Reluctantly Charmed (11 page)

“Evil.” I furrowed my brow. “I never got the impression that she was evil from any of this stuff. A bit mad, maybe, but not bad.”

“Well . . .” Dad was starting to look bored. “She was alive a long time ago, and you know some people thought fairies were evil because of the tricks they’d play. So if they thought she was in cahoots with them, you could see how people might think she was evil, too.”

“Do you know anything else about her?” I asked, interested.

He and Mam both shook their heads. “Look, all this stuff is probably a load of claptrap, especially the stuff about you. Who knows if there’s any truth in the fairy stuff? There might be a half-truth here and there, there might be something—I’m not discounting it—but the bottom line is that people are interested in fairies, in witchcraft and whatever, and your mother and I have decided that, if we can, we’re going to have some fun with
it. We’re going to enjoy it. And if people want to talk to us on TV, well, we’ll go. When would we ever get to go on TV?” Dad laughed at the sheer lunacy of it all.

I nodded. I couldn’t argue with that, and we all sat back and relaxed into the salubrious surroundings. Soon we decided to move on to the heavier stuff. I jumped up before Dad could to get to the bar—he’d bankrupt himself on the rounds system one of these days. Two gin and tonics later, Dad was starting to mumble about the cost of drinks and I was looking for my jacket to leave, when Mam grabbed my leg excitedly. “Jim? Who’s Jim? I can’t believe I forgot to ask you.”

I blushed like an eleven-year-old in the school yard who’s just realized she doesn’t hate boys. “He’s a friend. That was a typo in the article. The journalist got it wrong.”

“Really?” Mam said, never taking her eyes from mine. “Your father and I are going to buy his record and see what kind of a fellow he is. See if he’s good enough for our Kate.”

“Honestly, he’s just a friend.”
Oh my God
, I thought. Mam and Dad would probably become Red Horizon groupies. Things were getting weirder by the minute.

Around nine I cycled home. I lived on the south side of the city center, on the first floor of a converted house. Even though my flat was small, I loved the color and bustle of the neighborhood, which was dotted with settled immigrants and friendly old Dublin families. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

It was a lovely bright evening, a sign that summer was knocking on the door of spring. And yet the Irish weather never fails to disappoint. It still managed to rain. There were sheets of it crashing off my face, and my sodden jeans were creaking with every
turn of the pedals. I humped my shoulders over the handlebars and went as fast as I could, thinking about how great it was to see my parents so happy. It had been a long time since they’d been so giddy and full of life. Maybe, as Mam said, it was just a bit of gas and these Steps would give us all a bit of a laugh over the next few weeks. I hoped so.

In spite of the rain and the arthritic damp that was seeping through my clothes, I felt upbeat when I pulled into the front garden of my flat. I got off my bike straight-legged—I’d need a WWF wrestler to help get me out of my jeans—and started to chain my bike to the railings, thinking, as I fumbled for the key, how I’d have to talk to my landlord about cutting back the overgrown creeper. It was coming at me, reaching for me from every angle. Then I felt a spasm in my back. I was being watched. You know the way you just know, the way your primal instinct kicks in?

Firmly clutching my bike chain in my hand, I swiveled around and manically scanned the overgrown bushes for a shadow. I could hear my own breathing, which was confusing. I heard a rustle in the leaves and, with a fright, jumped backward about twenty feet, straight into the next day’s rubbish collection. Cushioned by the wet, oozing black bags and almost suffocating from the smell of putrid onions, I involuntarily flailed my arms and legs in panic. My kicking split the bags and I saw a packet of pasta and a can of Coke break free.

“Are you okay?” The quietest voice I’d ever heard whispered from over my head.

I screamed and tried to kick, liberating some Daz Automatic and Walkers crisps.

“I’ll just be over here if you want some help,” the voice squeaked before a shadow moved back into the garden.

I rolled out of the rubbish and with great difficulty attempted
every yoga position I’d ever read about to try to stand up while still clutching my weapon of mass destruction.

“I have a weapon,” I shouted into the blackness.

“Okay,” came the response.

The shadow moved to the path and into my line of vision. He was tiny, wide-faced and anorak-wearing, with a side parting that must have been the envy of every Ken doll. He didn’t look like a mugger. He was firmly clutching a book with one hand and waving like a three-year-old on a merry-go-round with the other.

“Hi,” he shouted.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?”

I straightened up, confident that with a Chinese burn and some serious ear tugging I could outwit this mouselike mugger.

“My name’s Simon. It’s a great honor to make your acquaintance,” he shouted from the path with a nervous stutter. “I’m the chairman of the Seven Steps Fan Club.”

Those last few words hung in the air between us. Silence. “The fan club members have some questions for you that we hope you could answer? For example . . .” He started rummaging through his book, flicking furiously through the pages. I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the rain.

“I can’t hear you. Did you say questions?” I screamed.

“YES.”

I waved at Simon to come into the garden. He looked like he’d be eye level with my belt, so I didn’t think I had anything to worry about.

He shuffled in nervously. “A great honor,” he said, thrusting his wet hand toward mine.

I gestured toward the rubbish and my now filthy hands. He nodded like he understood and quickly produced a pen and scribbled something into his book.

“Did you say fan club?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard him.

He nodded. “We have some questions for you about the Seven Steps.”

“Who are you?”

“Simon Battersby.”

“Yes, but who are you?”

“Well, I’m thirty-four. I’m a chemical engineer. I live in Dublin, and I think that the Seven Steps are going to save us all.”

“Save us? From what?” I looked at him with a mixture of shock and sympathy. “Come on—the Red Hag, fairies, it’s a load of nonsense,” I said. “Have you ever heard anything like it before?” I laughed.

“Yes, yes. It’s written right here.” He flicked through his book and landed on a printout of the first Step. The page had been decorated with neon colors and pictures, just like on the Space Monkeys’ website. Rain was bouncing off it, and he tried to shield it with his hand. When that didn’t work, he dug around in his pocket and produced a clear plastic folder that he placed over it.

“But I wrote that. Well, Great-great-great-grand-aunt Kate did.”

I thought he must have been deaf, because he was nodding with such enthusiasm. “Well, the Red Hag also featured in the eighth quatrain of one of Nostradamus’s predictions, except, of course, he referred to ‘the great Red one.’ Oh, and earlier in the seventh quatrain, when he spoke of ‘a sect and the wise red-haired one.’” Simon flipped the pages in his scrapbook and showed me a double-page spread of diagrams and charts.

I nodded slowly. Was it just me or had everyone gone mad? “This is ridiculous,” I said.

He flipped his book again and scribbled in it.

“Ridiculous.”

He looked at me straight on. “I get it. Yes.”

Weirdo
.

“Drake Chandler, his first song, his first hit, he referred to a duplicitous red-haired lover.” He smiled at me knowingly. “There’s a few too many coincidences, if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask you
, I thought.

“How many people are in this fan club?”

“Just me at the moment.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and turned on my damp heel. “Good night, Simon Battersby. Try and stay in from the rain.”

“Kate, Kate. One more thing.”

The urgency in his voice made me spin around.

“The journalist, the one who’s writing the articles. She’s not on your side. Don’t trust her. I’ve come across her before on another project. She likes the darker side of the supernatural.”

I shook my head. As if I was going to take advice from the stalker in my garden.

“Good night.”

I ran all the way up the stairs, slipped out of my clothes, and took a long hot shower, letting any thoughts of the Seven Steps Fan Club’s one and only member slip down the drain.

9

I
’m always willing to try the latest fad. I was an early adopter of leggings, and I can put forward a balanced debate on the pros and cons of the Atkins diet.
If people are talking about it, I’m going to try it. And so on Thursday morning before work I decided to “go forth alone to nature” and complete the second Step.

I found myself climbing onto a rock on Bray strand and looking out to sea. The Step’s instructions were to “cherish healing seas.” And so I sat. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have chosen Bray as a destination to commune with nature, because it’s a seaside town, and kids’ screams reach a whole new decibel of excitement, fueled by cotton candy and sticks of rock candy. The seagulls only accept chips dosed in curry sauce, and will squawk about it until they’re served up just as they like it. Tickets for the big wheel and the dodgem cars come with strobe-light warnings: may cause seizures, death, and/or deafness. But it’s only a few train stops away, and the fairies just mentioned nature in general. No specifics. So, nature with the incessant
ker-klunk
of fifty-cent slot machines was probably okay.

The rock was cold and sharp and very uncomfortable, and I wasn’t too sure if I should be touching it with my hands. Did I need to make actual contact with the rock, or was it enough just
to be sitting on it and feeling its damp sharpness soak through my jeans? Then I focused on “clearing my head of noise.” This wasn’t easy either, because all I could think was:
Clear my head of noise, clear my head of noise, clear my head of noise
. It was a lot of noise bouncing around in my head. And there were other voices popping in, too.
What am I doing sitting on a rock in Bray? If someone I know sees me, they’re going to think I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have gone mad. Should I be listening for fairies? What would they sound like, anyway? What am I doing? Shhh, I should be thinking about nature. Shhh, focus on clearing your head of noise—I need to empty out my brain.

And then I was on a loop back to square one, desperately searching for silence. And how long was I supposed to sit there for, anyway? Until I felt a tingle? I was already tingling—well, shivering. I took the shiver as a prompt to ask for my heart’s desire. I had to think about that: “my heart’s desire.”
Be realistic
, I thought. I desire, and have always desired, money, nice clothes, a smaller nose, hair with less frizz, an Hermès handbag, and a labrador puppy with big chocolate-brown eyes whose hair doesn’t molt onto the couch. But I’m no fool: I’ve read fairy tales. I know that you never, ever wish for material possessions. You wish for the intangible: love, health, joy. And so I did—I wished for a love that would make my face ache with smiles, a healthy body whose lungs filled up with fresh air, and a joyful skip in my soul. And as I slid off the rock, my jeans damp and an icy tremor in my bones, having not seen or heard a fairy, I felt jolly. Honestly I did. I think taking a minute or two, or five, out of your day to sit on a rock on the beach—to listen to the sea gurgling, in between sirens and fighting seagulls, to think about things that make you happy—actually makes you feel happy.

I didn’t feel like I’d had a fairy experience—not that I’d know
what a fairy experience would feel like—but I did have a smile on my face as I bought my train ticket from the stationmaster.

He collected my coins with dirty fingers, rubbing them on the arm of his navy jacket. “You look happy.”

“I am,” I said.

“You must have gotten lucky last night.” He flicked the ticket at me with a knowing wink.

“Pervert!” I shouted, grabbing the ticket. I pulled my cardigan tight around me and marched up the platform, back to real life with a whack, thud, wallop.

When I got back to the office, I kept my early-morning expedition to myself. No one needed to know that I’d been sitting on a rock. At my desk was a sack full of kitty litter, a mountain of cat food, and a giant Irish wolfhound. The kitty litter and cat food I could explain: I’d agreed to babysit Colin’s cat. His oldest son was suffering from allergies, and while he was getting tested the doctor recommended removing the cat. I’d offered to take Mister Snoop Doggy Dogg, who was going to be delivered to my flat that night.

The wolfhound’s chin was perched expectantly on my seat and he wiggled his eyebrows as I approached.

“Setanta? What are you doing here?”

He shimmied under my desk in the manner of a shrug and proceeded to curl into a ball, a big ball, and pretend to be asleep.