Phil Rickman - Midwinter of the Spirit

‘Jane,’ Rowenna said, ‘listen to me. You cannot change other people – only yourself. In the end, the winners in this life are the people who go in with their eyes open and say: I’m not going to let God or Nature or the Bishop of Hereford or whoever fuck about with me. I’m going to call the shots.’

‘Right,’ Jane said. ‘I suppose that’s right.’

‘And it’s great if you can actually see that while you’re still young enough to do something about it – like us, you know?’

And, of course, Jane knew it was right. When someone like Rowenna, who was just that bit older and a cool person too, said this is right, it conferred a kind of responsibility. You felt you had to do something about it.

She tossed her paper cup into a litter bucket. ‘Let’s get out of this amusement arcade.’

‘Good idea,’ said Rowenna. ‘Go find the real stuff.’

‘Huh?’

‘This is just a front, isn’t it? The real heavy-duty clairvoyants are in little back rooms in the pub.’

‘You want to consult a clairvoyant?’

‘Check them out, anyway – see if they’re genuine. If they’re not, it’ll just be a laugh.’

‘Cost an arm and a leg,’ Jane said doubtfully.

‘They usually leave the amount up to you. Hey…’ Tenderly, Rowenna bent and stroked back Jane’s hair and peered into her eyes. ‘You’re not apprehensive, are you?’

‘Christ, no,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s go for it.’

Twice Lol had been down to the shop. Once to see if Moon wanted any help; but she explained that running a record shop wasn’t as easy as he might think, and shooed him away. The second time to see what she was doing for lunch; Moon had brought along two apples and a banana.

Moon insisted she was fine. Dick Lyden also said Moon was fine. If Dick was in two minds about anyone it was probably Lol, who’d claimed that Moon was living in squalor in the barn – until Dick had seen the place looking like a suburban villa, and Moon poised like she was ready to serve the canapés.

Denny also seemed a little happier when he called in, appearing at the door of the flat wearing a plaid overcoat and a big hat with a red feather, halfway to a smile.

‘She’s looking almost healthy,’ he conceded. ‘Is there something I don’t know?’

Lol shrugged. What could he say to him without reference to ghosts or disembowelled crows?

‘Listen, I don’t mind.’ Denny spread himself in the armchair. ‘I think it’s good. I’m glad, all right?’

‘She’s working on her book.’

‘Book? Oh.’ Denny looked uninterested, a touch pained. ‘That’s not really gonna happen, is it?’

‘ Does your family go all the way back to the Iron Age?’

Denny’s smile shut down altogether. ‘Could be.’

‘Is it a Celtic name, Moon?’

‘I really don’t know. We weren’t always called Moon. A daughter inherited the farm back in the eighteenth century, married a bloke called Moon. Look…’ Denny pulled on his earring. ‘There’s a little something you gotta help me with here, mate.’

‘Unblocking drains is not my responsibility. You are the landlord, Dennis.’

‘Nothing that simple, little friend. This is a really distasteful job. Dick Lyden fill you in about his kid? This Bishop-for-a-day crap – the kid refusing to play along?’

Lol nodded warily. ‘If they’d told me at sixteen I’d been picked for Boy Bishop, I’d’ve tried to get expelled first.’

‘This kid attends the Cathedral School,’ Denny said. ‘So his father pays good money for him to be publicly humiliated in front of his peers.’

Lol brought two lagers from the fridge, as Denny spelled it out. Dick, it seemed, had resorted to bribery: if the boy James swallowed his cool for just a day, Dick would finance a professionally produced CD by James and his rock band.

Lol winced. ‘What are they called?’

‘Tuneless Little Twats with Fender Strats. Fuck knows, does it matter? I told him you’d do it, Lol.’

‘Me?’

‘Produce them. You’ll get paid, of course.’

‘Sod off.’

‘Laurence, we’re talking EP-length, that’s all. Four tracks – two days’ work, max. A hundred copies, which is where I make my profit. It’s common enough these days – how I keep the studio up and running. I said you’d do it. James knows your stuff. James even likes your stuff.’

‘Suppose I hate his stuff?’

‘Good boy,’ said Denny, ‘I appreciate this. I said we’d give their material a listen tomorrow afternoon, OK? Good. And I’m glad about Kathy and you. I am really glad . God knows, I would do anything, give anything to get her away from there. Meanwhile, if she’s not alone, that’s the best thing I could hope for under the circumstances.’

Lol went still. ‘What has she said?’

‘I’m her brother,’ Denny said. ‘She doesn’t have to say anything to me.’

Later, after Denny had gone, it started to snow a little.

Lol stood by the window in the dark, looking down into lamplit Church Street/Capuchin Lane, the centuries seeping away along with the colours of the day. It was snowing briskly, all the shops had closed, most of the people had gone. If he leaned into the top corner of the window he could see the blackening tower of the Cathedral. Below him, a young guy guided a young woman gently into a shallow doorway and they embraced.

Lol thought of Moon in her dusty white nightdress.

‘ If she’s not alone …’

‘Fucking hell, I didn’t expect that.’ Rowenna had gone in first, and when she came out she raised her eyebrows, pulled Jane over to the door.

‘She was good?’

‘She was , actually.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty. I paid for you as well.’

‘There was no need for that. I’m not—’

‘Forget it. Go on, don’t keep her waiting. She might hang a curse on you.’

‘Shit,’ said Jane.

‘That was a joke.’

‘Sure.’

She didn’t, to be honest, like fortune-tellers one bit, and for the very reasons Rowenna had put to her earlier. Suppose the woman told her she was going to die soon? Or that Mum was? Not that they ever did; they just looked at you sadly from under their headscarves and said: Take your money back, dearie. All of a sudden I’m not feeling too well … And that was when you knew they were genuine and your card was marked.

‘Go on,’ Rowenna hissed.

The booth was just an alcove in the public bar with a wicker screen set up to hide it.

ANGELA. TAROT READINGS.

Rowenna had opted for her because, like she’d said, she herself knew a bit about the tarot, so would be able to tell if Angela was the real McCoy.

Oh, shit . Another thing Jane didn’t like was the way you were kind of putting yourself and your future in someone else’s hands. Whatever they wanted to tell you, it would stay with you, colour your dreams, frame your nightmares. Not Jane’s idea of New Age, which was about self-exploration – wasn’t it?

‘Jane…’

‘Yeah, OK.’

No alternative, no way out. Jane squeezed behind the partition.

ANGELA SMILED.

‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘There’s no need to be. Have you consulted the tarot before?’

‘Once or twice,’ Jane lied.

Angela smiled. She was sitting at a long pub table of scratched mahogany with wrought-iron legs. Behind her was a narrow window of frosted glass; the light it shed was cold and grey. It was going rapidly dark out there.

Angela’s hands were already in motion, spreading the cards and then gathering them together. Her hands were slender and supple; there were no rings. Suddenly she pushed the full pack in front of Jane.