The Blue Book (8 page)

Then we'll open it wider still, until it trembles, until you couldn't stop us if you tried.

And you won't try.

And then we come in.

And we'll work in you until we've split you, fathomed who you are, until your everything is different, absolutely – which is what you want, what everyone always wants – to be naked and opened and seen and touched, but still loved – to be absolutely known and proved absolutely lovable.

Not in spite of ourselves, but because of ourselves, our whole terrible selves – that's how we all want to be loved.

We know it would change us, make us complete.

And in underneath the smiling and excitement, the man is already harmonised with his audience, the enquirers – he understands them and he does love.

And he's taken the time to examine them, to be comprehensive and find it – their truth. Because it is there: the grey in their faces, the void in every dawn, the scream in the eyes, the howl, the moment, the one and forever moment, the instant when they heard, felt, knew that the world had left them, had fallen away – these intolerable losses they carry with them, unspeakable. Anyone could see what he does, if they tried – it isn't hard to notice the humiliation of too great a pain. There's no hiding the indignity of that.

There's no bearing the indignity of that.

Which is why the man and the woman are so needed.

The man and the woman together.

Double act.

He assumed they'd work better if they masqueraded as brother and sister. A kind of a joke, this – he's not remotely like her. She's rounder – or rather, fuller – has a smaller nose – her body, hands, mouth, they are modest, but suggest capacities for pleasure, sensuality. He tends to be attenuated, has a body that might be brittle, that's near to alarming and alarmed. He has dyed his hair until it's dark as hers – if less enthusiastic – but this has left him startling, bleach-skinned, like some kind of warning – an illustration of symptoms arising from an ill-judged life, bad habits, excess.

As a pair, they don't match. But the ways they move, the ways they
are
with each other – that convinces.

They don't go on stage pretending they're husband and wife, or admitting – truthfully admitting – that they are lovers. They try to be more, to offer themselves as two people born for other worlds. They spread rumours of childhood visions, terrified neighbours, baffled parents, hypnotised cats.

This was the man's decision and he's sticking with it. Ever since they became completely partners in their types of crime, he has insisted they put a pretence around the pretence, around the pretence.

It seems a good idea. Because he's young.

Complications taste sophisticated to him – like salt and protein, acquired preferences, treats – and he thinks they're harmless. And he is packed with ideas of invulnerable success and the illusion that being definite in his planning will somehow aid his progress, impress reality. He imagines a clandestine marriage at some point and then a life of enjoyable narrow escapes, of passions that always stay feverish because they are pressured, denied.

And he's still affecting the long hair and a beard – anxious to seem a Victorian, a wannabe Golden Age psychic in an off-the-peg twentieth-century suit. As a gesture it's faintly pathetic, but he does enjoy acknowledging former practitioners, traditions, the faked niceties and restraints of another time – all frock coats and surnames until the lights go down, then seance rooms that filled with busy fingers, licensed reliefs and sticky little trinkets hauled out from places propriety couldn't mention. He feels he is wearing a private joke – one even she doesn't really get. In fact, almost no one appreciates the reference and meanwhile, it has to be said – has been said – he looks like General Custer. Custer, only not blond – not any more.

So he is, in a way, ridiculous.

And aping a man who is famous for losing.

But he loves his persona, embraces its implied fragility.

Because he's young.

And he's assuming – and the woman is agreeing – that people wouldn't trust a married team, any kind of romantic team. So the man and the woman have created their own niceties and faked restraints. They say they are family and wandering together in a happy no man's land, called to serve, to ferry messages across. And this means they do have to be absolutely sexless – not the vaguest hint of anything untoward can be permitted – the consequences of a lapse apocalyptic – excitingly so – rumours of incest would finish them. Even a brotherly squeeze of her shoulder might leak heat, a hand-clasp could show inappropriate thought – they couldn't come back from that. So discipline has to be total, merciless.

And he loves that, too.

Because he's young.

No options for either of them but to seal what they are and need into the brief conclusions of their nights. The strain of this assists them, he thinks – makes their demonstrations, their readings, thrum with opaque and yet unnerving energies. They both savour them, translate them later, race and ride with them in hotels, in B&Bs, in the flat where he sleeps and stays awake with her, because they are lovers: not related, not married, but lovers – lovers who hide to keep strong, to stay effective.

So very often, as the bedroom door closes, while it's still on the swing, they're already tasting each other, releasing. Prohibition has become a necessity, infallible foreplay, the deepest tease.

Because he's young.

He lets the work stroke him, raise him, keep him raw so he can feel.

And he does feel – everyone and everything – he feels like a flayed man, a burning body, like the end of himself so that he'll be right for her and right for them, the enquirers.

For tonight.

And every night.

Tonight.

This night the man and the woman are side by side, tucked in the kitchen with the polystyrene cups and the twitchy strip lights and the curls and peaks of conversations tumbling in from outside.

And they are telling you, if you will listen – and how many people ever listen – how much pace they need, or laughter, if they can concentrate, if they'll be arsey, boisterous, sad.

You shouldn't ever meet an audience, meet anyone, for the first time – not when the second time's better. Prepare and you can be their friend already, close as blood.

And it's time.

They stride outside and into nowhere, into forever, into every fucking thing that should be and never will.

Easy.

He introduces his sister, establishes a peace, respect, ground rules: the dead will be returning – were never gone – but have no fear, they are more known and knowing, more familiar than they were – also, they are eccentric and they wish for reconciliations, they hide small objects about the house, they spend slightly inexplicable hours overseeing driving tests – that's mainly a little laugh for the family in the corner – daughters, mother, aunt – they'll get advice about something: not paying too often for others' meals and drinks – and what about the drinks? – they do have a few too many, every now and then, well don't they? – and relaxing is one thing, but don't let it slide, be cautious. And don't buy unnecessary shoes. And don't buy uncomfortable shoes. Older relatives speak their minds, they're often feisty once they've passed and forthright and they appreciate practical footwear, traditional undergarments, their grandchildren, unexpected pregnancies, rainbows, penetrating and inexplicable sensations of delight – they are, in perpetuity, holding their new offspring and overwhelmed, promising bonds of affection to conquer time.

This is reliable, expected.

And the man has told his lover what he heard while he strolled about beforehand, had a non-smoker's convenient cigarette. So she's ready.

She does the work, mostly. He does the minding, guarding, watching – mostly – the actual readings tire him, leave him feeling too unusual.

He's already reported that second row, centre, girl in the criminal sweater, she's on-the-nose already asked for
her grandmother: unfinished business, sore stuff, guilt, it's
running off her – and the dyke couple at the back, there's clearly some unhappy person they want: a young and troubled, druggy thing, smells of suicide, dark contemplations, insecurity – tact required and gentleness.

New procedure this time – he's always tinkering with changes, improvements – now if he pats his hands together, that's when she'll start to count the silence, she'll stop and register the number when he touches his ear – he'll potter up and down the aisle for that, keep an eye out for tensions, focuses, half-motions: the special ring, medallion, the small something that matters, that
has a memory. If it's named by miraculous processes then
he can take a hold of it, pass it up to his love and she'll tell what it transmits.

They'd both fancied a spot of psychometry – object-bothering, he calls it – and it sits well in the current repertoire. Take the object, reveal its owner, histories, emanations, importances. When he hands it back, it's something to keep the enquirer warm and confident, it's the charm to bring them luck.

Some luck – they're either dead or here.

But they'll go home happy. They'll be absolved, accompanied, and loved. They'll be fucking loved.

We'll see to that.

And it's running well. So far, they've had two grandmothers back from the beyond and an uncle who's like a father and a grandfather who seemed more like a friend – two watches and a bracelet of heated significance.

And then a mother.

And she's a good one and a deep and a genuine hit. The idea of her returning, the possibility of her thinking, being, watching in the room beside her living daughter – this thickens the air around them – and the congregation truly silent, listening into their spines – and this hauls at the daughter where she sits, jerks her.

And then – here it is – it really is – here's the Six Inch Jump – reality springing forward, paying attention differently, more closely, fitting tight at the man's skin.

It's wonderful.

And then the daughter cries. Of course she cries. Everything demands it. There was some terminal misunderstanding, some apparent wrong that's unforgiven and she carries it, has carried it for years. And how easily, beautifully, matters unwind and are how they were meant to be: time and truth annihilated by will, united will – and the daughter is little Irene again – she is little Irene and she has her mum – she is Irene and happy again, because here's her lovely mum: tiny memories in splinters, the photograph that should be framed now, the burned dinner, a fight at Christmas, the incident with the pet – a dog, she was a dog lover – Irene's mum in the kind years, the sweet time – and this is the nonsense and smallness that means the room can understand we will stay human – that both sides of death will be human, the still-dying and the dead, but they declare themselves eternal also. This proves it – this is living beyond doubt.

A miracle; handmade, perfectly fitted. And a Good Mother, which is to say a Bad Mother – and they're the best – something for everyone, for players and spectators.

Very easy to love this – what the man does.

Times like this, he is almost nothing but love.

Because he's young.

And then – last enquirer – five minutes left – and the man is standing in the aisle – tired, tired, tired – and this Vicki woman is up on her feet and talking about a cousin – he's distracted and Vicki's a bit of an anticlimax, she's barely upset – or oddly upset – there's something about her that may be unspoken – and Vicki's leaning infinitesimally forward and to her left and her hand is in her pocket – and her mind is elsewhere, just as the man's mind is slipping away to mouths and breaths and being finally unsecret: not long to go – but then his enquirer is thinking harder, louder, biting in and distracting his distraction – in her head, there's
right hand, right pocket, big shape, heaviness, car keys
– he's close to hearing a tiny noise of metal – the man is being saturated with this
car keys
thing,
car keys
taste, he is at the edge of seeing them they're so sharp and Vicki continues to lean and gives a tiny glance – it's aimed at a guy in front – over there and in front – a guy on his own – unlikely spot for a rendezvous, but that's what it is – undoubtedly – they are waiting for mouths and breaths, too – and Vicki's bloke is listening too much, twitchy, bluffing casual – the pair of them acting solo, but they're lying.

They live where the man lives. They are made out of fucking and hiding and planned surprises.

And the joy of this opens in the man's chest, it sparkles – and the service, the evening's session, is nearly done, Vicki's consultation dribbling to a half-hearted close: it turns out she's called Vicki Konecki, which is just odd enough to be true – and what she actually wants, loves, what shouts in her is
car keys, lying, sex
– and the man needs to touch her, suddenly and urgently needs to confirm how she is, what she's told him without speaking – he wants to know what her kind of interesting feels like – and his palm is held open towards her back – as though he might comfort her if required – and onstage his partner is winding up and Vicki the liar, this conductress of affairs, this tangible excitement, she's starting to sit down, so he chances it – her change of position excuses a small goodbye and he indulges in this little brushing pat and she'll forgive him, does forgive him – she hardly registers him, to be honest and why should she – but the man is roaring with her after one contact –
door, lying, muscle, door
– and like a red thing in his thinking, she's
pushing
and
coiling
to
kick
down the
door
and she is the
door
and
sex
is there,
sex
will be there –
keys
– and she will
follow
and he has her pulse, she has soaked him with her pulse.