Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

She paid him. She asked for a receipt. Her mind was already moving ahead, to Al’s accounts, her business expenses. The first thing I shall do, she thought, is bump up her prices. Why should people expect a conversation with the dead for the price of a bottle of wine and a family-size pizza?

The driver ripped a blank off the top of his pad, and offered it to her, bowing. “Could you fill it in?” she said. “Signed and dated.”

“Of what amount shall I put?”

“Just the figure on the meter.”

“Home sweet home?”

“I’m visiting a friend.”

He handed back the slip of paper, with an extra blank receipt beneath. Cabman’s flirtation; she handed back the blank.

“These flats, two-bedroom?”

“I think so.”

“En suite? How much you’ve paid for yours?”

Is this what passes for multicultural exchange? she wondered. Not that she was prejudiced. At least it’s to the point. “I told you, I don’t live here.”

He shrugged, smiled. “You have a business card?”

“No.” Has Alison got one? Do psychics have cards? She thought, it will be uphill work, dragging her into the business world.

“I can drive you at any time,” the man said. “Just call this number.”

He passed over his own card. She squinted at it. God, she thought, I’ll need glasses soon. Several numbers were crossed out in blue ink and a mobile number written in. “Cell phone,” he said. “You can just try me day or night.”

He left her at the door, drove away. She glanced up again. I hope there’s room for me, she thought. I shall have to be very neat. But then, I am. Was Alison looking down, watching her arrive? No, she wouldn’t need to look out of the window. If someone arrived she would just know.

Al’s flat was at the back, it turned out. She was ready with the door open. “I thought you’d be waiting,” Colette said.

Alison blushed faintly. “I have very sharp earsight. I mean, hearing—well, the whole package.” Yet there was nothing sharp about her. Soft and smiling, she seemed to have no edges. She reached out for Colette and pulled her resistant frame against her own. “I hope you’ll be happy. Do you think you can be happy? Come in. It’s bigger than you’d think.”

She glanced around the interior. Everything low, squarish, beige. Everything light, safe. “All the kit’s in the hall cupboard,” Al said. “The crystals and whatnots.”

“Is it okay to keep it in there?”

“It’s better in the dark. Tea, coffee?”

Colette asked for herbal tea. No more meat, she thought, or cakes. She wanted to be pure.

While she was unpacking, Al brought in a green soupy beverage in a white china mug. “I didn’t know how you liked it,” she said, “so I left the bag in.” She took the cup carefully, her fingertips touching Al’s. Al smiled. She clicked the door shut, left her to herself.

The bed was made up, a double bed. Big bouncy duvet in a plain cream cover. She turned the duvet back. The sheet was crisply ironed. High standards: good. She’d seen enough squalor. She picked up her wash bag. Found herself in Al’s bathroom—Al hovering and saying, rather guilty, just push up my things and put yours down—shall I leave you to do that? Another tea?

She stared around. Floris , indeed. Is she rich or just in need of a great deal of comfort? It’s better than we had, she thinks, me and Gavin. She thought of their second-floor conversion, with the clanking and erratic central heating, the sudden icy draughts.

“Come through. Make yourself at home.” There were two sofas, square and tweedy; Al flopped onto one, a stack of glossies beside her, and indicated that Colette should join her. “I thought you might like to look at my advert.” She picked up one of the magazines. “Flick through from the back and you’ll see me.”

She turned back, past the horoscopes. For once she didn’t pause to glance at her own. Why keep a dog and bark yourself? Alison’s photograph was a beaming smudge on the page.

Alison, psychic since birth. Private consultations. Professional and caring. Relationships, business, health. Spiritual guidance.

“Are people willing to travel to Slough?”

“Once you explain to them it’s the nice part. I do telephone consultations, if need be, though given a choice I like to look the sitter in the eye.”

“Videophones,” Colette said. “Can’t be long now. It will make all the difference.”

“I can travel to them, if the price is right. I will if I think it’s going to be a long-term arrangement. I rely on my regulars, it’s where most of my income is. Do you think it’s all right, the ad?”

“No. It should be in colour. And bigger. We have to invest.” Above it was a listing for cosmetic surgery, displaying BEFORE and AFTER pictures. There was a woman with a sagging jawline who looked, in the second picture, as if she’d been slapped under the chin by a giant. A woman with skin flaps for breasts had sprouted two vast globules; their nipples stood out like the whistles on a life jacket. Below the pictures—

Alison bounced across the sofa towards her, causing the frame to creak. “Surprisingly sleazy, these journals,” Al said. She laid her long painted nail on an advert for Sex Advice, with a number to call after each item. “Lesbian anal fun. Did you know lesbians had anal fun?”

“No,” Colette said, in a voice as distant as she could manage. Al’s scent washed over her in a great wave of sweetness. “I don’t know, I mean, I’ve never thought. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Neither do I,” Al said. Colette thought, Spicy lesbo chicks . Al patted her shoulder; she froze. “That was not fun,” Al said. “That was reassurance.” She dropped her head and her hair slid forward, hiding her smile. “I just thought we’d get the topic out of the way. So we both know where we stand.”

The room had magnolia walls, corded beige carpet, a coffee table that was simply a low featureless expanse of pale wood. But Al kept her tarot cards in a sea-grass basket, wrapped in a yard of scarlet silk, and when she unwrapped and spilled its length onto the table, it looked as if some bloody incident had occurred.

August. She woke: Al stood in the door of her room. The landing light was on. Colette sat up. “What time is it? Al? What’s the matter, has something happened?”

The light shone through Al’s lawn nightdress, illuminating her huge thighs. “We must get ready,” she said: as if they were catching an early flight. She approached and stood by the bed.

Colette reached up and took her sleeve. It was a pinch of nothingness between her fingers.

“It’s Diana,” Al said. “Dead.”

Always, Colette would say later, she would remember the shiver that ran through her: like a cold electric current, like an eel.

Al gave a snort of jeering laughter. “Or as we say, passed.”

“Suicide?”

“Or accident. She won’t tell me. Teasing to the last,” Al said. “Though probably not quite the last. From our point of view.”

Colette jumped out of bed. She pulled her T-shirt down over her thighs. Then she stood and stared at Alison; she didn’t know what else to do. Al turned and went downstairs, pausing to turn up the central heating. Colette ran after her.

“I’m sure it will be clearer,” Al said, “when it actually happens.”

“What do you mean? You mean it hasn’t happened yet?” Colette ran a hand through her hair, and it stood up, a pale fuzzy halo. “Al, we must do something!”

“Like?”

“Warn somebody! Call the police! Telephone the queen?”

Al raised a hand. “Quiet, please. She’s getting in the car. She’s putting her seat belt—no, no, she isn’t. They’re larking about. Not a care in the world. Why are they going that way? Dear, dear, they’re all over the road!”