Sarah England - Baba Lenka - Pure Occult Horror

“Don’t do that, Eva. Tell you what, I’ll ring them tonight to let them know we’re coming together, that you’re only sixteen and I’m bringing you for the first time next week.”

He was going to make sure Mum was sedated, wasn’t he? Tip them off so she wouldn’t make a scene or say anything. But it was a start.

I’m going to see my mum!

“But don’t think you’re going to grill her and find out what Baba Lenka did. You won’t find that out, Eva. Not over my dead body. That dies with me and your mother.”

I stared deep into his eyes. Like fuck it did…

I was so excited. At long last the mystery would unravel. And that first night, opening up the rucksack to pull out all those things packed in fear and haste just two days before was a joy. Smiling, I took out the crow poppet, holding for a moment the only connection to those who had travelled this path before me. The tiny amethyst on its chest glinted, the ebony feathers lustrous. As ever, it felt comforting, protective, and part of who I was.

In addition to being able to see Mum, I would have a job, had money, and was no longer forced to sit watching Earl Hart chew the cud and pick his nose night after night. Free… free… and so very, very happy. For two whole days I was on a high, playing the radio and dancing round my room. Two blissful days of hope and light, plans and dreams.

But on day three that all came to an end. I woke up to the sting of a hungry mosquito, and there on my upper arm was a single sore as bright and shiny as a red jelly bean.

Give us work… more work… more work…

Already? I sat up in bed staring at it. And tears filled my eyes.

The previous night I’d rung Nicky from the call box on the corner, to tell her I’d found Dad, and also had a job and a nice place to live – better than overlooking the pit wheel, anyway – this one faced a huge green park.

“I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you, too.”

“I ’eard Mark Curry were looking for you an’ all.”

My heart had skipped. Mark’s dimpled smile and mischievous brown eyes twinkled before me. “Was he?”

“Yeah, he said he liked you. He came right up to me and asked where you went after the party.”

That night seemed so long ago, a tiny starlit moment in time.

“Why did you disappear, anyway? Mum said you could stay with us, and I were dead excited. You could’ve gone out wi’ Mark, and we could’ve both got jobs together. I’m gutted, Eva. I don’t mind saying.”

“I’m sorry, Nicky. Please, will you tell your mum I’m sorry as well? But I had to run like hell. It were me grandad… Something bad happened, and—”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me – Mum said there were an ambulance outside your grandparents’ house yesterday. They took Mr Hart out on a stretcher.”

Fuck – it had worked! I slammed a hand to my mouth. “Oh?”

“We didn’t know how to contact you. I’m right glad you rang. I think they took him to Wakefield General if you want to go and visit?”

“Oh, right, thanks.”

“It might be a heart attack or summat. I can meet you there if you want?”

“No, you’re all right. Nicky, listen, the pips are going to go in a minute, and I haven’t got any more ten-pence pieces. I’ll ring back soon, okay? We could go out? We’ll easily pass for eighteen!”

“Oh, that’d be brill—”

There were ten pips, and the call was over. I missed her badly and Mark, too, but hopefully Nicky and I would have our night out. That would be exciting, the first time in a pub, and here in this upmarket part of Leeds the pubs had outdoor areas with patios and parasols. It buzzed with promise, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke intoxicating on the sultry, warm air. I had the feeling I might meet someone, too… In fact, I was convinced of it.

Looking back now, it breaks my heart, that my young spirit had soared with such hope even then, even after all that had happened and all I knew. Yet still I’d hoped, like any other normal young girl.

Helen was cooking for her three kids when I got back from phoning Nicky. Already I felt part of their life, of life in general with all its possibilities. And smiling, I sprinted up the three flights of stairs to my room on the top floor. Mark Curry was pining for me, and Nicky and I were going to go out to a pub…

But that night, as I drifted into sleep, a cool wind blew against my face, and quite unexpectedly the dreams with Baba Lenka resumed. The darkness was back. I should have known I’d wake up ill again.

However, these dreams were nothing like the ones before. They were not coming from an emotional, vibrant young girl. Rather, they were a series of images shot in black and white, like a scratchy old film. Instead of being in her skin and living her life as if it were my own, this was more akin to watching an impartial documentary through a long lens, as if the person presenting was simply projecting tape reels from an archive. I was inside her head but disconnected from feelings. Whoever this was, looked and talked like Lenka, but it wasn’t her… I can’t explain it… except it wasn’t her anymore.

The first dream sequence showed a middle-aged man who was vaguely recognisable. The most distinguishable characteristic was a huge upturned moustache in the shape of a joker smile. The second notable aspect was a Nehru-collared uniform ablaze with medals. He wore long boots and was stomping around a palatial room, behind him full-length windows that opened onto expansive lawns that glistened with snow.

He wore an expression of enormous petulance, pale blue eyes darting with madness. He would make a speech to the nation and damn this or that adviser! I had the impression of lying on a bed, watching him with the kind of disdain reserved for fools. Reflected in a long, gilt-edged mirror opposite, a woman turned to stare directly at me and our eyes locked. Yes, it was Lenka, definitely… Smoking from a slim cigarette holder, she was wearing a long silk chemise, her red hair wavy and bobbed. A ripple of pleasure at her appearance flickered inside of me, and for a moment we regarded each other with interest. Unable to stop myself, I felt drawn, looking deep into eyes that were my own. Yet at the same time, they weren’t mine at all, but solid black.

Solid black?

My heart lurched. And at the very moment that hit me, her image zoomed with lightning speed towards my third eye.

Wake up… wake up… wake yourself up!

Still half awake, half asleep, my heart was kicking so hard in my chest it set the pulse points burning to a deep ache. Those eyes had reflected my face. My face as it is now, in the mirror, in photographs. And that reflection had been upside down.

Wake up, wake up…

Oh, I wanted to wake, to come out of the nightmare, but could not. The scene pulled me back in and resumed, weighting me down and forcing me to watch. I think a fragment of the real Lenka remained. She needed me to see this, to witness as much as possible, and as such she turned her focus back to the wildly gesticulating, ranting man with the moustache. A channel of energy was being sent into his brain, which required a magnitude of concentration. He was being shown a picture of himself on a balcony, beneath which thousands of people were waving flags, chanting his name and cheering. The rush of power was so great it elevated him to the status of a god. No one was above him. The gratitude of the peasants was overwhelming, how they loved him for his immense greatness, leadership and wisdom. Yes, he would and could stamp all over opposition.

He regarded the woman sending him this marvellous vision, and his glacial expression melted. Smiling, he began to walk towards the bed, already undoing his belt.