Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (26 page)

“You didn’t get into a fight, did you?”

He half grinned. “A silent one. On their side, at least. They don’t want the nearly converted to see what their underbelly is like. I was hoping to catch Drea as they all left, but this time Eric brought the car to the hall and they piled in from the entrance. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I wish I could do something to help. To right all this.”

“It’s not your problem. I don’t want to moan, not really. I thought I’d bring you up to speed, that’s all.” His fingers were gripping my mug so tight I was worried he’d snap the handle. “I can’t give her up. And Zachariah. I went into town and got a load of toys from a couple of charity shops, just in case he comes back and has to leave all his behind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Zac used to call me Andy Pandy. Perhaps he’s forgotten me. Eric would encourage that.”

“There is something I’ve discovered about Atkinson.”

His eyes sharpened. “What?”

“He’s an unmarried man.”

“What d’you mean?”

“There are no marriage certificates for any of the weddings. Which means although he’s told Drea she’s his wife, she’s free to leave him at any point.”

Andy looked almost unsurprised. He shook his head. “That wouldn’t convince her. It’s God she’s married before, not a registrar.”

“Even so, she lived with you when she thought she was properly married to Eric …”

“You don’t understand our religion. She feels she was tempted by the devil to give in to sin. She believes she
had
given in to sin.”

“Do you believe that?”

He stared at his feet, shaking his head monotonously. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Maybe there isn’t a devil at all,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I don’t think there is.”

“But you must believe in evil.”

I thought about Kizzy and the other dead girl, and about Abbott, shot directly through his skull. “Rey—the policeman who investigated Atkinson—he believes in change and status quo. But I think a lot of evil is actually madness.”

“Eric’s not at all insane.”

“Then he knows what he does is wrong. He contravenes his own beliefs. I heard him go on and on about holy union at Charter Hall, but he didn’t even bother to marry his wives.”

“He’s more evil than that, Sabbie.” Andy took a deep breath in through his nostrils as if to steady himself as he thought about Eric. “Zachariah was a difficult delivery. Long. Protracted, they called it. Naturally, I was not allowed anywhere near the maternity unit, but Eric paced the corridors for most of that time.” Andy gave a humourless grin. “He assumed he was the father. Maybe he is. But Drea and I knew Zac might be my child, and she would have given anything for me to be there with her.”

“I didn’t realize,” I said.

“She came home when Zac was four days old. They had warned her to go easy. She told me that in confidence, but …” I watched as Andy’s fists clenched until the skin on his knuckles was as white as the bones that lay beneath. “Within two months she was pregnant again.”

Bastard Atkinson
, I thought, but I didn’t speak the works.

“It was an ectopic pregnancy. She was rushed into the Royal Devon. It had to be taken away. They grow in the wrong place, you see. And after that, they said the chances of conception were very low.”

I remembered the weakness I’d picked up the Reiki session, the trauma I felt in Drea’s groin. “I’m so sorry.”

“I wasn’t. Not at the time. Thinking Drea would be Eric’s second wife forever, thinking one child was enough with a husband like him. Drea admitted, quietly to me, that she had such thoughts too. But thinking them was the sin of pride and of unnatural womanhood. That made her guilty twice over.”

“Twice?”

“Once for the prideful relief that she’d never have more babies. And once because the Lord had struck her down with the ectopic pregnancy because she had already sinned. She had lain with me.”

“Oh, Andy,” I said.

“Eric couldn’t have been sure about us, but I think he suspected something, for he punished her iniquity cruelly. He rebuked Drea by taking Naomi to him.”

“Is this the girl with the baby?”

“Yes. Almost as soon as Drea was out of hospital that second time, he married Naomi. She was carrying inside weeks. It makes me shudder.”

“Was that when you and Drea started to plan …” I didn’t want to use the word
escape
.

“We were offered some luck. He went up north to confront Naomi’s parents. Understandably they were trying to convince her to leave CORE. While he was away, we moved fast. I went out and bought tickets for the train to Bristol. But at Taunton, we thought it might be a good idea not to use the right station. So we got off. We spent a few nights in a B&B. I found some work. At work I had access to a computer and we found this house.”

“The rest is history,” I said, trying for humour.

“Eric acts like a god. He knocked on our door. I opened it. He shouldered me out of the way and stormed into the house. He started yelling. You haven’t heard him yell. It’s agony. He told Drea I’d seduced her in her weakness and stolen her away from her rightful place. I threatened to call the police and at that point he left. On Tuesday, I came home to find she’d gone.”

There was a long silence. I said, “You were right, Andy. What you said to me in the street. I should have stayed away from Drea. I should have been warned by the messages coming off her. I should have said
no, not right now, make an appointment. Think about it and come back when you’re sure
.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Okay, you told Eric we were up the street. But I reckon he would have knocked on every door in Bridgwater, if it meant finding his God-given wife.” He stood, brushing down the knees of his Sunday jeans. “I can be just as stubborn. I can keep going just like he did.”

“Why not give it a rest for a week or two? Allow his guard to drop a bit?”

“Yeah.” Andy nodded. “Good advice. Good advice.”

“Don’t go to Charter Hall again,” I said. “They’ll only chuck you out.”

“I need to keep trying. It’s what’s keeping my soul inside my body.”

“Okay, look; promise you won’t go without telling me. You won’t go without
taking
me.”

“You’re a pretty damned kind person, to say that.”

I didn’t explain. It was the way I recognised a kindred spirit in Andy. We were both in separate capsules of lamentation, sorrowing for things that were wrong and people we had failed.

twenty-five

I pulled on my
black dress and my belt of shamanic tools. On the floor of the therapy room, I spread a black silk scarf. I sat beside it, cross-legged on a floor cushion, a fleece around my shoulders. I shuffled one of my Tarot packs. I didn’t intend to do a reading; I wanted to bring the symbols I’d arranged on my wallpaper diagram to mind.

Every time I walked past the chart pinned on my kitchen door, I stared at it, looking for patterns. Some symbols didn’t seem to connect. The mobile phone was the most puzzling. I had no idea what it was doing there, or what it represented. The otherworld was sending me pop-up messages and it was my job to interpret them, but I knew there was no point in forcing things. Symbols were like lottery balls; they would fall into order when they were good and ready.

My shamanic mentor Wolfsbane used the stars to explain difficult times. He would say that right now, I was passing through bad astrological aspects. I preferred reading the Tarot to gauging the movements and positions of celestial bodies.

I’d chosen the Rider-Waite, a good orthodox pack. I wanted to remind myself of long-acknowledged meanings to begin this work. I shuffled slowly, pulling out cards linked with the various symbols, arranging them on the black background. Snakes alone gave me several images: The Magician, The Lovers, The Wheel of Fortune, and both the Two and the Seven of Cups. That made me sit up. The Seven of Cups indicates disorganisation in your life, warning that you’re not focused enough. This was only too true, but being told didn’t help, especially as the Two of Cups represented harmony and togetherness.

I turned my attention to the mobile phone. Why had my journey taken me to this? The otherworld usually deals in ancient symbols, not techno-gadgets. What might an iPhone symbolize? Communication on the move, perhaps? There were Tarot cards representing that, but Abbott didn’t strike me as communicative, and he’d never been interested in the otherworld. On the other hand, minutes after I’d found his mobile, it was in Kizzy’s possession. I had brooded over the oddness of her being in St. Mary’s Lane.

It seemed almost deliberate, the way Kizzy had approached us from the shadows, as if to prevent us going farther. As if she was some sort of look-out. As if she knew precisely what was going on in St. Mary’s courtyard. Rey had dismissed this out of hand. I could remember his exact words:
Kizzy was killed in a very specific way.
I had no idea what that mean.

I shrugged. There were plenty of other symbols on my wallpaper web to examine without getting screwed up about phones. I was transfixed by the image of the wolf baying at the full moon. The Moon card came up in readings where psychic or intuiting abilities were important.

The faint chirp of my own mobile floated in from the kitchen. I sat back on my heels. A pulse throbbed in my neck. Bad news. I knew it. It could be nothing else. I repressed a shudder as the phone stopped. I went back to looking at my Tarot. The phone started up again. I could not bear the blithesome tones. I stormed into the kitchen and snatched it up like it was to blame.

“Sabbie
Daar
?”

“Stan,” I sighed.

“I want you to come in to Papa.”

“It’s my day off.”
Fuck you
, I thought.

“We have a staff crisis.”

“You’ve always got a staff crisis.” The thought of spending a single extra moment on that scooter made me nauseated.

“Max is having to deliver. He’s rubbish on a scooter!”

A grin spread over my face. “That’s your fault for paying buttons. All your Cinderellas have gone to the ball.” There was silence. He didn’t intend to get my gag. “I’m busy, Stan,” I said, deliberately making my voice sound weary. “I am actually working at my other job. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“Please.
Please
, Sabbie. Jimmy is missing.”

“Missing?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. “What, like Mirela?”

“No. Like police custody.”

“
Jimmy
? Are you kidding me? He wouldn’t nick a Mars Bar.”

“It’s Kizzy.” Stan sounded shaken. His voice actually wavered. “It’s on the news. He’s under arrest for her murder.”

The bad news I’d foreseen. Rey’s dawn raid. The DNA. But Jimmy? It didn’t make sense. No one would suspect he was hiding any sort of dark secret.

I brought to mind my first sight of him, how he knew the blow to his head was coming but hadn’t even ducked, as if Papazov had a right to consider him a personal gym. In other words, an under-dog. I bet he still lived with his mum—a bit of a wimp, quiet, no proper relationships. A loner. The sort police profilers always think are the culprits.

Arrest first, Rey had explained. Twenty-four hours allowed for questioning, unless a magistrate agrees to an extension. Ninety-six hours maximum. Then the charge must be laid, and the DPP must approve it, or the suspect must be released.

“Sabbie!” A tinny voice in my ear. “Sabbie
Daar
!”

“Stan—I said I’m working at home today. What part of the word
no
don’t you understand?”

“Okay-okay!” He exuded a hissing sigh down the phone. “Okay. Double time.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow? Eleven to ten, double shift, double time?”

“Take a hike. You’ll just deduct a heap of imaginary expenses.”

“It’s Christmas! People are holding parties, wanting lots of food. I need you bad.” I couldn’t help but grin. What had it cost Stan to admit that? “Cash! I’ll pay cash!”

“Triple time. And I want to be paid for all my work. No loan. No excuses.”

There was a long pause while on the other end of the phone I could hear Stan cringe at the thought of passing money into my eager hand.

“Okay,” he squeaked. “Triple. Could you do double shifts on Tuesday and Wednesday, too?”

“Jimmy should be back by then, surely.”

“Don’t think so. Ask me, he’s guilty as sin.”

“Stan! Jimmy wouldn’t hurt Kizzy. Not any woman. He hasn’t been charged, has he? They had to be seen to make an arrest!”

“You check the news sites. They’re taking bags of stuff from his house.”

I closed my eyes. Not Jimmy. Please not him.

“Sabbie? Okay, then?”

“Okay, Stan.”

I wasn’t listening anymore. I didn’t care what I agreed to. A thought was building in my head, creating pressure, making me reel.

“Thank you, Sabbie
Daar
!”

The line went dead. The phone dropped from my hand. The thought exploded. I gripped my kitchen worktop. My stomach convulsed.

Jimmy had handed me an unwanted order, pushed it at me.
Go on
, I think he’d said
. Enjoy
… And moments after finishing it, I was collapsing in the loo. Too fast a reaction for food poisoning, the doctor said. Pressure of work. I was working hard. I was under pressure. It seemed a reasonable diagnosis. Who would imagine that something had been added to the foil container—sprinkled over the spicy food. But what would Jimmy put in my food? And why would he want to do that to me?

Rey had asked a strange question.
Is he good with a knife?

I gave myself a shake. These were ridiculous thoughts I didn’t have time for. I couldn’t afford to feel discombobulated, as Gloria would’ve put it. I had to concentrate on my work. Two clients today: a reflexology at four p.m., and, before that at half past one, a first consultation with someone who wanted to see me as a shaman.

I folded the silk scarf around the Tarot pack. I would have to return to this later, when I was in the right mood.

I gave myself a little manicure for the second appointment (nothing worse than having your feet rubbed by someone with snaggy nails). I lit a charcoal disc and let a small branch of sage burn, the smoke spiralling slowly upward as I walked it round the room. As I called power in, I found my voice lifting and bursting into song, as if my throat could not contain the words by simple speech. I was no karaoke star, but singing in the north, south, east, and west filled me with sudden joy. I’d almost forgotten about joy; how easy it was to find moments of it, how easy it was to lose again. I sat cross-legged in the centre and went on singing, trying to stay in the moment of ecstasy, until the door bell chimed. I rose slowly, giving myself time to get back into the apparent world, because doing this too fast can result in a shock.

Then I opened the door and—bang! There was my shock. Smiling rosily from behind his golden beard was Juke.

“Hi.” He thrust a narrow bunch of lilies at me. “I have an appointment with you?”

“You’re my new shamanic client? Justin Webber?”

He tried to look sheepish. “Sorry. I got Cath to phone in case you thought I was mucking around.”

I was pretty sure that he
was
mucking around. Reluctantly, I took the lilies from him. “These are lovely,” I lied, turning away to find a vase. I hate hothouse flowers. They last so long they might’ve been genetically engineered and smell like they’d doused themselves in some cheap market scent for a night on the town.

“I don’t suppose you remember from my party, but I did say I was sort of interested in how shamanism works.”

“I do remember.”

“You … you thought I was coming on to you, at the party, didn’t you? That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

I stuck my head in a cupboard, hoping he’d think I hadn’t heard him, and found a jug which I filled with water, sliding the lilies in and letting them find their own spaces. Bless them, they couldn’t help their start in life. They were like ex-bat hens.

“You said you’d read a lot of books, Juke, but to be honest, that don’t impress me much. Books tell you stuff, but only your own spirit world can show you what shamanism can offer.”

“Yeah,” said Juke, “I get that.”

“Come and sit down.”

I led him into the therapy room and offered him one of the wicker chairs, taking the other myself. I didn’t grab a notepad. When a new client arrives, I try to fix what they say in my mind, ready to make notes after they’ve gone. That has three benefits: I keep alert because I don’t want to forget anything; I focus on their physical presence, which can tell me loads about them; and it feels to them as if they have my entire attention, which they do.

“Explain why you made this appointment,” I said, thinking that I already knew the answer; Juke had met a shaman at a party, simple as that. No doubt he already planned to use the experience to show off in pubs.

“I have this shoulder pain.”

I blinked. “Oh. Right.”

“I’ve had it for ages. Years, when I care to work it out.”

“Juke, can I presume you’ve seen your doctor?”

“Yep. GP sent me to a physio, who sent me for an X-ray and gave me exercises that did nothing. I cried off then, told them it was only a slight ache.”

“Was it a slight ache?”

“It did start out as an ache, but over the years it’s grown more intense. Since then, I’ve seen an osteopath, a chiropractor, and had numerous massages. Nothing works.”

“Has anyone been able to give you a diagnosis?”

“Yeah, I went back to the doctor’s and finally he told me I probably had a frozen shoulder. So I looked it up on the net … as y’do … and it sort of means inflammation of the shoulder.”

He raised his arms and squeezed the opposite shoulders, hardly noticing his gesture, wincing as he rubbed the muscles. At once, I recalled seeing him do this at the party. I leaned towards him and put my palm on his knee and words fell out my mouth without my bidding.

“It’s all right. You don’t need forgiveness. You don’t need to be absolved. You don’t need to feel guilt. You are innocent.”

It was one of those moments that arrive unbidden in my mind … images, symbols, words. They sound like gibberish. Only the person listening can tell me if they
are
gibberish. Partly it’s experience. As soon as Juke told me he had shoulder pain, I recalled the way he did stoop a fraction … the way he’d held and squeezed his shoulders a lot at the party, and the way I’d empathized with the lilies that could not help what they represented.

Juke’s face blanked momentarily. His eyes widened as his mouth worked, battling a surge of emotion. His whole upper body jerked in the chair.

“Wha … what d’you mean?”

“Shamans rarely know what they mean.”

“Then why did you say that? That I’m innocent?” He gave an abrupt laugh. “’Course I’m innocent.”

“Of course you are. But your body is not agreeing with you. You’re all bowed over as if in shame. Your shoulders have ached for years, as they would if you were carrying a terrible burden you couldn’t shift. Finally you come to see me, because no one else can help you.” I shrugged. People often came to me as a last resort. I was used to it. “And, for some reason, you bring lilies.”

“There was no reason,” said Juke. “I was halfway here, driving past this little florist, and it came into my mind that I ought to bring you flowers, to say thank you. I saw the lilies as I walked into the shop. A massive bucket of them.”

“They asked you to buy them?”

“Yeah, guess they did.”

“For me, Juke, lilies often represent innocence. Whatever burden you’re shouldering, you’re not responsible for it.”

“But—what’re you talking about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll have more idea than me. Or maybe, when I journey for you—as I’ll do between this appointment and your next—I’ll find out for you.”

“Are you talking … do you mean …”

I waited.

“No. That’s crazy.”

“Say it.”

“My brother. Mark.” His hands grasped each other. “It’s my brother.”

I didn’t reply. Juke would sort the story out in his head.

“He’s a year younger than me. Not much of a gap. I guess that gave us a tight bond, as kids. But we’re not alike. He’s always been the—well, the impetuous one. Easily sparked off, you know?”