Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (6 page)

Mirela stuffed a hand into the brown felt bag she’d brought with her. It was worn thin and stained with puddle splashes. A seam was bursting open, the contents bulging through. She must have carried it across the continent of Europe, packed with false hope. She pulled out a mix of tens and twenties, some ripped, some just dog-eared, all of them crushed into her palm. “Please, Sabbie. Do something now. I can pay.”

I pushed the money back at her. But her urgency helped me to decide. She was right. Now was the time. I glanced through the kitchen windows. It was a foul night. I could hear the November wind shaking final leaves from the trees. Mirela was no more than a kid and a stranger in this country, and she’d lost the only person who cared about her. I’d been in that situation … something like that situation … so many times.

“I guess you could stop over.” Hopefully, she was used to mess, dust, and a sunken mattress because that’s all my spare room offered. I was already trying to remember where Debs had left the hot water bottle.

She smiled. She had the same sharp teeth as her sister—not quite as straight or polished as the teeth of Bridgwater girls, but arranged in a sexy smile that might bite through the heart of any man. “Thank you, Sabbie Dare.”

_____

In the therapy room, I lit only the central candle. It hid the clutter that I’d pushed to the corners of the walls. I’d done a couple of massages and a Reiki before I’d left for the Curate’s Egg and I hadn’t been in here since.

“Would you like to help me prepare the room,” I asked, “or do you want to watch?”

Mirela took a step forward as if volunteering. “I help.”

“Good. That’s good.” I passed her a broom of birch twigs.

She laughed. “I clean up?”

“You clean away the bad spirits.”

Dust flew up as she swept the laminate with vigour. I’d forgotten to tell her the act only needed to be symbolic. Under her breath I heard her mutter in her own language.

I arranged the floor cushions, then took my wand of yew and drew a circle with it, reaching out with my arm from the centre of the space. I lit the incense in its shell dish and lifted it on the palm of my hand. The aroma was a blend of the herbs from my garden with added resin of frankincense and some dried juniper berries. The smoke traced the shape of the protective circle. I followed this with sprinkles of water from Glastonbury’s red spring and spoke the ritual words.

“
With fire in air I consecrate this circle. With water from earth I consecrate this moment. With all my will I declare this is sacred space in sacred time.
”

“What you say?” asked Mirela, her voice low.

“That we have created a place and time for our work tonight,” I said. “What did you say as you were sweeping?”

“Eh …” She frowned, trying to bring the words into English as best she could. “Go out! Out! Go away, badness of Beng, bad luck of Bibxt, bad spirit of Mulo. Not welcome here.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Mirela, that’s fantastic—perfect. You’re a Romani, all right. So, now we’ve got rid of the bad spirits, we can request the presence of good ones. Do you have a good spirit we could invite?”

She nodded. “Devla is our god.”

I stood at each aspect of the circle; north, east, south and west, to call in their elementals, totem animals, and sacred winds. Then I moved to the centre, where Mirela stood, still holding the besom. “And I call to Devla, god of the Roma, to be here at this time, to guide my spirit journey and offer inspiration.”

Once Mirela was lying on the floor cushions inside the circle, I covered her with a fleece then took her wrist and loosely attached it to mine with a silken cord plaited in white, brown, and green. This cord would guide me towards her otherworld. One hand out of action, I got down on my own cushions and covered myself as best I could.

I pulled a dark scarf over my eyes. If I was lucky, I’d move close to that twilight zone between reverie and almost-sleep where you suddenly recall nothing of the outside world. From there, the otherworld was a blink away. But I tipped a little too far, and in moments I was deep asleep and dreaming.

_____

An owl flew in front of the moon. It was all stealth, silent in the soft breath of the night. I was standing beside a rock face that rose above my head, above the trees, until it seemed to touch the moon. The owl disappeared behind the rock’s peak and I noticed there was a slit at its base, wide enough for my body to slip through. I couldn’t resist. I pushed through into a deep and narrow cave. A little moonlight illuminated the floor and I took cautious steps forward. The cave greyed into blackness. I could see nothing at all. The point of a stalactite scraped against my head. I put my hand to the wound and realized that my head was shaved as it had been nine months ago, forcibly and down to the flesh. I shuffled a few more metres before I noticed the gentle light that flickered in the far distance. Deep inside the cave was a man, carrying a candle cupped in his palm. I could make out that his hair was dark and dreadlocked, but his skin shone in the candlelight like pearl. I thought he’d just got out of bed, because he seemed to be wearing nothing but the sheet he’d pulled off it and a pair of loose leather sandals.

He did not acknowledge me but kept walking towards me. After a moment or two, I saw a second figure loom out of the darkness. It was a woman. Her face was warm honey in the back-glow of the candle flame.

The man spoke. His voice was low, but the tones echoed around the cavern. “I can’t look back.”

“No,” whispered the woman.

“I must not look back,” the man repeated, but his eyes were distracted and shifting. He told her he must not look back because he longed to do so. He longed to look at the woman with all of his heart.

They passed me, moving towards the gashed mouth of the cave.

“I must not look back,” he said again, and my tongue dried with the knowledge that he hungered to look back.

Don’t look back
, I thought,
please, please
, but his whole body was jerking now, his head twitching, as if the temptation to turn had become irresistible.

“Don’t look back!” I hadn’t meant to call aloud. I had interrupted his resolve. He looked back. His eyes fell on the woman, the beautiful, slender creature with her deep brown hair coiled on top of her head like a sleeping snake.

“DON’T LOOK BACK!”

_____

I woke with a shout and a snort, my tongue half in my throat, my eyes gritty. The candle was guttering. I might have been asleep for about half an hour. Beside me, Mirela had curled onto her side on the floor cushions and was even more deeply asleep than I’d been, breathing slow and regular.

I unpicked the silk from my wrist but left it tied to hers. In the kitchen, I wrote down my dream, although I didn’t think it signified anything at all. It was the product of my most recent thoughts before I’d slept … Orpheus and his wife. Eurydice—that was her name, I remembered now.

Mirela hadn’t moved a muscle. It seemed stupid to wake her and send her to a cold dampish room, so I threw the second fleece over her, snuffed the candle, and left her there.

I was halfway up the stairs when my callous, suspicious underbelly sounded an alarm. I slipped back down and carried my mobile and laptop up to bed with me.

six

Even a minuscule chink
of light coming through the curtains is enough to wake me at dawn nowadays. It must be something to do
with growing up. I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head. Five minutes later, my mobile chirped a wake-up call. It was Sunday, and my diary was crammed with therapy appointments. It was Sunday; I’d had my late shift at the Egg and got home to find Mirela.

My eyes opened with a ping. Would she still be downstairs or would she be gone?

Mirela was curled on the floor cushions. Under the fleece, her body was as spare as a stripped twig. It looked as if she hadn’t moved since I last saw her. She was a teenager, so naturally she could sleep for England.

Or in this case, Bulgaria.

She thought I had second sight. That was the trust between us. But it had been
her
sister who told
my
fortune, and, even taking her intent with a massive pinch of salt, she’d got a lot of things right. She’d spoken of a fortune, which I’d already won and lost, and warned me off no-good boyfriends, of which I’d had my fill.

She’d forecast death. A man had raced past her on his way to his death. She’d forecast danger; I’d seen fear in her eyes. And now she was missing.

_____

In the chicken coop were five eggs, two as big as a child’s fist. Ginger and Melissa didn’t lay all that often now, but when they did, their eggs were as full as bombs. I thought Mirela deserved an eggie breakfast before I sent her on her way. I took her in a mint tea and shook her gently.

She moaned low and sweet. “Mmm?”

“Mirela, hi there.”

“Oh!”

I could see that she’d forgotten where she’d slept for a moment, but she sat up like a child and sipped the hot tea. “What you see?”

“See?”

“Last night. With …” She demonstrated the way I’d tied us together. “You have gift to tell where my sister is?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I have nothing for you.”

“Oh.”

“Unless the legend of Orpheus in the underworld means anything.”

“Who?”

I hadn’t held out much hope. Her people were Roma. Orpheus was nothing to do with them. It had just been a dream. “I will try again, Mirela. In a day or two. Do you have anything of your sister’s I could use? To help me find her otherworld?”

She reached for her shoulder bag and brought out a zipped, plastic makeup case, stained with lipstick smears. From this she pulled a piece of shiny card. At first I thought it was a large postage stamp, but when she handed it to me I could see that it was a reproduction of an icon—the Virgin Mary in summer blue with a golden halo. I turned it over. On the back was a scribble of biro in Cyrillic script.

“This is Kizzy’s?”

“She carry it from home.”

“She is a Christian?”

“Of course. We all are.”

“I stupidly imagined … after last night … when you summoned your god …”

“Believe God, Devla, Madonna, and spirits of dead. Satan and bad spirits too. ”

“Right, the full works!” I squeezed her arm. “We should apply the same principle. Your sister has to be somewhere. To be honest, some real-world searching wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Where I look?” She paused. “Where
you
look?”

Yep, there it was, that sinking feeling as my stomach hit my knees. I’d offered her a bed. I’d offered to work shamanically to find her sister. And now it looked like I was offering some practical help. “We should really report your sister missing officially. But let’s start by going back to the person in authority you both went to see. Who is he?”

“Quigg.”

“What?”

“Mr. Quigg. Agency for Change
.
”

“Is that one of those charities that help displaced persons?”

She shrugged. “Him no help.”

“He might be waiting for you to go back to him. He must deal with disappearances all the time. He could be a lot of help, Mirela.”

Her lip trembled. “I had lovely dream.”

“Last night?”

“About Itso. He was in big fight.”

“Oh, no,” I cried. “That was a nightmare!”

She laughed. “Good dream. Itso win. True dream; big fists, good punch—one! two! Itso tall, fast. Good at winning.” She raised a fist in a jab. “Him bare knuck since four, five.”

“What …” I tried to be cautious. “You mean your boyfriend’s been fighting since he was little?”

“’Course. All gypsy men must fight. Itso show his brother now he almost three. Learn moves. Fast on foots. Fist hard. Go-go for little-boy contests.”

My head was throbbing with the images she painted. “That cannot be so. I don’t believe it.”

“What if honour is threat?” Mirela pointed out. “What if other family steal horse? What do then?” Her face was taut with pride. “Itso fight when Kalaygia family steal his tatta’s horse. But that family coward. They sneak off. Disappear. With six horse.”

“This was your dream?”

“No! This is the true! Why Itso no money.”

“Do Romanies have money, then?” It felt an uneducated question, but Mirela didn’t seem to mind.

“Much money to metal and horse.”

“So … you came to Britain in the hope of making enough money
…”

“Buy one, two, many horse. For Itso pay Mama and Tatta bride price. Then, I go home.”

“Yes. You’re too young to be here on your own … exploited.” I felt my eyes narrow. Her skin was baby soft and her eyes were clear as jet dropped into milk. “How old did you say you were, Mirela?”

She grinned at me. “I old enough to marry. Old enough to work.”

“Old enough to know your own mind,” I admitted, thinking aloud.

“Yeah. I am no leave without Kizzy. You will tell where she is.”

“Mirela … I can’t
promise
to be of help.”

“You already help. Good friend.”

I sighed, hoping she didn’t hear. “Would you like an egg for breakfast?”

Mirela was a charming combination of femme fatal, innocent child, and hoary old gypsy. She ate both double-yolkers, giggling when I called the bread slices “soldiers.”

“Exactly when did Kizzy leave?” I asked. “Can you remember?”

“Yes, easy. November six.”

I took this in. I’d met Kizzy late on Friday night, bonfire night, November the fifth.

“All start with carnival,” said Mirela, hardly noticing my shock. “We get up on lorry; wave to people, do little dance over and over. Mr. Papa make us.”

It was hard to make sense of it all. “Your father?”

She sort of giggled. “No. Papa Bulgaria?”

“Right! Got you! The takeaway shop on the Quantock roundabout. Are they the people you work for?”

“Yes. Good Bulgarian cooking.” It sounded like she’d been drilled into saying this, but I had to admit, I’d eaten Papa Bulgaria food and their veggie options were nice.

“So that was the float with the gypsy dancers.”

“It was Kizzy’s idea. To do the dancing.”

“And dress up?”

“Yes. She is always good ideas, my sister. Always say she wants to make better life, more money.”

I knew what she meant. There were people—Debs was among them—who could not stay still in their lives.

“She wake me up late. Say we should both go.” Mirela gave one of her careless shrugs. “She say I will easy make bride price money for sake of Itso. But I say, ‘what you mean? Where go?’ And she shake her head. Say, ‘you know, Mirela. You know.’ ”

“Did you know?” I asked, caught up in the tale.

“No. If I know, I would go find her. And she just start pack case right then and puff! She’s gone. Like that.” Mirela clapped her hands, once, loudly. Suddenly, I wanted to find Kizzy badly. I was longing to give her a good slapping down.

Before Mirela left for her shift, she wrote out her address and telephone number. Then she kissed me on both my cheeks, shouldered her bag, and followed my directions to the bus stop into town. I promised I would contact her as soon as I had any sort of news.

_____

By six p.m. I was in profit, knackered, and ravenous. A dangerous combination. Images of instant food laden with bad carbs and dripping with trans fats floated before me. My health-food options were the wilted veg in my storehouse and garden. Or, I could order a veggie takeaway from Papa Bulgaria. I’d bought food from Papa before, but as the shop was the other side of town, I’d had it delivered by scooter. This time I thought I might struggle there and back on Hermes. I was curious to take a look at where Mirela worked. She’d be behind the counter, and although I didn’t have anything further for her yet, it would be good to check she was okay.

I’d done a lot of thinking since Mirela had left my house this morning. Or to be more specific, I’d been thinking of one thing. Me, Debs, and Gypsy Kizzy might have been standing a few metres from where a shooting had taken place. But when Debs and I had returned to the High Street, Kizzy hadn’t followed us. So it was possible that she’d gone the other way … up the lane into St. Mary’s Square. She might have seen something. She might have seen something,
and been seen by someone.
Perhaps all of that had unnerved her so much she’d scarpered that very night. And stupidly, I hadn’t asked Mirela if Kizzy had mentioned this when she’d woken her up after the carnival.

I was beginning to have second thoughts about what a low-down bitch of a sister Kizzy was. Maybe she really did have to disappear fast.

A noise—loud and sharp as a gun retort—burst inside my ears. I let out a shriek that shot through the stratosphere and went hurtling into space. Outside the kitchen window a dark shadow moved.

“Sabbie?”

“Dennon Davidson! You horror!” It was my foster brother, tapping the glass with his car keys. I let him in.

“You getting jumpy, sis.” Dennon shrugged past me and rummaged in the fridge. “Not again. No Coke!”

“I’ve got fizzy water and organic cordials. I make my own up, now.” Dennon groaned. “Hey, but I was just about to go out and get some food. D’you fancy that?”

“Why not. It’ll do to celebrate with, for now.”

“Celebrate?”

“I got a promotion.”

I did a double-take. Dennon worked for the frozen-food chain Iceland. He was one of the boys that stacked your order into the delivery van. His major responsibility was not getting the bags mixed up, and he couldn’t always be relied on to do that. “Sorry? What did you say? You caused a commotion?”

“Show respect. I said I’ve been promoted to manager.”

“
What?
”

“Yeah. God’s truth. I’m a trainee.”

“Trainee …”

He took a breath. “Trainee deputy under-floor manager.”

We looked at each other then burst out laughing. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to train to manage an under-floor.”

“Don’t forget the deputy bit.”

“Yeah. Wear your star with pride, Den. I bet Mum’s sur—pleased.”

“She is. She sent me down here. She wanted me to give you these photos.” He passed over an A4 buff envelope. “Mostly Charlene’s kids … that sort of thing. Sorry.”

“No, just what I need. You were right, my nerves are raw.”

“Food first,” said Den, jangling his car keys. “Let’s roll, sis.”

_____

Papa Bulgaria takeaway shop provided seating for waiting customers, benches along the inside of the windows that fronted the road. They were barely visible under the bums of hungry punters. There was a queue at the counter too. Mirela, in a white cotton overall and a little white cap with red and green stripes, was serving alongside a guy with hair that glistened under a thick coat of gel. He was glaring at his customers, a couple who simply could not make up their minds.

I’d left Dennon to find a parking space, but I had his order and I knew what I wanted. I got into the queue, trying to catch Mirela’s eye, but when it was finally my turn, it was the guy who was free to serve.

“Yes?” He spoke through the cocktail stick he held between his fine, white teeth.

“I’d like moussaka and chips and the banista with salad, please.”

He scribbled the order onto a pad. “What else? Colas?”

“Uh, yes, better give me two.”

He slammed my order through a spike on the serving hatch and yelled at one of the kitchen staff in a language that sounded gloriously exotic. He ripped a raffle ticket out of a book and slid it over the counter at me. Number 59. His nails looked manicured and his body moved with purposeful agility. He had that shape some girls salivate over … tight butt, narrow hips and wide, pumped-up shoulders. He knew it though; I could see it in the way he looked me over. When he finally shared a smile, it was the sort that robbed you of every stitch of clothing.

“Hey, d’you think I could have a quick chat with Mirela?”

“You can see she’s working.”

“I know, but … just couple of seconds, please?”

He swept his heavy fringe from his brow, displaying an irritated edge of impatience. Clearly his mother had never taught him to say please or thank you. Or even okay. But after a few seconds working his cocktail stick with his tongue, he took over for her and let her move to one side.

“Thought I’d come and see where you earn four euros an hour,” I joked. But I kept my voice down. Her body language was telling me that the slick-gelled guy made her nervous. “I was wondering though, if Kizzy had said anything about what had happened at the carnival after you went home.”

Mirela didn’t have to think. “She tell ’bout you; seven daughter of seven daughter.”

“I never said I was that,” I exploded. “She’s the one who’s a seventh daughter.”

Mirela made a face. “Not true. We are the only two girl childs of my mother. But to say seven and seven like that, it is …”

“Tradition?”

“Tradition,” said Mirela, adding it to her English lexicon. “She gave me twenty pounds. Inside money your card.”

“So … she knew she was planning to leave. She even thought she wouldn’t need the spare cash.”

“She said fireworks had been good. She look …” Mirela circled her hand, unable to find the word.