Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

The telephone rang. Al lifted the receiver and said loudly, “Hello, and how’s Natasha this fine morning? And the Tsars? Good, good.” She dropped her voice confidingly. “Hi, Mandy, how are you, love?”

She smirked to herself. Who needs caller display? Colette, that’s who. She saw Colette scowl at her: as if she were taking some mean advantage.

When Colette left the room she said to Mandy, “Guess what? I thought Colette had seen a spirit.”

“And had she?”

“It seems not. It looks like it was a burglar.”

“Oh dear, anything taken?”

“No, he didn’t get in. Just walked about outside.”

“Why did she think he was a spirit?”

“It was last night. She thought she was dreaming. It was me who thought it was a spirit. When she said, I saw a man outside by moonlight, I thought I’d got a new guide.”

“No sign of Morris coming back?”

“None, thankfully.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Only I have nightmares, Al wanted to say; but who doesn’t, in our trade?

“So did you ring the police?” Mandy said. “Because it’s awful down here on the coast. Your teeth aren’t safe in your head.”

“No, I didn’t bother. There’s nothing to tell them. I think I saw him myself. He didn’t look harmful. If it was the same man. Unless there are different men wandering around our garden. Which is possible, of course.”

“Don’t take any chances,” Mandy said. “Anyway, Al, I won’t take up your morning, let’s cut to the chase. There’s a new psychic supplier opened down in Cornwall, and they’ve got a very keen price list with some special introductory offers. Also, for a limited period they’re doing free postage and packaging. Cara put me on to them. She’s got some excellent runes and she says they’re going down very well with her regulars. You want a change, don’t you, from time to time? A change is as good as a rest.”

Alison scribbled down the details. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll pass it on to Colette. You’re a good mate, Mand. I wish I saw more of you.”

“Drive down,” Mandy said. “We’ll have a girl’s night out.”

“I couldn’t. I don’t drive anymore.”

“How hard can it be? Cut across to Dorking, then straight down the A24.”

“I’ve lost confidence. Behind the wheel.”

“Let me know what time you’re leaving, and I’ll chant for you.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay out overnight. I couldn’t leave Colette.”

“Christsake! Get in the car and do it, Al! She doesn’t own you.”

“She says what toast I can have.”

“What?”

“How thick a slice. I can’t have butter. Not any. It’s awful.”

“God, she’s such a bossy little madam!”

“But she’s very efficient. She’s great with the VAT. I couldn’t do it, you see. So I have to put up with her.”

“Have you heard of accountants?” Mandy said scathingly. “What do you think an accountant is for? Toss your bloody receipts in a brown envelope and stuff them in the post box at the end of the quarter. That’s what I do.”

“She’d be hurt,” Al said. “She’s got so little in her life, really. She has this ex with a nasty aura, I only got a glimpse of it but it churns your stomach. She needs me, you see. She needs some love.”

“She needs a slap!” Mandy said. “And if I hear any more of this toast business, I’ll whiz up there to Woking and give it her myself.”

Over the course of the day, it became clear to Al’s sharp eye that they had a guest in the shed. Something or someone was lurking; presumably it was the young lad in the hat. Perhaps, she thought, I should take something to defend myself, in case he turns nasty. Hesitating in the kitchen, she had at last picked up the bacon scissors. The blades fitted snugly into her palm, and the bright orange handles looked playfully robust, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way; it was much the sort of weapon you’d choose to break up a fight in a primary school playground. If anybody sees me, she thought, they’ll just assume that I’m about some tricky little garden operation; that I’m notching a stem, nipping a bud, cutting a bloom, except there isn’t one to cut, we’re not up to flowers yet.

When she opened the shed door, she braced herself for the young man to rush at her, try to push past. It could be the best thing, she thought, if he did. I ought to step back and let him go, if it comes to that. Except that if someone’s been in my outbuilding I’d like to know why.

The shed was in gloom, its small window spattered, as if it had been raining mud. In the corner was a mournful bundle that barely stirred, let alone made a dash for it. The boy was drawn into a foetal position, arms around his knees; his eyes travelled upwards, and stuck when they reached her right hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. She peered down at him, perplexed. “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

He had been living rough at the garden centre, the young man said. “I saw you with your friend, blond-haired lady, innit? You were looking at the Grace Road.”

“That’s right,” Al said.

“Thanks for this tea, by the way, this is good tea. Then after that you looked at Old Smokey, but you gave it the thumbs-down. You gave it the old heave-ho.”

As Al leaned back against the wall of the new shed, it shivered slightly, swayed. Not the most solid structure, she thought. “That’s where you were,” she said, “when I spotted you. You were hanging about inside Old Smokey.”

“I thought you saw me.” His head drooped. “You didn’t say hello.”

“I didn’t know you, how could I?” She didn’t say, I thought you were in spectral form.

“Any more of this tea?”

“Wait a minute.”

Alison took the mug from him. She inched open the door of the Balmoral, and peeped out to make sure there was no one in the neighbouring gardens, before she made a dash for the house. She couldn’t rule out, of course, being seen by spectators from an upper window. She thought, I’ve a perfect right to walk across my own lawn, from my own shed, with a china mug in my hand. But she found herself scuttling, head down.

She scurried into the kitchen and slammed the back door after her. She ran to the kettle and slammed down the switch. She rummaged in a cup-board. Better make him a flask, she thought. Can’t be running across the lawn, bent double, every time he wants a hot drink.

The flask was at the back of the cupboard, bottom shelf, skidding shyly from her fingertips into the corner. She had to bend deeply to fish it out. The blood rushed to her head and thumped at the back of her nose. As she straightened up, her head swam. She thought, he’s my visitor. I can have a visitor, if I want, I suppose?

His mug was on the draining board, marked with grimy fingerprints. He can make do with the top of the flask for his cup, she thought. I’ll take him some kitchen roll to wipe it round with. She tore some paper off, waiting impatiently for the kettle. Sugar, she thought, diving into a cupboard. I expect he’ll want lots of sugar, tramps always do.

When she got back, Mart—that was his name, he said—was crouching in the corner away from the light. “I thought somebody might look through that window,” he said, “while you was away.”

“I’ve been as quick as I could. Here.”

He shook as he held the flask top. She put her hand round his to steady it as she poured. “You not having one?” he said.

“I’ll have mine inside later.” She said gently, “You’d better not come inside. My friend wouldn’t like it.”

“I used to live in the Far Pavilions,” he said. “I lived there nice for two nights. Then they chased me out. They thought I was off the premises but I looped back and broke into Old Smokey. I was just hanging about wondering what I should do next, then I saw you. And later I saw your shed go. So I followed it.”