Dark Matter

by R. D. Cain

  “You’re never really satisfied and always strive for self-improvement. You’d like an exciting getaway, just yourself, a week of reinvention and recharging. Your sign needs what I call quality alone time. And a new geography would do you wonders spiritually.

  “You’re at a stage in your life when you have a lot of practical advice to offer those around you. If you were to take the time to think about it, you’d recall that you’ve helped a lot of people over the years with your insights and observations. Your spirit is at times a lot more mature than your peer group. You’re mature enough to know when to let loose and have a bit of fun; I see, though, that you often hold yourself back out of a sense of responsibility.

  “How am I doing so far?”

  Mrs. Simmard closed the book she was holding and placed it gently on the table. She didn’t say anything — they usually couldn’t, not right away. Her eyes turned to the digital recorder he’d told her to bring. The red light was flashing; it had recorded everything he had said.

  Anthony swirled the teacup in his hands, now leaning forward in the leather chair. He finished the last of his cooling drink, savouring the dregs at the bottom of the cup, where the strongest flavour from the bitter leaves and the honey had settled together. The timer chimed three tones, and Anthony thought of Chavez, his life partner, who had set it when she sat down. Simmard’s reading was half-over; it would chime again in another fifteen, then again when her time was up.

  Anthony paused a moment to visualize Chavez, his thick forearms that rippled as he reset the clock, his voice, deep and coarse. He would be heading to the gym now with a mutual friend. Bruce Townler was a veterinarian they were close to. A bald, thick man who was increasingly by Chavez’s side. Anthony wouldn’t say he was feeling crowded out; he’d never say that. Chavez could do what he wanted. He had always come back before; this would be no different. Chavez had an errand to complete. Anthony considered that if he did a good job, he’d put Chavez, or Bruce, or both, to work in his bedroom here.

  The client, Mrs. Simmard, was a nouveau riche from Rosedale; she was sitting on a fortune. White hair dyed blond, well-dressed, thin, with large dark sunglasses hiding practically invisible bruises from a recent cosmetic surgery and a slightly ostentatious amount of jewellery. Anthony corrected himself. Not thin; rich women like these would use the word slender. Anthony did a quick once-up-and-down as she lay back on the couch. She knew he was gay, so he threw out a “great outfit” to explain his glances so she wouldn’t realize that he was doing such a thorough physical inventory.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You have a relaxing way of speaking.”

  Every detail was critical to a true reading. At times he had wondered if he was a fraud. Was he doing what anyone could do by making such observations? He had learned to accept that his psychic abilities were real. He turned his mind to people and studied them at a level of detail that few could; the gift put it all together.

  What separated him from the fakes was the way he meshed the gift and the ability to read people with the “third element” he had learned from stage magicians. Magicians performed their shows in three distinct stages: the pledge, the turn and finally the prestige. He’d pledge to give them a minor reading, he’d turn it with information gleaned from clandestine background checks or subtle personal networking, then he’d hit them with the prestige, the information from beyond the grave, things he could know only if he was authentic.

  At sixty, she was still attractive — she had clearly been beautiful her entire life. She would be impervious to flattery related to her appearance, likely seeing it as retail manipulation. To get inside, he used his understanding that her soul craved validation of the type of person she had become.

  Tasteful, coordinated clothing, upright posture, poise. He went through the options: modelling, real estate, entertainer, singer. She had an authentic personality that ruled out real estate. Singers catch more attention than models and they’re usually smarter, deeper people. Artists were more attracted to people in his line of work.

  He noted the mole over the upper lip. She had the money to remove it and didn’t. She took it as a beauty mark; she would have a few more on her back. Again it meant confidence. There were faint red discolourations on her hand between the thumb and wrist; she’d been testing makeup. Her perfectly coiffed hair indicated a recent trip to the stylist.

  Anthony made these calculations rapid-fire, with a calm demeanour. He was out of practice with the showmanship side of readings. The analysis of people — that gift he used every day. Now he felt it brewing up inside him, the moment of prestige.

  “Shall we continue, Mrs. Simmard?” He gestured for her to take a cup of tea from the tray. He had poured two cups while he gave the first portion of the reading. He explained how she should swirl the leaves around while she drank so he would have more to work with.

  “You know, Mrs. Simmard, I have a few friends who have crossed over into the afterlife, and sometimes they tell me the strangest things.”

  “Oh, really?”

  As much as he was confident with himself, he threw out the showstopper in a way that could be both right and wrong. If she said yes, he’d be a legend; if she said no, he’d use the declining negative technique of no, that wouldn’t be a good fit for you. “One of my friends, from the other side — you weren’t a singer, were you?”

  Her head dropped slightly, her eyes staring into his, wide in surprise. It was a home run on the first swing.

  “That was over thirty years ago, in Montreal.” There was no hint of an accent, but she would be bilingual. Anthony did more calculating. Montreal thirty years ago — the 1980s, the ’70s to be safe; his mind searched through the Rolodex of memories and demographic movements: the FLQ, John Lennon.

  “Well, a reading is really about me telling you what I see, then a certain portion of it is for you to interpret the meaning. Some things I’ll tell you might seem elusive or off the mark; you have to remember that they may just be symbols for us to decipher together.”

  “Of course.”

  She was receptive; her advance payment of seven hundred and fifty dollars told him that. He went through the basic themes in his mind: money — she was set. Love — her man had just died and left everything to her. Career — it was behind her. And then there was health. She appeared fit; however, there were telltale signs of historic smoking, the lines around the mouth. He exploited that one easily.

  It was never bad to tell them what they wanted to hear. But it was far more effective to confirm their worst fears; that was particularly galvanizing, especially if you provided them with an escape route. “I see a medical problem developing in your chest, some kind of blood vessel problem, but that’s not going to be for a long, long time.” Her eyes opened wider. “The kind of thing walking, yoga or any kind of fitness could stave off if you’re able to be consistent.”

  “I walk every day and go to yoga three times a week.”

  “Then you’re doing all you should need to age gracefully.”

  “How do you see my future going without William?” There was fear and concern in her voice, more than she would have intended. Anthony responded as if it was a casual question.

  “I see some unwanted advances coming your way from men. One man — I can’t describe him, but I feel that his forwardness is a little uncomfortable, like you’ve known him a long time and never thought of him that way. You should just take it as flattery, Mrs. Simmard. If you shrug it off, so will he. Men are fools around beautiful women, but you already know that, don’t you?”

  After the final chime, Anthony led Mrs. Simmard out. He put the cash she had given him into a pottery jar on the mantel. He was sure she’d tell her friends about him and he’d get the money rolling in again.

  He followed a basic script in his readings. He encouraged her to work with him to decipher the messages he received and, while his credentials practicall
y spoke for themselves, he still gave her a brief history of his experience. He always provided clients with pre-emptive excuses for failure, explaining that he wasn’t perfect; ghosts could be elusive or vague in their transmissions.

  Next it was always about the games of language. Rainbow ruses, statements that attributed both a trait and its opposite at the same time. You’re independent, but strike a balance when others want your company. Barnum statements were so general they applied to everyone. You’re at a stage in your life when you have a lot of practical advice to offer those around you. He encouraged her to work with him. Well, a reading is really about me telling you what I see, then a certain portion of it is for you to interpret the meaning. It could also be called forced teaming.

  There were so many other ways inside a person, and so many profitable things to do once you were there. While the readings provided a reliable income, after an unnerving event — the vision — they were necessary evils to further the real calling of his life.

  Chavez didn’t come back in time to say goodbye, leaving Anthony alone and feeling incomplete, which he didn’t like. He preferred to mirror the emotions of the people around him. He enjoyed the goodbyes as much as the hellos, even just for the small rituals of sharing a life with someone.

  He went to his study and opened his laptop. His browser was still open to his website. He clicked the link to go to his bio, where it had all begun. In 1985, he had been only twenty-eight years old when he had led the police to the body in the field. A man, young — in the prime of his life — with a lean body and bright future was found half-naked, his figure twisted in a shallow grave. His discovery had made Anthony famous. After that shameful waste of life, the media was all over him — TV shows, celebrities, everyone wanted a piece of the action. Back then, four hundred dollars an hour for psychic readings was a lot of money; and yet they paid. None of it would have been possible without Chavez in his life. Strong, confident, handsome — it all came together when they met.

  Still, at times he would admit that he had felt like a fraud. From the outside looking in, he would have thought it would feel like more of a passive process to be psychic as opposed to the painstaking observations, the labour of creating an empathic connection to strangers.

  He was reading people’s appearances, behaviours, making judgments based on socioeconomic class, recycling it through a basic narrative structure: love, money, career, health, ambitions, hopes and dreams. He had developed it over time, and with basic manipulation techniques, he made sure he covered all of the essential passageways that we all walk through on our journey through this world.

  Many times, ideas came to him from his dreams. What came to him almost one year ago was a dream like nothing he had ever experienced before. He dreamed he had died and been reborn into a new world. The dream was like living an entire life in the afterlife. He spoke to people there who explained the universe to him. They explained the core things that humans are meant to learn in their short lives. They were frantic for him to take the message forward. Humanity depended on it. He awoke with a singular purpose that day: to get the message organized, then out to as many people as possible. And sharing the vision was what he was going to do at next month’s show at Casa Loma, both for the need for money and the need to bring humanity together with one singular vision of faith.

  He exited the bio page and tabbed over to his Excel program. His financial situation was a horror show of overdraft and remortgage. They had come so close to having the house paid off; now it was mortgaged up to eight hundred thousand dollars. Keeping up the appearances of his lifestyle was getting expensive. It wasn’t a spending problem; it was an income problem. He let out a deep breath and closed the spreadsheet.

  With the remote he turned on the TV to CP24, the twenty-four-hour news channel. The ticker at the bottom rattled off useless information. The Don Valley Parkway was shut down on the weekend for construction, a car accident on the Gardiner. The Leafs were playing the Rangers tonight. And a young girl was missing, hadn’t been seen in weeks. Hmmm. Wonder if they’d want to hire a psychic?

  It had all begun for him when he helped recover the dead man. The image of the sun-bleached cadaver flashed in his mind less often over the years. But if he could travel back through time and speak to his young self, how would he do it differently? He’d played it over in his mind on many penniless and sleepless nights. Could it be done again with a conscious attempt to maximize the good old bottom line? He made a note of the missing girl’s name. A wealthy, grieving family might pay good money to find her before she died. His windfall had lasted for years after finding a dead body. What could saving a girl’s life with his powers bring him?

  Anthony opened a bookmark on the computer that took him to the Casa Loma page. The castle was one of the city’s most picturesque landmarks, built at a cost of three and a half million dollars in 1911, back when that was a lot of money. He dialed the phone number. Booking the entire castle actually hadn’t been that expensive, less than ten thousand for the evening with everything included. The TV crew was almost the same price. For someone almost one million dollars in debt, it was a gamble. If the money didn’t start rolling in within seven days, he’d be bankrupt, and an audit would find the income tax games he’d been playing for the past decade. Ultimately, he just had to have faith that the message of the truth would bring earthly rewards. Bankruptcy and jail for the rest of his life, or freedom fifty-five with more fame and money then he could ever imagine.

  The booking agent answered the phone on the third ring and Anthony made the final arrangements. He hung up and the phone rang almost immediately. He was surprised to see it was Dr. Bruce.

  “Hey, Anthony. Getting excited about your show?”

  “That’s one word for it. I confirmed the booking for Casa Loma. Chavez is gone to drop off the cheque now.”

  “And the TV people?”

  “They’re booked too. It’s all ready to go.”

  “You sound nervous, Anthony. Do you want me to swing by with something to help you relax? More Atavan, Paxil? Maybe something stronger?”

  Anthony shook his head. Bruce made more money selling drugs to his friends than to his clients for their animals. “I still have pills left over from before. Isn’t Chavez with you?”

  “No, he called and said he wouldn’t have time for me today. I think he’s in a mood.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Chavez had been aloof lately. “He’s playing his tricks again. He tells you he’s with me and tells me he’s with you.”

  “You know,” Bruce said, slyly, like he was going to reveal the biggest secret of his life. “I was going to work out today but I’m not into it. What’s your afternoon like?”

  The idea of rolling around in bed with Bruce wasn’t the worst offer he’d ever had, but it wouldn’t be enough to make him forget about what was at stake. And it was Chavez he needed reassurance from, not Bruce, no matter how well intentioned. Bruce just didn’t know the full story.

  It was like Bruce felt the stress through the phone lines. “Don’t worry, Anthony; you’re great at what you do. Chavez and you make a good team. With him behind you there’s nothing you can’t do.”

  Anthony smiled. “Well, he’s not behind me now — why don’t you get over here and get behind me?”

  “I’ll be right over. I just have to do a few quick post-op exams.”

  5

  Nastos opened the door to Carscadden’s office, allowing his friend to be first inside. It had been renovated since he’d first seen it, new carpet, paint, better desks. It wasn’t that long ago that people would walk in, take a look around and hire Carscadden just because they felt sorry for him, but he was doing better now. Hopkins greeted him with a sweet smile. “Back so soon? Did you get yourself arrested again?”

  He rolled his eyes — here she goes. “No, but I’m working on it. I could use the downtime to work on my memoirs.”
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  “Well, before you get locked up again you should invite us over for dinner.” She filled her water glass up from the Culligan jug and had a taste. Nastos noticed the shape of her legs in the skirt and heels. “Nice outfit.”

  “Thanks — it’s nice to finally have some extra money for shopping. In fact, I’m going to give your wife a call and see if she wants to come along.”

  “You’ll have to put that plan on hold until your heel-dragging boyfriend gets my lawsuit with the city settled. Until then, Holt Renfrew’s going to have to wait.”

  She made a purr that sounded like disappointment. Nastos counter-offered. “Dinner we can do. How’s Sunday night? Josie wants you guys to see her new princess dress.”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea. Make your Szechwan back ribs.”

  “Slow-braised beef, it is.”

  She made that sound again, throwing in a pout for good measure.

  “For you, though, I’ll do Szechwan back ribs. I’ll make a few different appetizers too. You guys are in charge of margaritas and wine.”

  “We need to do this weekly.”

  “Madeleine wouldn’t mind. Anything to get me cooking more.” Nastos glanced at Hopkins’ tapered waist. “You know that young boy-toy of yours would appreciate it if you wore something tight and revealing.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. Something that jacks the breasts up, you know? Something tight, revealing — and classy too. He loves that stuff.”

  “Is he the only one?”

  Nastos smiled. “Probably not, no.”

  “No, I didn’t think so.”

  Carscadden was standing at the door, smiling. “Hey, if you two are done, babe, can you hold the calls for a while?”