Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (27 page)

I nodded.

“We were seventeen, eighteen at the time,” he went on. “It was before I left for uni. We used to hang out together a lot. We were still sharing a bedroom at Mum and Dad’s. We spent most nights in the Hamp Tavern.” He laughed. “I have no idea where we found the money, but whatever we had, we spent it there. Nissed as Pewts from eight o’clock on.”

“Believe me,” I said. “I remember those times.”

“Nah,” said Juke. “If you remember them, you weren’t there, right? Getting pissed-up from eight o’clock; getting pissed-off by ten. Getting into a punch-up as we finally fell into the street.”

His hand crept towards his shoulder but jolted to a stop before he could grab it. Instead, he brushed his fingers over his beard, like you can with waist-high wheat.

“Mark was always first. Very keen.” He managed a grin. “Back then, it was like he lived for it. ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting,’ yeah
?
I was always pulling him off people and patching him up. Cleaning away the vomit before Mum saw.”

“You were a good brother.”

“I was too late that one night. Came out of the Hamp to find him standing over some older bloke. The fight had been about a watch, apparently; I never got the full story from him. But the bottle was in his hand. Those jagged edges have not left my mind, or the way the blood seeped onto the tarmac. It was thick.” Juke shook his head, as to disperse the image of redness and sharpness. “There was no one about; it had been between the two of them. I grabbed Mark and pushed him along until we’d turned a couple of corners. I flung the bottle into a hedge. It caught the streetlight as it fell. It was a Stella. He always drank Stella.”

“Do you ever talk about it?”

“He’d forgotten overnight. Couldn’t recall a thing. Didn’t believe me, until it came on the news.”

“Was the other guy okay?”

“He recovered, but what Mark did might have got him ten years. I was about to go and study law. I already knew he’d
unlawfully and maliciously inflicted grievous bodily harm. That scared him. Yeah, he was terrified all right—terrified I’d report him.”

“And …” I closed my eyes, trying to imagine. “That is your guilt. You didn’t report him.”

“I haven’t thought about it properly for years. That feeling of wrongdoing that taints the good times. I didn’t even call an ambulance. It was no thanks to me that the guy hadn’t died right there in the gutter. That’s never gone away, you know?”

“It’s buried deep in your shoulders,” I pointed out.

“What can I do?”

I took a moment, thought about the best way to offer Juke something positive.

“It will help knowing why your shoulders hurt. But you said you were interested in shamanism. You may gain more benefit if you learn to take shamanic journeys yourself.”

Juke sat up. “Become a shaman?”

“No,” I said. “That stage would grow over time, when you’re ready and discover you enjoyed the experiences. To start with I’d show you techniques to help you understand yourself. Help you cope with life.”

“That would be amazing.”

“Yes. Shamanic practice is amazing. It changes your life. There’s a warning on the bottle, though, so beware.”

“I’d like a life change. I’d like to stop feeling every happy moment is clouded.”

Rey would say Juke had “perverted the course of justice.” Juke knew that; it was part of his longstanding guilt. He’d put his brother above the law. Then I thought about lilies, small flags of purity. Blameless.

Surely they were a start.

_____

I gave Juke too long. I was so relieved that he hadn’t come to mock or revel in my “outsiderness” that I forgot the time as I led him through the preliminary steps of a simple spirit journey. I explained that he should first find his totem, his power animal, telling the story of how Trendle had been waiting for me to contact him for most of my life. I think that’s true of everyone, that there’s a totem waiting if you care to look. And I had to make it clear to him that if I took him on as a shamanic student, rather than a client, he would be paying me by the hour for months, rather than for a set of sessions. I might be broke and desperate for work, but I needed to be sure it was what he wanted and could afford.

“We’re going to miss Fergus, aren’t we?” Juke said as I opened the front door.

I paused. “What d’you mean,
miss
?”

“He’s off home soon. Sorry, I thought you’d know. You’re not still seeing him, then? None of my business, naturally.”

“Home? D’you mean Belfast?”

“Yeah. He’s on a year’s contract.”

“Right. I just assumed he was permanently with you.”

“No, time’s nearly up. Be heading back before long.”

It took me a moment to grasp that Fergus had made a play for me—and that, if it hadn’t been for Rey, I would have responded—even though he knew our relationship would burn on a shorter fuse than a carnival squib. Juke had no idea what he’d revealed. He was still nattering on. “Gonna be manic without him. And he’s fun to work with. He thinks in swerves, you know? Gets round the back of things.”

I tried to get this into perspective. I knew that Fergus was an operator, a wolf. He liked to chat the girls up, take them to parties. Neither of us had sworn undying love. I wasn’t the settling down kind, anyhow. I had a sort-of boyfriend, for goddess’s sake. Why should I care if he was heading back to Belfast? Why should I be the least upset about it?

“Shame, though,” Juke said. He put out his hand to shake mine. “Said things were going good for him over here. Taking off, like. He’s not one to chat about his life outside work, but he did say that. Said he was planning something to mark going home. Something big to remember him by. Go out with a bang! He hasn’t mentioned a party to you, then?”

“No.” I tried not to sound curt. “He hasn’t mentioned anything at all.”

twenty-six

Halfway through the reflexology
treatment, Gloria let herself in through the back door and started rummaging around in my kitchen. At least I hoped it was her, as I was not planning to investigate my intruder until I’d finished. I finally waved bye-bye to the client and found Gloria stashing dishes in the freezer. She straightened her back, pushing her knuckles into her lower spine.

“Have you finished for the day?”

I nodded. “What’s the thing in my oven with the heavenly smell?”

“Sweet potato casserole, and I think it’s ready.” She wrapped her arms around me (quite a feat when you’ve got short arms and a generous middle), easing me onto one of my bar stools where cutlery was already laid. “Sit down and behave.”

She tossed a bag of mixed salad into a bowl and added some dressing. I loved to watch her work around the kitchen. Whenever she dealt with food, there was a gracefulness to her body you wouldn’t have guessed she could possess. While I was still kid enough to listen to her, she’d taught me everything I know about cooking. Luckily that included a lot of egg recipes.

She brought the dish out of the oven and sliced it through, serving generous, Gloria-sized portions onto both plates. She added salad to hers and passed the bowl to me. I tucked in, trying not to catch her eye. There was something she wanted to say, and she would get round to it when she was ready.

Finally she put down her fork. “D’you know the date?”

“Yeah,” I said, in surprise. “Er …”

“It’s six days before Christmas.” I gawped at her. “You had no idea, had you? Thought not. Don’t know what’s going on in that mind of yours, but it isn’t the festive season, that’s for sure. You haven’t even told us if you’re coming up for your Christmas dinner.”

“Of course I am,” I said, my voice failing. “I’ve just been mega busy, Mum, trying to pay my mortgage, you know?”

“There’s something goin’ on that accounts for way more distraction than ‘busy’, ” she accused. “Something I’m not gonna like.”

She bent down from her stool and slapped a pile of Papa flyers on the working top, which she’d secreted at her feet. “I was packing a few things away for you—”

“Which you shouldn’t have been doing in the first place!”

“—and I came upon these.” She turned them over, one by one, to reveal the notes I’d made on Kizzy. Then she raised her hand and pointed to the kitchen door, where my wallpaper diagram was tacked up. “Only the good Lord could guess what that is. But you’re gonna tell me.”

How could I tell Gloria the story of two sisters who had arrived in Britain with high hopes? Kizzy wishing for great riches, Mirela wanting horses for Itso. I didn’t want her to know how involved I’d become because everything had ended in death and sorrow. Gloria believed being a shaman got me into trouble, and if I was honest with myself, she was bang on the money here.

“Come on.” Gloria glared at me. “Tell.”

“Bouquet garni,” I said, and smiled at the look covering her face.

I’d constructed a question for Jimmy, which I wouldn’t be able to ask him unless …
until
he was released.
Are you ever asked to put sachets of herbs in certain dishes? Like a special bouquet garni?

There had been something wrong with the veggie moussaka I’d eaten the day I’d collapsed. Just because Jimmy had cooked the food—just because he’d offered it to me—didn’t mean he’d doctored it, or that the substance that made my head spin had been meant for me in the first place.

Had I swallowed a sachet of something illicit, hidden between layers of aubergine and tomato?

No wonder Stan had been so quick to call a doctor. No wonder he’d been so concerned.

“The place I work, now,” I said, trying to keep my story simple and non-threatening, “I think there might be things going on there.”

“If there is,” said Gloria, “your nose will smell it out, girl.”

“At first, it was just the way they treat their staff. Badly, to sum it up. But then I heard something from another employee about hiding drugs in the deliveries. Rey said they’d done a stop and search on the Papa Bulgaria scooters, but, Gloria, how could you do scrupulous forensics on bikes that all belong to different, seemingly innocent people? Not that anyone at Papa has ever asked me to carry something that wasn’t food, but I’ve been thinking: Would we know? Once those cardboard lids are firmly on, no one checks the contents. That’d be poor hygiene. Let the heat out. And guess what? Each container’s finished off with a label stating what’s inside. Ever known that before? I mean, it’s a nightmare, isn’t it, trying to work out which order is which from the penciled scribbles you usually get. It’s a nice Papa touch—customers with big orders appreciate it. But what if there’s a special sort of label—one with a hidden message?”

I stopped for breath. I’d run on and on, my thoughts teeming into my head and tripping out over my tongue. Gloria took a few moments to process the entire outpouring. Then, being Gloria, she asked the one vital question.

“Who is Rey?”

“Right. Yeah. He’s a guy.” I couldn’t speak then for an age. My mouth was stretched into such a cat-and-cream grin, it was impossible.

“Hang on. He’s the detective?”

I nodded, trying to control my face.

“Okay. Well, he might do you good. Rein you in. Stop your brain runnin’ off in all directions that’s not good for it.” She waved a forkful of sweet potato. “Every which way. Trying to convince yourself of this and that. Crazy theories that don’t stand up ’cause they got no bottom.”

I knew there were flaws in my theory about Papa Bulgaria. I’d been imagining foil containers fully pre-packed with sachets, secreted into the general mayhem of the busy kitchen, marked by their special labels. But in that case, how could I have swallowed a single one in a dish of moussaka? Jimmy was known for his errors. Maybe Stan had spotted what he’d done and told him to ditch the container. Instead, Jimmy had passed it to me.

What pleased me about my theory was it let Jimmy off the hook. I was able to pass the blame for my collapse at work straight onto the Papazov dynasty. I knew it didn’t absolve Jimmy of the murder of Kizzy Brouviche, but I could convince myself that if he wasn’t a poisoner, he couldn’t be a murderer either.

“I’d never thought you’d turn out to be a healer,” Gloria went on, unaware of how far my thoughts had wandered. “You didn’t show a sign when you were a kid. One minute you were leading Dennon down paths of iniquity—”

“You are joking! He was dragging me!”

“There was drinking and smoking and thievin’ too, don’t tell me there wasn’t. And there’d always been fighting. If you didn’t have blood on your lip, you’d have it on your knuckles. And lying, even,” she added, as this was truly the worst thing. “Then the next minute you’re all greenery and therapies and calling up old gods, who if you ask me—which you don’t—would be best left alone.” She sniffed. “Was hard for me to understand.”

“But even when I was a kid, you’d say I went away with the fairies.”

Gloria gave a reluctant nod. “There was that time, one walk we did, when you came screaming out of some trees, yelling about gnomes. You dragged us off to show us this odd-shaped stone you were so sure had winked at you.”

The memory was enshrined. A malevolent spirit, I’m sure to this day, inhabited that stone, or had turned itself into a stone shape because humans were near. I had seen the stone move—expand and reshape—and into my head words arrived, unbidden …
dance around me, dance until you fall
…

I felt like that was happening now. Something was beckoning to me, something that had not yet taken its final form. I did not think its final form would be a pleasant experience.

_____

We’d finished our meal and were well into the gossip that comes afterwards when the doorbell chimed. Gloria roused herself first. “Send them away, whoever they are,” I called after her, only quarter joking. It was lovely having Gloria all to myself, and she’d probably have to leave in an hour or so.

I heard a muttered exchange of conversation that grew louder. She’d let them in, whoever they were, and I just knew it would spoil things.

I was right. A stupid trill of fear passed through me as my aunt and her daughter were shown into the room. I couldn’t help do the housewife thing of looking round my kitchen with outsider-eyes; it was sprayed with dust and dirty crocks. I contemplated crawling under the coffee table.

Both of them were wrapped against the cold. Mrs. Mitchell’s Russian hat was pulled firmly over the corona of her cobwebbed hair and Laetitia was zipped into a padded fleece with a tirolean fur-lined snow hood and cute matching hand muff.

“We can’t stay long,” Mrs. Mitchell began.

“I’m on my way to a Christmas Concert,” said Lettice, trying to soothe her mother’s words.

“Lovely!” I smiled at her. “Have a great time.”

“Lettice is a flautist,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “She plays in the school orchestra.”

“These are the people I told you about,” I said to Gloria, mostly because my aunt had totally ignored her since arriving in my kitchen. “Mrs. Mitchell and her daughter, Laetitia.”

Gloria flashed me a perplexed look and I realized she had no idea who they actually were. To be fair, the only time I’d mentioned them was on the walk at Brean Down when Lettice had sent me the text, but Gloria put out her hand towards my aunt. “I’m Gloria Davidson.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Mitchell. She observed the hand and used a finger and thumb to shake it briefly. “I can see you’re both involved in something already. We won’t keep you.” She armed herself for the retreat by clamping her Gucci bag to her chest.

“Ma!” Lettice glowered at her mother. “You were going to say something, weren’t you?”

“Ah. Yes. Indeed.” The fur hat made her look like a figure from a Russian film. I expected a steam train to pull in behind her at any moment. “We are having a very small post-Christmas gathering at the Hatchings towards the end of the month
…
”

“The twenty-eighth,” said Lettice. “From sevenish.”

“Cocktails and canapés,” said Mrs. Mitchell, as if she hoped that I’d be put off by posh drinks and finger food. “Lettice wondered
—
”

“
We
were hoping,” Laetitia interjected, “you might come and meet Grandma.”

“For just an hour, perhaps?”

“And your grandma,” I said, speaking to Lettice. “Does she know? Is she happy about this?” I had a horrid thought that she might keel over with unexpected heart failure if I was introduced to her. After all, Mrs. Mitchell’s reaction had been pretty heart-stopping.

“I’m glad you understand that,” said my aunt. “We felt it was pointless to put this to her until we knew you were coming along.”

I couldn’t make out what this was about. Why wait until all her friends were milling around in cocktail dresses and
cummerbunds
before introducing me to my possible grandmother? Surely it would be better, if I was going to meet Lady Savile-Dare at all, that I did so quietly, not in the glare of some Christmas party spotlight. Anger flared in me as things fell into place. Peers Mitchell wanted to find out how I would behave in good company. It was a test.

“I dunno,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about pursuing this.” I glanced at Gloria. She was trying to pick up on the full implication, sending me laser-beam messages from below lowered eyebrows. I quickly decided it would be better if she didn’t know what was going on until the Mitchells left, and my spine was pricking with an urgent need to get this upper-class twit out of my house. “I think I’d like to discuss it with my mum first, and let you know.”

“Your
mother
?” said Peers. Her voice had dropped and she sounded a lot like old tapes of Maggie Thatcher.

“Gloria,” I said, flapping my hand in her direction. “She’s been my mum now for—”

“This woman is your mother?”

“No,” I said, catching on. Then I stopped, shut my mouth and nodded. “Yes. This is my mother.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Mitchell smiled quite pleasantly. Well, she
had
received very pleasant news. “I can see the resemblance. Quite a similarity of
…
skin tone.”

“Ma!” shrieked Lettice. “Let Sabbie explain properly.”

“I don’t think I want further explanation.” The handbag shifted again. Its gloss and pattern caught the ceiling lights. I wouldn’t know crocodile skin if it regrew teeth and bit me, but I wouldn’t’ve swooned with surprise if this had turned out to be the genuine article. “I’ve suffered sufficient discomfiture from my dealings with your new friend, and I don’t plan to continue this connection.”

She swung from the room. She didn’t actually say,
Come, Lettice,
as she left, but the words hung in the air.

Lettice didn’t move for a long time. She seemed to be practicing breath control for her flute performance. Her eyes were large, unblinking. She said nothing, and I knew that was because she was afraid of crying.

“You’d best go, Lettice.”

“I hate Ma.”

“No, you don’t. When you reflect, you’ll agree with her. I don’t want to meet Lady Savile-Dare. I have enough things at the moment to shake up my life. If I can avoid another, I will.”

“But …”

“I understand. We’re cousins. That counts for a lot. But we’ve been quite happy not knowing up to now, haven’t we?”

It was a blunt thing to say, and for a second or two Lettice looked as if I’d slapped her. But I didn’t soften my words. I wanted her to feel a bit slapped around, if it meant she’d scuttle quietly after her miserable mother and never contact me again. I could not take any more messing with my personal life, and I was pretty sure that allowing me into hers would have the same messing-up effect. I didn’t want that for her. She was way too nice.

Lettice ran from the room with tiny steps. I didn’t move. But after the front door’s slam, I felt Gloria’s arm round my shoulders. There is a warmth in that arm that can reach right into a girl’s heart.