Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (9 page)

“Wolf told you. Look in place of blame.”

“I’m sure I can imagine.”

“Only worker imagine.”

“Yeah, but …”

“You find out! When you get job!”

I dawned on me finally that when Mirela said something, she usually meant it literally.

Fergus was the only person investigating the Papa Bulgaria scam, how it was run on cheap, almost slave labour. Because the police couldn’t act—possibly they couldn’t be bothered to act—without sufficient evidence.

“You want me to work at Papa Bulgaria?”

“
Da
!”

Bridgwater is a place where a dark skin tone stands out like a monk’s habit in a karate club, so at Papa’s shop I might appear to be something I was not; desperate, far from home, penniless. An interview for a job would be a good way to meet the owner of Papa Bulgaria and find out what people really got paid. After all, I didn’t have to take the job, did I?

“Mirela,” I asked, “have you ever met Mr. Papazov?”

“He come one time a week. Wednesday, do numbers.”

“Would I see him if I applied for a job?”

She nodded. “This is good. This ver’ good, Sabbie. This is real investigate.”

“Right,” I said. “You get me an interview with Mr. Papa, and in the meantime, we go to the police and report Kizzy missing. Is that a deal?”

“Okay,” said Mirela. And she grinned like a teenager who had just got all her own way.

_____

Mirela and I parted company when we reached Wemdon Road, her to go to work and me to fetch Hermes from the railings outside her lodgings. But when I got back, my bike was nowhere to be seen. I stupidly walked up and back down the entire street, unsure which house railings I’d chained it to. But when I looked closer, I spotted my bike chain, tossed into the narrow strip of front garden. The links had been sliced through with a bolt cutter. I stood with them in my hand, gawping. Then I walked up the path and hammered on the front door.

Petar the lanky lad opened it. When he saw me, his face transformed into what he considered to be his charm offensive. Offensive it certainly felt. I raised the chain so that it was between our eyes. “Know anything about this?”

“No, nothing,” he said, sealing his guilt.

“I’m going to report the theft to the police and name you as number-one suspect, using this as my evidence.”

He curled his fist around the chain, so that our hands brushed together. The contact made me shudder and I pulled away, but as I did so, he yanked, and the chain shot through my fingers, scratching and burning as it went. He hurled the chain into the house; it skidded across the ancient linoleum and curled itself around a chair leg.

“Good luck,” he said. And slammed the door.

I went on knocking for over ten minutes, but no one came. By then, my hands were sore and shaking with fury. I’d forgotten: the Greek god Hermes was a tricksy little bugger when he wanted to be. He had winged sandals so that he could lift off and disappear whenever he chose.

eight

“I can’t believe it,”
said Marianne. “You plan to get a job serving in a takeaway?”

It was early on Tuesday evening and we were sitting at the patio table in my garden. It was cloudless and bitterly cold, but that meant we had a fabulous view of the full moon—an ancient silver coin hanging above us.

The moon had risen almost immediately after the sun had set, and Marianne had come round straight from work. We were drinking in moon-glow.

Marianne was an executive for a public relationship company. In her working life she dealt with flow charts and Venn diagrams … whatever they were. She was from Holland, where everything’s contained within dikes and ditches, and I knew she liked to have her life tightly controlled. She was as willowy and preened as the storks you see on Dutch roofs, and we’d been shamanic buddies for over a year now. She usually came round for the full moon so we could bathe under it—last summer, if we were positive no one could see, we skinny-dipped in the moonbeams. This evening though, skinny-dipping was not on the cards. We were bundled into layers of coats and scarves with added duvets.

I had explained my journey in the wolf forest to Marianne. She knew I would not give her Mirela’s name, but we always managed to chew over cases without IDing my clients. Then I’d told her about Fergus Quigg and Mr. Papazov, and the interview arranged with him tomorrow at lunchtime.

“Guardians love to nudge people into things,” I hazarded.

“Why would they nudge you into taking a dead-end job?”

“I don’t have to take it,” I said. “The interview is … research. The spirit wolf might have been talking of Papa’s shop when he told me to look in the place of blame. It was the first thing in my client’s mind, at least. No harm in snooping around.”

“But the takeaway wouldn’t want their staff to leave,” Marianne pointed out.

“Okay, but someone who works there might have information about her, perhaps without realizing it. Anyway, they’re running a massive scam that involves conning innocent people. I’m as keen as Fergus to find out what’s going on at Papa Bulgaria.”

Marianne gave me one of her Dutch looks. “Perhaps you are keen on Fergus too?”

I tried not to grin. “He’s charming … actually he’s quite a flirt, but we have a professional relationship. And
anyway
,” I said, scowling at Marianne because she had started to chuckle, “it’s more to do with cash flow.”

“Cash flow?”

“Yeah. Cash is flowing out of my account and not even trickling back in.”

“It’s probably a seasonal dip.”

“I’m a householder, Marianne, I can’t afford dips.”

“You are mad. They’ll pay you nothing. You would better spend your time finding clients for what you are good at—your therapy work.”

“Okay.” There was no point in arguing. For a start, she was right. I gazed up at the moon and tried to take my mind off Mirela. “It would be nice to meet like this for the seasonal festivals. You know, celebrate the wheel of the year.”

“Ah,” said Marianne. “I’ve seen that in my own country, rituals for the solstices. The next one would be the Winter Solstice.”

“Yule is more meaningful to us than Christmas, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d like that. I have some friends who are Wiccan, you know.”

“No,” I said, my ears pricked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Avalon and Teddy. They were the priest and priestess of a coven near Glastonbury. But it imploded.”

I laughed. Marianne’s English is impeccable, so I had to assume she didn’t mean
ex
ploded. I had an inappropriate but enjoyable image of black pointy hats and broomsticks all melding into a black cauldron. “There’s Garth and Stella too,” I said. “The couple I met last spring. The parents of the little boy who was snatched?”

Marianne winced. “I remember.”

I nodded in recognition of the memories. Garth and Stella had spent almost two weeks not knowing if their son was alive or dead, but the experience brought them back together spiritually, and I thought they might be interested in celebrating Yule.

“That is six persons. A good number for a small ritual.”

“Sounds great.”

We lapsed into silence. The moon glowed down on us, transforming the garden to silver. After a while, Marianne said, “We should make a wish. You first.”

We often made a wish or a challenge to ourselves, when there was a full moon. I threw off my wraps and stood up. I could feel the sheen of moon-glow. I sucked in a deep breath of it and focused on the pure, round beauty of the winter moon.

“I need to be shown,” I began. What did I need to be shown? “O moon goddess—grant me insight! Am I taking the right route with my new client? Are my decisions the best decisions for her? For me? Where is the place of blame? Is it Papa Bulgaria? What might I find there?” I picked up the bowl that stood on the table. We’d filled it with red spring water from Glastonbury, so that the moonbeams would saturate it and make it even more powerful. Its icy bitterness slid into my stomach. I felt I had swallowed my answer, and all I had to do was wait for it to materialize. I passed the bowl to Marianne.

“I would ask one thing of the goddess,” she said. She was staring into the bowl, scrying the water. “To grant, in this season of gathering darkness, safe passage to Geoff’s father, that he may leave this Earth with ease and peace.”

I knew that Geoff was Marianne’s partner. He was an IT consultant and a really nice guy. She hadn’t told me that his father was dying. No doubt she would when she was ready. Silently, we picked up the wrappings we’d tossed aside and went into the kitchen, leaving the bowl of water to lap up the moonlight.

I sliced a new-baked loaf and unwrapped some cheese. We needed to bring ourselves down from the moon and onto
terra firma
. Marianne uncorked the wine she’d brought. I put on some Celtic music because we were in the mood for pipe and bodhran. We sat on the sofa balancing our plates on our knees and I was lifting the first mouthful to my lips when the doorbell chimed.

“Damn.”

“People always call when you least want or expect,” said Marianne.

“Yeah, why can’t they come round just as you’ve finished cleaning the house instead?”

The bloke in my porch was tall, with very white skin, as though he rarely saw the sun. Even his scalp was white; I could see it glow through a ruler-straight parting in black hair that was bottle-dyed to hide the grey. His moustache was tidily trimmed and as black as the hair above it. He was in a tidy black suit. A thin tie was restrained against his shirt by a fat enamel tie pin. He carried a black case.

Cold caller
, I thought. I’d brought my glass of wine to the door, in readiness to shoo an unwelcome visitor away.

“Good evening.”

I sipped my wine, taking the path of least commitment.

“Isn’t it a beautiful world God has given us?”

I grinned at him, in the mood to shock. “Or the goddess.”

He pressed his lips together, displeased, and the moustache jerked like a salute. “God’s great love is free for everyone. We are walking from door to door, so that people in this town can have the chance to learn more about that.”

“I’m afraid none of this is of interest to me.”

“You are not interested in God’s love?”

I wasn’t going to answer his trick questions. The man shook a flyer at me. “We are requesting that you take time out to peruse this short leaflet and join us in our mission to live our lives to the glory of the Lord.”

I kept my hands behind my back. “Is this like the Mormons, something like that?”

“We’re a smaller group who invite you to worship and pray with us on Friday evenings. We love and follow the Lord and fight the devil.”

Devil. That word didn’t often enter my world, but I hadn’t forgotten Andy Comer’s hiss …
you have heard the voice of the devil
… as he ripped up my letter to Drea, and that hiss reminded me of the journey I’d taken for her, the way the snake had reared and attacked me. In an odd kind of way, this man in his shiny suit reminded me of Anaconda.

“I’m sorry. I’m not interested.” I tried closing the door, but he got himself bodily inside the frame. He might profess not to be a salesman, but he certainly knew the techniques.

“Young people like you need a faith in their lives.”

I stepped back in sheer amazement. He stepped into the gap. He was almost in my hall and for the first time I felt a little worried.

“I would like you to go away now,” I said.

“I can see it in your eyes that you need the love of Jesus. Poor child, you’re moving through life without a direction.” He lifted his chin and his voice seemed to follow. “Taking in wine and pleasure instead of God’s goodness. I ask the Lord to offer you repentance so that you can find the way—so your life can be enriched and your soul saved!”

“I’m not lost. I believe in the ancient gods.”

He frowned. Telling people with missionary zeal that I’m a pagan is usually sufficient to put them off—send them howling down the path—and I was hoping that this guy was ready to take the hint. I wasn’t in the mood for a theological debate with a stranger.

“God’s love is for everyone. So many young people—”

“Not this young person. Try elsewhere.” I started to push the door against his shiny leather shoe. “Down the road. There’s some young people in need of … whatever it was …”

His moustache looked satisfied with the promise of further pickings. He began to move back over the doorstep. “Which number would that be?”

“I dunno,” I said, in desperation. “Try the newly painted house.”

Finally, I was able to get the door tight shut. But through the spy-hole I could see that he hadn’t budged from my porch. We were standing on opposite sides of a closed door. Maybe he was thinking that if he hung around I’d open up again.

A few seconds ticked by. Then my letterbox flap opened, making a wild snapping sound. I jumped. A sort of yelp came out of me. The flyer he’d been hawking fluttered onto the doormat.

“Horrid,” said Marianne, coming into the hallway. I nearly fell on her neck, she looked so in charge and together in her tribal print top and slim leg black jeans. “I heard it all.” She picked up the cream-coloured flyer.

CORE

Children of the Revelation Enlightenment

The Time of the Second Coming is at Hand

The Rev Eric Atkinson and his congregation implore you

to listen to the message of

The LORD of the REVELATION

We meet to worship, pray, and praise God each Friday

Seven p.m. at Charter Hall, Bridgwater.

The children of the lord will be saved first.

“CORE … never heard of them,” said Marianne.

“Never want to again.” I tossed the flyer into the recycling and we returned to our little feast and our plans for the Winter Solstice, but I couldn’t quite shift the memory of this Eric Atkinson person, leaning in too close to me, trying to make out who I was. I’d felt his power ooze from him like mustard gas … arrogant, even vengeful, the sort of guy who sought out vulnerable people because he knew they made the best converts … he’d as good as told me so … young people who are lost. I was sorry I’d mentioned Drea’s house. I’d been too keen to get him away from my own front door to think about what might happen at theirs. His oozing presence had robbed me of my wits. But it would be okay. Andy would be at home. Andy would bulldoze him off the porch step. He’d bulldozed me, quick enough.

_____

Daybreak Wednesday. It was half-seven and icy cold in the garden. The hens fell over their skinny little legs to get into the run as I put down their hopper of pellets. All except Florence, who was busy making eyes at Kaiser the cockerel. Despite his youth, he was already lording it over the females. I swear Florence was wiggling her tail feathers at him. “You tart!” I chucked some extra feed her way.

I’d never clapped eyes on a hen until I went to live with Gloria’s family. The first thing that Dennon had said to me as I rolled my suitcase up the front step of the Davidsons’ terraced house was, “Hope you like getting up early on Sundays.”

“What?” I’d replied. Come to think of it, that was almost all I ever did say, back then, apart from the longer version,
wha’ever
. I was coming up thirteen and as angrily inarticulate as it was possible to be.

“Sundays. Crap. All day.”

“What?”

“Church at nine in the morning. Yeah, and she
makes
you go. Then it’s
the
walk
.”

“
What
?”

“That’s Dad’s department, the walking.”

“What, back from the church?”

“You’d be lucky. It’s all over the friggin’ fields.”

“What fields?”

He’d sniffed. “You’ll see.”

“I bloody won’t see. I don’t get pushed around.”

But the first time Philip made me get in the car with Dennon, Gloria, Charlene, and a pair of boots, all I actually said was, “
Wha’ever
.”

It wasn’t just fields. We had walked through woods and pine forests, along tow paths, around lakes, up little hills, farther up bigger hills, and sometimes along ridgeways. But we always stopped for a picnic or a pub meal if it was wet and often took in something nice to see … a ruined castle or a craft centre or something. I liked the petting farms best, got quite into the ugly goats and dippy sheep, but I definitely fell in love with hens. They’re feathered like queens and feel as soft as duvets when you pick them up.

When I moved into Harold Street and started tilling the soil (as Philip puts it), it seemed natural to get some. I chose ex-battery hens, the sort without feathers and a lifetime of “stuff ” that no analyst could attempt to heal. I named them all after aromatherapy oils, in case it helped. Someone gave me a not-so-sweet-smelling cockerel—Cocky Bastard—ready and willing for chicken nooky morning, noon, and evening, but not one chick was born of his seed, as ex-bats don’t get broody.