Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (15 page)

I shook my head. It creaked on my neck.

“It’s a sidewinder approach. All smiles. Extremely nice, interested in you.”

I frowned. “Who is all smiles?”

“For Drea, it was Martin. Martin Ayto. For me … it was Drea.”

“What?”

“Drea love-bombed me. Because once you are love-bombed, you need to love-bomb others. They love-bombed her—she love-bombed me. Knowing she did it for a higher authority gave her the confidence, you see, stopped her shyness getting in the way.”

There was something I wasn’t getting. “Who is this Martin Ayto?”

“No one. He left quite soon. Got out, sensible blighter.”

“Left what? Got out of what?”

He looked down at his hands, still linked like the rafters of a church roof. The knuckles were white. “The Children of the Revelation Enlightenment.”

I had to stop and think. The words struck a chord—the clunking chime of my letter box, the single sheet of paper wafting on the hallway breeze, slowly sinking onto the mat. I took a moment or two to bring the name up from its lost place. A feeling of chill spread in me. “Eric Atkinson?” I asked.

“Don’t play it all innocent,” he said. “You sent him over. It was deliberate.”

The chilled feeling paralysed me. I couldn’t move, speak. Finally, I managed to go over to the store cupboard and pull out the recycling box. I sifted through. A creamy coloured flyer. As I extracted it from between dead envelopes and old newspapers, the smell of mustard gas came to my mind, like malice, spreading, paralysing.

I tried not to show how upset I was as I passed it to him. “Is this what you mean?”

“Yes. Children of the Revelation Enlightenment. CORE. We were both part of it. It took us a long time to extract ourselves. Once you’ve committed …”

“Once you’ve been love-bombed?”

“Yes. One you’re in, it is almost impossible to get your head round leaving. You believe the only way to save your mortal soul is to stay. And they wrap tentacles around you. Especially Drea. Eric had his eye on her from the start. Every so often he marries another one, you see—”

“Marries?
Another one
?”

“Yes. CORE is faintly associated with Mormonism. CORE doesn’t allow bigamy for every man, just the leaders. Eric is in charge of the southwest UK division. He can have as many wives as he likes.”

“Are you saying Drea is married to this man?”

“She’s been his wife for four years.” Andy’s face was like thunder. “She still wears his ring. She bore his child.”

I put my hand to my mouth. No wonder Drea thought I’d been so clever and insightful. I’d been warning her about Andy. She thought I knew about her real husband. I’d told her I’d seen a baby. She thought I knew what I was talking about. I sat heavily on the edge of the coffee table. I recalled the little scrap of paper she’d written on, when I’d given her the Reiki treatment.
AM I SAFE?

“
She’s gone back to him.” The words thudded out of me like lead pellets.

“Yes. No. Back to her faith. Back to her son. Back to Devon.”

“Devon? But he’s here in Bridgwater.”

Andy snatched the flyer off me. “What’s going on? He’s based on the south coast.”

“They’re expanding?” I hazarded. “The love-bombing is successful?” Then I thought again. “Or maybe he was looking for you.”

“Not me. Drea. His God-given wife.”

Andy didn’t raise his head, but I knew what he was thinking: I had showed Eric right to their door.

_____

I was a few minutes behind for my last shift at Papa this week. Okay … I was twenty minutes late. Stan was bouncing on the spot, his face shiny with heat even though the oven had only just fired up. He was screaming at Jimmy to get on with the salad. The boy was cutting through a white cabbage with a knife so sharp, there was blood on his fingers. Stan yelled orders at Max and Petar then turned to me.

“Late! Late again! Late as bloody usual, you useless
Tsiganski
-lover!”

“What’s got your wand in a knot?” I snapped back.

“Mirela’s not here.”

“What?”

“She phoned to say she’s not coming in.”

“Did she say why?”

“No.” Stan thought about this for a moment. “Maybe I didn’t ask. I get pissed with these gypsies. I’ve had to bow and scrape to my cousin Vittoria to get her to cover.” He gestured to where a streaky blonde was examining her nails.

“Is she ill?”

“No. She’s a bloody lazy
tsiganski.”

I couldn’t help snapping back. “All you think about is your profit margin. Kizzy’s been missing over three weeks. She could be dead for all we know. Show some sympathy for her sister.”

“Kizzy isn’t ‘missing.’ People go on holiday for longer. Don’t worry your pretty head. Gypsies are streetwise.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy called from his chopping board. “And street walkers, if you ask me.”

“I’ve heard that Roma girls will not go on the game unless they’re forced.”

Stan’s cocktail stick bobbed as he grinned. “You heard wrong.”

“Those sisters were in your care.”

“Yeah,
my
care,” said Stan. He started moving towards me, gesturing with his hands. It felt like anger, but he didn’t look angry. His voice quavered and he looked miserable and overworked. “Perhaps I should blame you for my loss of staff. Everything was fine here, until you showed up. Mirela was keen to get on with the job she’s paid to do.”

“You pay Mirela shit wages, Stan. And Kizzy might be in danger!”

“Nobody’s in danger, except you. You’re in danger of losing your job.”

I got out my mobile and called Mirela. The ringing tone went on and on. It was a communal number, a telephone in the hall. Was she too ill to get to the phone, or had she gone altogether? I started getting ready for first orders, pulling containers from the cupboard above Vittoria’s head. I threw her a “hi,” which she perfunctorily returned.

“Have you met the Brouviche sisters?”

Vittoria shook her head. “Stan says Kizzy was trouble from the start. She didn’t even offer notice. Just took off.”

“And now Mirela has too?”

Vittoria shrugged and went back to her nails.

“Okay, first order!” yelled Stan, his arm above his head. I snatched the details off him. I was keen to be out on the road.

_____

The door to Mirela’s house was unlocked, so I let myself in. I stood on the greasy linoleum of the hallway. Was Hermes tucked away in the back yard? Was it worth having a poke about? I shrugged and went upstairs. Hermes would be long gone from this house.

I tapped gently on Mirela’s door. There was no reply for long, nerve-racking seconds, but then I heard a faint voice.

“
Tak
?”

“It’s Sabbie, Mirela. Can I come in?”

“If you want. Door not locked.”

Mirela was in bed but fully clothed. Celebrity magazines were strewn across the old bedspread and at the bottom was a plate with a sandwich curling on it, one bite missing.

“You okay?” I could see she’d been crying. “You’re not all right, are you?”

She shook her head. The curtain of hair swung against her cheek, lank and unbrushed.

“Are you sick?”

“No. Yes. No.” She lifted a corner of sheet and wiped at her face. “What is time? Are you delivering?”

“I had to come and see if you were okay.”

“I okay, Sabbie. Tomor’, I go back work.”

“Duvet day, we call it.” Although as I plonked my bum on the edge of her bed, I could see that they didn’t supply duvets in this pit of a lodgings.

I fancied Mirela was too exhausted to bother talking to me, but there was something I really wanted to ask her. I’d been thinking a lot about how Andy Comer had described CORE; the way Atkinson used his love-bombing techniques on susceptible people. The mustard gas man was attracted to young girls … he had as good as told me so at my door.

“Mirela, have you ever met a man called Eric Atkinson?” She gave me a dull stare. “Or Kizzy? Did she ever mention something called CORE? It’s to do with following a faith. With the Bible.”

She shook her head. I believed her. Already I could see what a blind alley this was. Kizzy had talked about “great riches.” I’d thought the words felt archaic, something Atkinson would spout. But in my heart, I knew Kizzy had not been talking about her place in heaven. Besides, she would see right through someone like Atkinson.

“I have letter.” Mirela was looking at me steadily. “Kizzy. She send me letter.”

“A letter? That’s wonderful. But why only send a letter? Why can’t she ring you? Why can’t she come home?”

“She is resting.” Instantly, I could tell Mirela regretted telling me this.

“What, like an actor?”

It wasn’t much of a joke, and Mirela didn’t get it anyway. “She tired from all work at Papa Bulgaria.”

“Aren’t we all.” I made a face to show solidarity. “Would it be possible for me to see the letter?”

Mirela gave a gypsy shake of the head that tilted her chin upwards. “It not for you, Sabbie.”

“No. Of course not. I’m sorry.” I put my hand over Mirela’s. “I wish you would tell me everything, Mirela. Because if I was honest, I don’t think you have, have you?”

Mirela took a long time to answer. I held my breath as I waited. She turned her palm upwards and gave my hand a squeeze. “People whisper. The boys whisper. Max, Petar.”

“What do they whisper,” I asked, whispering myself.

“Papa … sometimes, they carry … not food …”

“They ask the deliverers to carry something else?”

“No—not scoot. I not know. Not much. Maybe nothing.”

“What’s Papazov up to? Is it drugs, Mirela? Was Kizzy involved?”

She didn’t respond. Without thinking about it, I asked, “Is this anything to do with the murdered policeman?”

“No! No, nothing!” She shrugged. “How I know? I don’t know ’bout that.”

“Do all the boys whisper? Jimmy as well?” I was thinking I might get more out of Jimmy if I approached him about this.

“Him! Jimmy useless. Max laugh at him. Kizzy laugh. She say all men in this stink country useless. Jimmy, he can’t fight. He can’t get money. What good that sort man?” She climbed out of the bed and padded over to where a black canvas suitcase lay open on a chair, half-filled with clothes. “Itso my sort man.”

“Are you going somewhere, Mirela?”

“Itso book me ticket home.”

“That’s a great idea.” But it made me worry. Mirela would never desert her sister. Unless Kizzy had said something in her letter. Had she instructed her sister to leave Britain? Mirela would do as she was told. But why would Kizzy tell her to go home? Because she was as afraid for her little sister as I was? Or because she was enjoying her new life and didn’t want Mirela to bother her?

“Mirela, please let me see the letter.” Surely Kizzy had explained where she was. I stared into the case, where I fancied the letter would be buried.

Mirela didn’t reply directly. “I want Itso so bad, I call him, at last. He agree. I go home. We plan gypsy wedding.” Her mouth stretched into a proper smile of joy. I felt a real urgency. Mirela should go back; the sooner the better.

“Do you have to get to London for your flight?”

“No. Two flights. Bristol to Brussels. Brussels to Sofia. Long day. Be at Bristol six morning Wednesday next. Ticket at airport. Itso meet me Sofia late in night.”

“How will you get to the airport?”

She shrugged. “I hitch or something.”

“I’ll take you.” I hardly stopped to think.

“Take?”

“I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“Why?”

Because, I was thinking, it would teach me some humility as a shaman. Mirela was no more than a child and I’d done nothing good for her since she fell into my life. I wouldn’t have slept anyway, thinking of her hitching through the night to Bristol. One missing Brouviche was quite enough.

“I think it’s great that you’re going home, Mirela. There are dangerous worlds in Britain for people with no family or ties, and I’m frightened that Kizzy might have fallen into one. That’s why I’ll take you to Bristol. I want you to get there safely.”

“Safe?” Her voice was husky with emotion. “What is
safe
? Where is
safe
?”

“Anyhow, it’d be easy for me. I’m not using my car a lot at the moment; it could do with an hour’s run.”

“Thank you.” Mirela wrapped her arms around me. She smelt of exotic oils—juniper, neroli. Against my shoulder, I could feel the pulsing of sobs. Her cheeks were wet on my neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, “thank you, Mother Mary.”

The words made my heart heavy and full of dread.

fourteen

Why did I keep
seeing snakes?

An enamel tie pin, no bigger than my thumbnail. Eric Atkinson had worn a pin on his tie that night at my door. I hadn’t clocked it properly then, but now I was staring hard at the tiny details; a worm-like creature wound round the pin’s head, with a wide red mouth, chocked with teeth.

The wearer of the pin was a chap my own age, a “greeter.” He had his name on the lapel of his cheapish suit: Lee. He’d approached me as I’d walked through the doors of Charter Hall, a community space in the middle of Bridgwater that coped with everything from political rallies to pantos. Tonight it was the venue of CORE—Children of the Revelation Enlightenment. Andy Comer was parked down the nearest side road, while I was part of the crowd trickling into the meeting. I’d come hoping I’d find Drea, but on first glance around, she was nowhere to be seen.

“Can I take your coat?” said Lee.

I hugged it to me, still chilled from the weather in the streets. “Is that a snake?” I asked, pointing to the pin.

Lee girded himself up. “We call it the serpent of old, who is the devil. The snake was there at the start, in the Garden of Eden. It’s the form the devil assumes when he is up to evil work.” He began to chant, “
Those who take heed of that old serpent, Satan, will be dealt with. They will be stripped and sent to the place of no escape until their sin has been confessed and forgiven
.” His eyes blazed. My spine crept.

“Well remembered.”

“Book of Revelation. I know the whole text.”

“But it leaves an image with me that’s quite terrible. Like the Spanish Inquisition or something. A place of no escape where you’re made to confess.”

“That is the message of the book. Better to be saved now than wait upon the Lord’s wrath.”

He was drawing me towards a serving counter neatly arranged with cups and saucers. A middle-aged woman with bony elbows stood behind it, holding an enormous teapot and trying to smile.

“Your coat?” asked Lee. “I can put it in the cloakroom? I need your full name for the ticket.”

I told him, thinking, what the heck, and he floated away from me. I sipped my tea, letting my gaze roam, hoping for a glance of Drea. There were quite a lot of “greeters” and, to my surprise, a fair amount of punters milling round. Conversations floated over my head. It seemed that half of Bridgwater was searching for something to give meaning to their lives. I got chatting to a girl whose boyfriend had dumped her.

“I just want to know the reason happiness keeps passing me by,” she said.

“Yeah, we all want to know that.” I laughed, but she didn’t follow my lead. “I’m not sure Eric Atkinson will fill in the right details.”

She looked quite shocked. “You have to give it a chance. Why bother coming if you’re not going to give it a chance?”

I was sure my true reasons for being here would shock her even more. Andy had taken a lot of persuading that I should do this alone, but he was finally won over by the argument that Eric wouldn’t recognise me. I certainly hoped he wouldn’t. I was wearing a smart jacket and a slender businesslike skirt, and I’d slicked back my wayward hair with mousse. I felt like an old bag, but the important thing was not to look like the pagan wino he’d met on his search for Drea.

Just after eight, the heavy front doors were closed with a thud. The greeters ushered us all into the theatre area. People drifted towards the rows of seating as if they were about to watch a full stage performance. I sat on the edge of a row and on the edge of my seat.

Hanging at the back of the stage were two banners. They looked homemade but intricately crafted. The one on the left was a deep electric blue, appliquéd with pretty felt flowers right around the edge. At the centre was a white lamb and a yellow crown.

The Lamb Slain For Us Made King

The words formed a rainbow of letters tumbling down one side. It was sweet; innocent, appealing, unlike the other banner. This had a background of bottle green. Its border was an elongated circle of barbed wire embroidered in grey. Inside was the same spiralling serpent I’d seen on the tie pin. It roared flames that licked purple lettering above and below.

By His Stripes … Are We Healed

I shuddered. It wasn’t barbed wire, it was thorns.

The lights dimmed and Eric strode onto the stage. He looked a heck of a lot smarter in his suit than I did in mine. He’d been designed by Italians from his tie to his leather-soled shoes. Why would he want to look so well-off compared to these ordinary West Country folk? I suppose it was something to do with identity, not to mention envy. I’d researched this sort of thing—inspirational speakers—during my degree, but, typical for me (typical for the student population in general, I guess), I could remember almost none of it.

The people in the front rows applauded heartily when Eric appeared. I checked the backs of their heads. I had the feeling these were his cronies—members of CORE. But there was no one there who resembled Drea.

The applause died. Eric held no notes and used no microphone. I could sense his presence from ten rows back; I was sure everyone could. Eric, even standing silent waiting for attention from his audience, had charisma in skip-loads. Then he began.

“The Lord rides on a swift cloud. He spreads his canopy over his throne, so to examine our failings. A day will come which will be the day of vengeance for the Lord in which sins are examined.” He raised his face as he spoke, the palms of his hands lifted in unison. The words were clear and precise, the voice exulted. Tumults of images flowed from his lips. It was hard not to believe he was reading from a cue card. I glanced over my shoulder to check there wasn’t one. I saw Lee standing in front the exit door, feet astride, arms across his chest. Some of the other greeters had the same stance.

I glanced again. Yes, the menacing feeling I’d had the first time hadn’t gone away. They reminded me of bodyguards. But they weren’t there to keep the general public from mobbing Eric (although I was sure they would soon step into action if that occurred). They were there to stop people leaving before Eric had finished spinning his words into silken thread.

For several minutes I couldn’t think of anything else. As Eric’s spiel moved fluidly from the sadness in people’s lives to the state of the Western world today, I got up, trying not to let my chair seat bang, and wriggled out of my row.

Lee intercepted me.

“Please stay and listen. There is so much of importance Eric hasn’t covered yet.”

“I need the loo.”

“Can you not wait until the talk is over?”

“Too much tea,” I said, hopping about. “I’ve had surgery you see, on my—”

“Okay, I will show you the way.”

I grinned to myself. Lee wasn’t any different than any other bloke. Serpent or no serpent, the thought of lady’s plumbing scared him to death. But I hadn’t terrified him enough for him to leave my side. We left Eric listing all the ailments of society, each one caused by a lack of religion, and went back into the entrance lobby. When we reached the loos, Lee planted his feet firmly. It was clear he was going to stay outside until I’d finished.

I locked the door behind me and leaned against the back of it. I’d been hoping for a poke around. I could kick myself. I’d lived in Bridgwater for four years and had never been inside Charter Hall before. I’d’ve had a head start if I’d known the layout of the building. I pulled a flush and washed my hands, long and slow, then put on the electric hand dryer. Making the right noises would keep Lee happy. Meanwhile I was trying to work out where Drea was. My hands were super dry before it occurred to me that Drea might not be here at all.

Finally, I emerged.

“It’s a shame you’ve missed so much. But Eric will talk to everyone after; you can ask anything you like.”

Hmm
, I thought.
Doubt if he’s going to answer
my
burning question.

“Actually, I think I might go. I wasn’t really enjoying it.”

I watched him take this in. “Why not try another five minutes?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Lee opened the door to the theatre. On stage, Eric was still striding about. Even so, I had the feeling that he had seen my antics and was watching me.“Can you get my coat, please?” My spine crawled so badly I wanted to run into the freezing streets, coat or no coat.

Lee made a little bow. “And your name was …”

“Sabbie Dare.”

He disappeared down some stairs.

On stage, Eric was mesmerising most of his audience. No one was fidgeting, playing with their mobiles, or coughing into their hands. He’d finally got on to the subject of the Book of Revelation
, and I couldn’t help becoming interested in what he was saying, seeing I knew little on the subject.

“We are so easily taken in by the Lord of Darkness.” He paused for effect and scanned the auditorium. I slipped into the shadows. “Satan moves around this world doing harm and we put it down to bad luck, our own mistakes, other people’s weakness, or we blame it on the government. But the Bible says …
and the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him
… He whispers in the minds of people … in your mind, telling you that evil-doing will get you all you have ever desired.”

He pointed one finger towards us. “I know you are looking for miracles. Every time you buy a lottery ticket, yes? The Bible states clearly that God can perform miracles. But, my friends, beware. The devil can perform them too. God help the person that cannot tell the difference!”

Eric had unbuttoned his jacket; when he strode the length of the stage, it flew behind him. “The Bible tells us to put on the whole armour of God. Here in CORE—Children of the Revelation Enlightenment—we show you how to achieve that.” His voice reached a crescendo. “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

I’d almost forgotten that Lee had not returned with my coat. I peered down the corridor. It was empty and silent. He was nowhere to be seen.

Then I heard the giggle.

I held my breath. I know human ears don’t really prick up, but I was sure mine took on elfin points. A toddler’s silly laugh; I’d heard similar so many times in my sister Charlene’s house.

What would a child be doing here?

I took a couple of steps along the corridor. My dress shoes were a tad big. They clipped against the floor like an overactive set of castanets. I glanced down the stairs, fearful that Lee would hear me. Where
was
Lee? There must be a lot of coats in that cloakroom. I pulled down my mouth. Clever ploy. In this weather, no one was going to leave without their outer garments—once they’ve been spirited away, you were stuck. I suddenly felt safer. Lee wouldn’t be back in a long while.

The door to the reception room, where we’d been served tea, was closed tight. I turned the handle. Two women were washing teacups at the sink behind the counter, their backs to me. They didn’t hear the click of the door. But the little boy saw me immediately. He was scooting on a small red three-wheeler, making motorbike noises. I grinned at him, a big wide smile. He let out another of his irresistible chuckles. He had typical two-year-old rosy cheeks and a white-blond fringe over dark eyes. He skidded to a halt and stuck a chubby finger in my direction.

Even then, the two women didn’t turn. The older of them was the bony-elbowed lady who had served me my tea. She was chatting with all the energy of someone who knew she was right. The younger woman dipped her head over her work, wiping a saucer with care. Her fine, pale bob fell into her eyes. I could see the resemblance between mother and son.

“Drea,” I said.

She swung round, staring at me, not moving, except to relax her hold on the saucer so that it slid to the floor. It bounced once and fell evenly into two pieces.

The other woman was not so tongue-tied. “I’m sorry. This area is out of bounds to the general public. Health and safety.”

“I’m not general public. I’m here on health and safety grounds.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh yes? Let me see your authority.”

“Mental health,” I said. “Drea’s mental health and safety.”

I watched the woman’s cheeks suck in as if she’d applied a vacuum pump to her lips. The fine red lines below her eyes were tinged with purple. “Come here, Zachariah,” she ordered, and the child’s face screwed with caution. He skittered over to his mother, who had sunk to the floor to retrieve the broken china.

“I want a private word with Drea,” I said.

The woman took a moment to work out her next best move. Finally she strode towards the door, turning as she reached it.

“Stay there and don’t enter into
any
discussion,” she ordered. For a moment, I thought she meant me, but she was talking to Drea. Bossing her so easily.

When the door had slammed behind her, I hunkered down so I could look into Drea’s eyes. “Andy sent me,” I said, simply.

“Go away.”

“You don’t have to listen to that woman. You can make your own decisions on who to talk to.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“That’s true. I had no idea what you were going through.”

She bopped up and threw the saucer in the bin. “Go away.”

“Drea, I wanted to say … I think you’ve had to be very brave.”

That made her turn to me. I saw confusion on her face. I’d known all along that there was no point in me grabbing her arm and dragging her.

“I cannot imagine how tough it must’ve been to leave your little boy.” He ran past me and I reached out, not quite touching the top of his silky head. “Then choosing again … leaving the man you love.”

“There are higher loves.”

“Okay. But I’ve seen Andy. I know how deep his love goes. How he’s grieving for you—”