A Cry From Beyond (23 page)

The
caravan was beautifully decorated, spotlessly clean and extremely
comfortable. Heated by Calor Gas it was decorated in creams and
rich browns, with simple, yet tasteful furnishings. Exotic lace
nets lent the van privacy from the outside world, which were
complimented by bobble fringed curtains. Brass ornaments and
polished silver ones graced the shelves, together with fine
Wedgewood figurines and Royal Crown Derby crockery.

One
section of the van was given to the kitchen area, being equipped
with a camp stove, microwave and refrigerator. Above, suspended
from ceiling hooks were brass and copper saucepans and kettles. A
door led off from the main quarters, beyond which I assumed was the
bedroom and bathroom. There was no television, only an old
transistor radio that presently played the Shapiro classic,
“Walking back to Happiness”, on low volume. Incense hung in the air
like the scent of summer flowers.

Without
speaking, Madam Lee returned to her seat and turned off the radio.
As she did this her dog stirred, which prompted her to lay a hand
on its back as if to reassure it.

She
closed her eyes momentarily and inhaled deeply. Then she addressed
me, “I’m afraid I don’t have much time to give you, Mr O’Shea,” she
said straight to the point. “I nap during the afternoon. I need my
strength for the evening. I’m sure you understand. What is it you
wish to talk to me about?”

“The
reading you did for me, for one,” I said, “or rather what you
refused to tell me about it.”

She
stared blankly. “What of it?”

“You saw
something. You kept what you saw to yourself. I have come here to
ask you to let me into the secret.”

She
regarded me dispassionately. Through the netted window, I glimpsed
sight of Coogan standing outside. He was talking to another man. He
looked towards the caravan. His friend turned, frowning
deeply.

“Your
friends,” Madam Lee said, pulling me back to the present, changing
the subject, “visit me every year. Yet only one of them accepts
what I say as truth.” She smiled whimsically. “Sad don’t you think
that they keep up the pretence?”

“It
doesn’t stop you taking money from them.” I pointed out.

If Madam
Lee was offended by the remark she didn’t show it. “What else can I
do,” she asked with a vague wave of the hand. “Every year they come
and always leave me happy. I tell them what I see and what I see is
the truth. I never lie. I don’t make it up. I’m not being
dishonest. What I tell them I believe. Whether or not they both
choose to accept is not my business. I know David doesn’t believe
because I sense these things, just as I sense you are here today
because, despite yourself, you do believe. Events are overtaking
you that force you to.”

I didn’t
bother arguing, because there didn’t seem to be any point. I was
fast coming to the conclusion that I was in the presence of someone
with an ability to see beyond the accepted norm. High Bank had
brought me to this point—or rather, the secret it held, had. If not
that, then I was crazier than a rat in a trap. Either way, I had
little to lose. A series of unexplainable incidents had forced my
hand. They’d altered my perspective forever.

“My
powers are not infallible,” Madam Lee was saying. “That is not to
say I get things wrong. I really don’t think I do. However,
occasionally the images are unclear, being too vague to distinguish
properly. The palm of a hand, a crystal, or tarot cards, whatever
the medium uses to connect this existence with the one beyond, is
not a perfect communicator. When I look into the palm of a hand for
example, I don’t see picture slides, a motion film. I see
confusion. Distorted images, muffled sounds lost in a field of
white noise.”

I was
reminded of the unpleasant experience I’d suffered at the folly,
more particularly the tormented voices I’d heard, sounding very
much as if they belonged to some other dimension.

“Sometimes the voices come and go too quickly for me to
grasp,” the clairvoyant continued, “And sometimes they’re too vague
to clarify. It’s my job to make sense of the confusion. Decipher
the meaning of the signs shown to me. If I’m unsure, I say nothing.
If what I see is bad and can’t be changed, I say
nothing.”

“And if
it can be changed,” I asked, “what then?”

“I try to
help it along,” she said.

As with
Jenny’s father, I thought. Madam Lee had seen the train accident,
somehow grasped the fact that it was arranged for him to be on that
train, realised his destiny was not a foregone conclusion and could
be altered and had tried to “help it along”. The way the
explanation was articulated, both impressed and troubled
me.

We were
interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Coogan. He asked if
everything was all right. Madam Lee said it was and reluctantly, he
went away. I was invited to sit. “Coogan is Romany Chal,” said the
clairvoyant. “He is proud and protective of his family.
Occasionally, he can be over zealous.”

Her words
did little to reassure me. In my eyes Coogan was simply a young
thug out to prove his masculinity. Madam Lee stared through the
window overlooking the encampment, ever thoughtful. The netting
made the outside world seem filmy and vague. Figures moved to and
fro like shadows. I wondered if Madam Lee’s insight into the
hereafter was similarly defined.

I said,
“You refused to tell me what you’d seen written in my palm. Does
that mean my fate is a foregone conclusion?”

She
glanced at her dog. As if on cue, the animal opened its big brown
eyes and looked up at the medium as if responding to an unspoken
communication. They were like conspirators, I thought. The dog went
back to sleep. Madam Lee invited me to sit next to her and extended
a frail hand. I placed mine against it and she turned my hand palm
up. Using her forefinger she traced the heart line and lifeline.
Then she closed her eyes in concentration. Her breathing grew
shallow. She reopened her eyes. They were unseeing. She was plainly
in some kind of trance. She wore the exact same vacant look Pixie
had worn. A faint moan escaped her. She frowned, muttering to
herself now, as if in conversation with an invisible entity. And
then she spoke directly to me, informing me of what she had seen,
namely a house that in her words was “mochadi, mulo”, meaning,
polluted by spirits, and which had witnessed brutal acts of
violence and consequently soaked up the atmosphere created. A
terrible secret lay somewhere within its structure, she said,
though what it was she was unable to say, for the images she saw
were confused and faded like a photograph left too long in bright
sunlight. She was, however, certain of one thing. That following
inevitable confrontation and violence, those she described as “the
lost ones”, would finally be allowed to rest.

“Here
lies an ongoing tragedy whose final chapter will unfold, witnessed
by an outsider,” she said in conclusion, “who is also a link in the
dreadful chain of events, a catalyst through which those events
draw strength and gather momentum.”

She fell
silent. Her breathing deepened. Her eyes became focused.

She said,
“The outcome of it all depends on you, for you are the catalyst of
which I speak.”

“But if I
were to leave,” I said, “with the intention of never
returning?”

“You will
be drawn back yet again,” she replied simply.

“What do
you mean?” I asked, feeling suddenly confused, immediately
recalling Norris’ claims that I knew the cottage far better than I
let on. “I don’t ever recall being drawn back to High Bank. Do you
mean London, when I came back from London after the auction? But I
returned of my own accord. Nothing drew me back.”

“You are
chosen because you too are gifted,” she said ignoring
me.

“Are you
suggesting I’ve visited High Bank on some other occasion?” I
persisted. “If you are, you’re very much mistaken.”

She let
out an exhausted sigh and then said, “If you don’t mind, I am
tired. You must leave me to rest. Sometimes, the gift takes its
toll.”

I pulled
loose change from my pocket, but she refused payment.

“All I
require is your respect,” she said simply.

Before
leaving, I broached the subject of holding a séance at High
Bank.

“And you
would like me to conduct it,” she said intuitively. She gazed out
of the window, considering. “It is many years since I’ve taken on
such an engagement. I have only ever agreed to participate when I
thought it absolutely necessary.” She paused and then, very quietly
she said, “I think perhaps it is necessary on this
occasion.”

I thanked
her and a time was arranged.

Stepping
out into the cold winter air, I was met by Irish.

“Did you
get what you wanted?” he asked, straight to the point.

“Yes, in
a manner of speaking.”

“Then you
can count yourself extremely fortunate.”

He looked
at me with apparent disdain, shook his head, and then walked off. I
turned my head to see Coogan approaching from the opposite
direction. I offered him a half hearted wave, a “thanks for not
beating my brains out and have a nice day”, wave. Then I set about
retracing my steps back through the camp, passing the traditional
Westmorland Star and Reading vans lining the way, before finally
reaching my car, where I was met by the sight of Lennon, sitting
behind the steering wheel like a chauffeur. He barked in welcome
when he saw me trudging across the muddy field. Driving back to the
village, my meeting with Madam Lee seemed like a blur.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They
began to arrive as daylight faded and a storm front threatened.
David and Jenny were the first. David was pretty chilled about the
occasion. Jenny on the other hand, openly admitted to being
extremely anxious.

“It’ll be
all right,” I said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “We’re all
responsible adults. No one’s going to do anything
stupid.”

“It’s not
us I’m concerned about,” she said. “It’s what Madam Lee will make
contact with that bothers me.”

We
entered the front room.

“It’s
cold,” Jenny complained, rubbing her forearms for
effect.

I
disagreed, but stoked up the fire in the potbelly
anyway.

“It
should warm up in a short while,” I said, placing the poker back
down on the hearth.

Thunder
boomed in the distance. Lennon, lying by the fire, stirred, smacked
his chops and continued to rest.

David,
taking a seat near the window, said, “What did Madam Lee say the
day you went to see her?”

I told
him. Jenny said, “All this is giving me the creeps,” and
disappeared into the kitchen to make drinks. By the time she
returned, carrying a tray containing coffee and biscuits, rain was
splattering against the outside of the windowpane.

“Looks
like we’re in for a stormy night,” David remarked.

Jenny
glanced nervously at her watch and checked the time against the
clock on the mantle. It was almost a quarter to the hour. The
séance was set to begin on the hour.

Ten
minutes later, Rick arrived accompanied by H.

“Are we
ready to rock?” Rick asked as he stepped into the house out of the
rain.

“We’re
still waiting for the clairvoyant,” I said, beginning to worry she
may not show.

I led
Rick and H into the front room and poured them drinks from a cider
bottle.

“Where
are we going to do it?” asked H from the sofa.

“In
here,” I said, motioning to the dining table, around which were
positioned six chairs.

Rick went
to the CD player and put on an old Dire Straits album. “Romeo and
Juliet” started to play. We sat listening to the music, making
small talk, anticipating Madam Lee’s imminent arrival, all of us
hoping and praying that something positive would result from the
séance, although I sensed the only non-sceptics present were Jenny
and I.

On the
stroke of seven Lennon raised his head, ears cocked forward,
suddenly alert. He began to bark.

“This
must be her,” I said, rising from my seat.

David
frowned a little. “I never heard a car pull up.”

“Perhaps
she’s travelled here by broomstick,” Rick said.

“Show
some respect,” Jenny chastened.

Rick
apologised.

I went
and looked through the window and was just in time to witness a
car’s head lights being turned off. Moments later, two figures
emerged from the vehicle.

“It’s
definitely her,” I said, “and she’s brought someone with
her.”

“Like
who?” David asked.

“I can’t
tell from here. It’s too dark. But I think it’s a man.”

“Probably
her body guard, or her familiar,” Rick said. He glanced over at
Jenny, who decided to ignore him this time round.

There was
a sudden rap at the front door prompting Lennon to bark
again.