow his top. Anyway, sure as eggs are eggs, my nonappearance will only make Morris more determined to find out who I really am. And once he finds out that Mephisto is none other than Vanka Maykov there’ll be Hel to pay; stage names are meant to be registered with the Ministry.”
“There is one solution,” Ella said quietly.
“Under no circumstances!”
“Put me on, Vanka. No tricks, just me. You’ve seen what I can do.”
“I can’t . . . he’s already seen you.”
“I was wearing my veil; he’ll never recognize me. And you can introduce me as the mambo Marie Laveau, a WhoDoo mambo.”
Marie Laveau? WhoDoo? Now where had PINC conjured that from?
Ella could almost hear Vanka’s mind whirring. “You’re sure you’re up for this?”
“Don’t worry, Vanka. Leave everything to me.”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” ANNOUNCED VANKA AS HE STRODE OUT before the audience seated around the séance table, “I am Mephisto.”
There was a polite round of applause to which Morris, on whom Ella was spying from the wings of the stage, did not contribute.
“In my quest as a psychic to achieve ever more profound union with the Spirit World I have sought others whose abilities complement my own. It is a given that two psychics who are able to achiev
e spiritual union with one another are able to delve more deeply into the strangeness that lies beyond the reality that is the Demi-Monde. Unfortunately such spiritual union is rare, but, ladies and gentlemen, during my travels around the Demi-Monde I have found a woman of such power and ability that together we are able to do what no other Spiritualists have ever been able to. The magical abilities of WhoDoo mambos of NoirVille are much derided, but tonight you will be witness to the most remarkable feats of psychic divination ever performed. I say this to warn you: if you do not wish to see the shadowed secrets of the future that awaits you, withdraw now before it is too late.”
No one moved but the atmosphere in the room became distinctly more serious. Ella, as she watched Vanka work his audience, was lost in admiration: when it came to dishing out bullshit, Colonel Vanka Maykov was without equal.
“Very well,” he continued in an increasingly somber tone. “Could I have all the lights in the room turned off with the exception of the one situated over this stage?” One of Burlesque’s minions performed the duty. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the very great honor of presenting the amazing, the unprecedented, the awe-inspiring, the high priestess of all WhoDoo magic, the great mambo herself . . . Miss Marie Laveau!”
Hearing her cue, Ella swept out into the room to stand beside Vanka under the pool of light afforded by the single gas lamp that sizzled overhead. It was really quite a blast to be onstage, playing the clairvoyant and having an audience of twenty people hanging on her every gesture.
And Ella knew she looked the part.
Considering she had had only ten minutes to concoct a costume, she thought she had done pretty well. She had torn down one of Burlesque’s new blue and gold brocade curtains, folded it in half and, using a knife, cut a slit in the fold. When she pushed her head through the slit the curtain enveloped her like a huge tabard that draped down to her feet. It gave her, she thought, a vaguely Oriental air, especially when worn in conjunction with her all-encompassing black veil.
If the gasps emanating from the audience when she stood, arms outstretched, in the middle of the stage were anything to go by, the people seated around the table set in the middle of the room were impressed.
Vanka moved to stand behind her with his hands on her shoulders.
“If you would all join hands, we will begin,” he commanded the audience.
Once this was done, he chanted a long, rambling incantation to the Spirits to leave the sanctuary of the World Beyond to journey to the Demi-Monde. There was something almost hypnotic in the rhythm of his voice and even Ella, who had heard Vanka rehearsing this piece of hocus-pocus a dozen times, found herself drifting off into a fugue. Indeed she was so lost in her daydreams that it came as a shock when the gaslight above her head began to flicker.
“The Spirits are come,” announced Vanka.
Or, more accurately, one of Burlesque’s boys was buggering around with the gas tap.
His grip on her shoulders tightened, the signal for her to go into her act. “Ooooooh!” Ella wailed and she was pleased to see several mouths drop open in nervous astonishment. “Who calls?” She used a voice that she hoped was a good imitation of the spooks she had seen in late-night horror movies. “Who calls me from the Sphere of Shadows?” Immediately the room seemed to become colder, as though the manifesting of the Spirit had drained the room of its warmth.
That, Ella presumed, would be Burlesque opening one of the pub’s windows behind the stage.
“It is I, Mephisto,” intoned Vanka, in a voice about an octave lower than his usual speaking voice. “I am an Adept of the Fifth Circle, Magus of the Esoteric Arts, and as an Ipsissimus of the Temple of Odin, I call you and I command you. What is your name, Spirit?”
“Hear me. I am Lilith, Goddess of Nature and of the True Magic.” The words tumbled out of Ella unbidden. It was as though she were tapping into some primeval memory of a life lived long, long ago.
Weird.
She paused to do a little shaking of her head and body, then with a shriek she stretched out her arms as though trying to embrace some invisible Spirit. Being possessed, Ella decided, was quite good fun. “Why, oh magus, do you call me from the sanctuary of the Spirit World?”
“There are those gathered here who wish to see the future.”
“Ooooooh! There are many futures: the future that could be, the future that will be . . .”
“Will you answer our questions?”
“I will.”
Vanka addressed the audience. “Who amongst you has the courage to ask the first question?”
As was to be expected, the questioner was Samuel Morris. “I have a question.”
“Your name?” asked Vanka.
“I am Nathaniel Warrington.”
“Ooooooh. You lie,” Ella keened. “Your name is Samuel Morris.”
Morris’s eyes popped open in wide amazement. “How the Hel . . .”he spluttered, and then recovered himself. “This woman don’t know what she’s talking about. My name is Nathaniel Warrington.”
“Again you lie,” cried Ella. “Know you that nothing can be hidden from the Spirits! Your days are spent in deceit.” She raised her hand and pointed a finger tipped by a black-varnished nail at the senior psychic assessor. “Oh woe unto those who practice deceit, for they are in thrall to the Dark One.” Even in the gloom she could see that Morris had gone as white as a sheet. “This deceit has infected your soul, Samuel. Now you are unable to be true to yourself. I see your future and it is infused with the consequences of your duplicity. I see ruin and despair.”
“This is all tripe. You’ve been spying on me!”
“You have given false witness to those who trusted you. You have cheated those who placed their faith in you. You have placed avarice before honor and you have deceived those who love you. If you do not repent then you will be damned to suffer torment and humiliation when your soul passes beyond this Vale of Tears.”
That shut Morris’s protests up for a moment as he wrestled with the words “false witness” and “cheated.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t done anything.” The fact that Morris was now giving his boss nervous looks across the room gave the lie to that proposition. “I don’t understand.” There was real panic in his voice. He looked desperately around the audience for support but all he saw was people edging away from him.
“Those above you know of the crimes you have committed. They know you have issued licenses to those without true power.”
“That’s a bloody lie.”
“They know that your lusts have turned your soul black. Beware, Samuel Morris, beware. They know of the ledger you keep in the locked drawer of your desk. They know of the gold you have hidden at your brother’s house.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They know of the blood bribes that are held in the Bank in Odessa.”
Samuel Morris sprang to his feet. “I’m not sitting here listening to all this claptrap.”
“Beware . . . retribution stalks your footsteps. Death walks behind you.”
“Shut your gob, you fucking WhoDoo witch. You’re just making this up.”
“I know of the son that does not bear your name. You have been unfaithful to your wife and to the teachings of UnFunDaMentalism you are oath-bound to protect and uphold.” That was a revelation that hit home. Morris flinched back as though he’d been physically struck. “I see deep, deep, deep into your tarnished soul. And there I see your doom.”
“Bollocks.”
“You have so little time, Samuel. You must make your peace with ABBA.”
“Shut up!” Samuel Morris shouted as he shook off the grasp of the two women seated next to him, who in fear of offending the Spirits had doggedly kept hold of Morris’s hands all through Ella’s wailing. Immediately when the circle was broken, Ella pitched forward, tumbling to the stage as though in a swoon.
As Morris tried to make his escape, a voice boomed out, and, from the look on his face, fo
r him it really was the Voice of Doom. “Stay where you are, Morris,” came the shouted command from the man’s boss, Tomlinson.
Samuel Morris obviously wasn’t of a mind to do much staying. Quick as a flash he drew a pistol from the back of his belt and pulled back the hammer. “Stand your ground or by the Spirits, I’ll—”
That was as far as he got before the cudgel wielded by Burlesque Bandstand smashed down on his head.
“THAT WOS ONE ’ELL OF A SORRY, WANKER,” CROONED BURLESQUE AS he plied Vanka with drinks thirty minutes after the last customer had left the Pig. “Most of the punters ’ave already bought tickets for tomorrow’s performance.” He glanced nervously at Ella. “Yous wos good too,” he admitted. “I liked all that wooing and wailing and shit.” He took a slurp of his Solution. “So c’mon, Wanker, tell Burlesque ’ow you did it. That Morris item wos a plant, wosn’t ’e?”
Vanka gave a half smile. “Trade secret, Burlesque, but for your information neither Miss Thomas nor myself had ever met Samuel Morris before tonight’s performance.”
“Then you must’ve bin ’aving ’im followed. Yous bin using the Pinkertons to dig the dirt on ’im? Wos that ’ow it wos done?”
“Nope.”
“Then ’ow the ’ell?” Burlesque’s brow furrowed. “You’ll be tellin’ me next that Miss Thomas ’ere really ’as got physicalist powers.” He started to chortle but when neither of his guests joined in he stopped. “Aw, c’mon, Wanker, yous can tell yer old mucker Burlesque: ’ow d’you do it?”
Slowly and very seductively, Ella leaned across the table and took Burlesque’s hand in hers. “I really am a clairvoyant,” she crooned in her best femme fatale voice. “I can see into your soul, Mr. Bandstand. I can see all your darkest secrets.”
Burlesque pulled his hand away. He’d gone a little paler than usual. “Nah . . . no one can do that. Yer just pullin’ my plonker.” He looked at Ella suspiciously. “Yous on the level?”
