by Chris Simms
‘You attended Mass there as a little girl, didn’t you?’ Rick asked.
‘Yes,’ Mary answered with a nostalgic smile. ‘A lot of the congregation was Irish. The completion of the monastery coincided with the arrival of huge numbers from back home. They were the people who helped turn Manchester into a proper city. Jon’s grandmother and all her sisters worked in the mills, and his grandfather and uncles helped dig the canals and build the aqueducts.’
Rick held up a forefinger and Jon could see he was now indulging Mary, encouraging her to reminisce. ‘Wasn’t Jon’s grand-father – your father – the champion bare-knuckle fighter?’
Jon saw his mother redden slightly. She didn’t like to admit the family’s passage out of Manchester’s slums was bought with the profits of smashing in men’s faces.
‘That was my great-granddad, Padraig,’ Jon said. ‘Huge bastard he was.’
‘Jon,’ his mum chided, ‘no need for language like that. You know, at its peak the monastery had a congregation of thousands. The sunlight would flood through the stained-glass windows on the eastern side, lighting up the apostles on their pedestals lining the nave. The reredos – that’s the carved screen behind the altar – would be shimmering with candles, and the air was fragrant with the incense that floated up into the vault above our heads.’
Fragrant, thought Jon. That’s one way of describing the stink. And you’re forgetting the line of miserable people waiting their turn in the confessionals. The clouds of guilt filling the place.
‘How did it end up as a derelict wreck?’ Rick asked.
Mary’s face fell. ‘It’s a shameful story. The slum clearances of the Seventies meant the congregation was moved away. New housing estates in Hyde and Hattersley and Wythenshawe. By the Nineteen-eighties there were only a few dozen of us going back to attend mass. They decided to close it and move the remaining friars to a monastery in Somerset. The last mass was celebrated, if that’s the word for it, in Nineteen Eighty-nine and the place was sold to property developers shortly after.’
Jon topped up their glasses. There was no stopping her now.
‘The plan was to turn it into flats, but the company went bust and the monastery was left unguarded. It was a tragedy. Vandals and looters moved in and all the artefacts and anything else was stolen. The twelve statues of the apostles went, the reredos was smashed, the pews were ripped out. It was scandalous. That building is a world heritage site.’
Rick looked at her, clearly taken aback by the story. The silence was broken by Alice collecting the plates, the noise stirring Mary from her reverie. ‘Anyway Jon, what are we to do about Ellie?’
‘Mum, she’s an adult. There’s no law stopping her from joining a coven. A couple of hundred years ago, maybe . . .’
‘Don’t be flippant. This is serious, she’s in danger.’
Jon sat back. What, like she was perfectly safe in that fucking Sunday school you dumped her and Dave in? He glanced at Alice and saw the look of warning on her face. I have to admit, he thought, I don’t like the sound of this Beltane festival either, and I don’t like the sound of this Skye Booth. ‘I’ll ask some questions tomorrow, all right?’
Troy Wilkes stepped from Magick out on to Oldham Street. Night had fallen and the road was almost deserted. A couple stood in the doorway of the Big Issue offices further down, bickering over how to divide up the day’s takings.
Wilkes pulled the front door shut, deadening the pips of the alarm inside. He locked the door and waited for the last elongated beep. Satisfied the alarm was properly activated, he slotted the keys into his pocket and set off down the narrow alley that cut through towards the Manchester Arts and Crafts centre. Another jinking side road would take him to Shude Hill tram stop and his journey back home to Altrincham.
As he started down the alley his mind was on the big policeman and his partner who’d dropped into the shop earlier that day. What could members of the Major Incident Team want with Skye? He knew they only handled the serious stuff like murders and rapes. Maybe he’d better call her, he thought, taking his mobile from his pocket. Then again, he was working with her in the shop tomorrow. He could tell her then and save himself the price of a phone call.
As he slipped the mobile back in his jacket he was unaware of the figure stepping out from the doorway behind him. Pain mixed with surprise as fingers were suddenly clamped round his neck, and he felt himself being yanked backwards into the shadows, unable to cry for help.
Chapter 13
Holding his mobile to his ear, Jon sipped black coffee, eyes glued to the front door of Magick across the street. The cafe he was waiting in formed part of a delicatessen that appeared to specialise in ethical foods – organic this, Fairtrade that. Jon had scanned the shelves while ordering his drink, unsure of what many of the packets contained. Pulses, powders, more varieties of lentil than he ever knew existed. The only items that were familiar were jars of Tiptree jams – Blackberry Jelly. Now that brought back childhood memories of scouring the bushes by the side of the canal . . .
‘Nothing else then?’ Carmel said again. ‘Just what’s in the press release.’
‘That’s right. A young male, probably died from a blow to the head. If you want some background stuff, it’s worth looking into the Death Metal scene.’
‘He was a follower of Death Metal?’
‘I didn’t say that. It all seems closely linked to Satanism, that’s all.’
‘OK. I’ll see what we’ve got on the Psychic Academy and send any articles over.’
‘Cheers Carmel, speak to you soon.’
The two women behind him were discussing a Harry Potter book. The one who was reading it was describing a scene where the would-be witches and wizards were learning about potions and spells and roots of mandrake that shrieked when pulled from the ground.
A petite girl was walking up from the direction of Piccadilly Gardens. Though her thick locks of raven-black hair were adorned with beads, it was her choice of clothing that caught
Jon’s attention. Her oat-coloured cardigan was of a thickly woven knit, flecked with brown dots and hanging down to her knees. It had the appearance of something fashioned in a crofter’s hut on some distant Scottish isle. Her skirt was russet coloured, long and flowing, and almost obscured a pair of brown suede boots. Hanging over her shoulder was a large canvas handbag, the strap plaited from thick braid.
As she stepped round a waste bin, he caught a glimpse of the wide belt at her slender waist, its buckle of an interlinking Celtic design.
What’s the betting, Jon said to himself, that you stop at
Magick?
She came to a halt at the front door and reached into her bag. Thought so. He finished his coffee and got to his feet. As he edged past the two female Harry Potter fans, he contemplated leaning over them and whispering, Professor Snape did it.
The door to Magick hadn’t even fully closed behind her as he pushed it open again. She turned round and Jon was struck by her strange beauty. Heavy eyebrows curved over large brown eyes that seemed fractionally too far apart. A button for a nose and wide, sensual lips. One of those eyebrows arched slightly as she swept a beaded strand of hair away from her face. Though his sudden entry had obviously taken her by surprise, there was no alarm showing in those languid eyes, just curiosity as she calmly held his gaze. He had the sudden feeling she was assessing him far beyond his external appearance.
‘Morning. Would you be Skye Booth?’
Her eyebrows buckled slightly and he wondered if she knew how attractive that made her. ‘Yes. And you are?’
‘Sorry. DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’ He fumbled for his warrant card. ‘My ID is here somewhere.’
‘Ellie’s big brother.’
Jon looked at her, giving up his search. ‘That’s right.’
She stepped behind the counter, flicking on the shop’s lights. Crystal balls began to glow in their cabinets. ‘She has a beautiful soul, your sister. No artifice or acting; what you
see is what you get.’
Right, thought Jon. Why couldn’t you have just said you like her?
She turned the till on, then released the drawer. Jon heard the sound of coins shifting as the plastic tray jarred to a halt on its runners. He waited for her to say something else but she was now tidying the pamphlets on the counter.
‘You two met at the Psychic Academy, Ellie tells me.’
She didn’t look up. ‘Yes, we got to chatting one break time.’
‘What do you think of the courses there?’
‘They’re pretty good, certainly as a basic introduction to many subjects.’ She reached under the counter and placed a small square of wood and a packet of joss sticks by the till. The leaves of the cheese plant hanging above her head seemed to be watching her as she slid a stick out, then flipped a cigarette lighter. Once a dull flame had taken hold at the tip she blew it out, snapped the lighter shut and placed it so deftly on the counter, no noise was made. She guided the end of the joss stick effortlessly into a tiny hole in the wooden block and regarded the thin wisp of smoke as it spiralled up towards her face.
Jon caught a whiff of the cloying aroma, which brought instant memories of Mass. ‘Only an introduction? I thought you’d end up more than a novice, given the prices they charge.’
‘Depends what you’re studying.’
‘What are your favourite areas?’
‘I’m interested in alternative health, homeopathic medicines, reconnecting with the natural world. What about you?’
Somehow there was a suggestiveness to her question. He looked for confirmation in her face, but saw none. ‘I’m interested in this whole New Age thing as part of an ongoing investigation.’
‘Not just checking up on your little sister?’
The comment cut through the small talk. Jon paused, considering how to play it. He turned to the wall and spotted a new flyer up for Satan’s Inferno. It announced a gig they were playing on May Eve. The venue was Diabolic once again. Takings must have been good for their last appearance.
‘You a fan?’
She giggled. A genuine sound from deep down, not just the front of her mouth. ‘No. Have you heard their stuff ?’
Jon smiled back. ‘It’s, it’s . . . I can’t think how to describe it.’
‘Horrible?’
‘Yeah, that’ll do. For starters.’ He relaxed, leaning on the counter, about to continue in a less formal way. Careful, a voice inside him said, she’s drawing you in. He looked at her face, his eyes lingering on the remains of the smile still on her lips. In the dimness of the shop’s interior her pupils appeared fully dilated.
‘How about the singer? I understand he’s attended a few courses at the Psychic Academy too.’
She shrugged. ‘I rarely speak to him. He pops in here every now and again to pin up posters.’
‘Peter Robson?’
She raised her eyebrows in question.
‘He played guitar for the band until a few weeks ago.’
‘Sorry.’ She shook her head in a ‘no’.
Jon looked around. How do I steer this towards what she’s planning with Ellie? Her earlier comment about checking up on his younger sister meant she’d already sussed him. To some extent at least. ‘What is alternative health anyway?’
‘Well, I’m training to be an acupuncturist.’
A voodoo image flashed into Jon’s mind. ‘Who do you use for a pin cushion?’
For the first time a negative look crossed her face. A spark of irritation. ‘It’s a four-year course.’
Jon straightened up. ‘Seriously?’
‘You need to learn the body’s complete nervous system, it’s muscles and skeleton. There’s more knowledge of anatomy involved than most GPs come close to possessing.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to belittle it. I know it can have amazing results, cured a guy at my rugby club of his shoulder pain just like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘What about homeopathic medicines? Do you mean mandrake, stuff like that?’
She smiled. ‘You’ve been reading Harry Potter.’
He spread his palms. ‘Guilty.’
‘Mandrake’s well known for is medicinal properties. You’ll never learn the power of every plant though, there’s so much knowledge to absorb. That’s not counting the huge amounts that have been lost over the last couple of centuries.’
‘Since the days Merlin was around?’
Her eyebrows tilted again, but he’d made sure not to smile.
‘Druids knew a lot, yes. Still do. But it was the wise women who were traditionally responsible for the health of their communities.’
‘Wise woman being another way of saying witch?’
Her face darkened. ‘They were classed as witches by the emerging, male-dominated, medical establishment. It was a concerted campaign to wrestle power from them by discrediting and questioning their abilities. Tragically, it culminated in tens of thousands of women being burnt at the stake across Europe.’
Ah, here’s where Ellie’s new-found views are coming from, thought Jon.
‘You have a baby, don’t you?’ she asked.
The change in tack caught him by surprise. ‘I do. Holly, almost ten months old.’
‘Tell me, in the hospital, who gave the orders in the delivery room?’
‘The doctor of course.’
‘Describe him.’
Jon frowned. ‘I don’t know, late twenties maybe. Kept checking the read-outs from the machine monitoring the baby’s heart.’
‘And who did most in the actual delivery of your baby. Before, during and after her birth?’
‘The midwife.’ Jon remembered her well – a middle aged woman who exuded a reassuring warmth. She’d been brilliant, calming Alice and keeping him informed of exactly what was going on. Now he thought about it, there had been more than one occasion when the doctor had turned to the midwife for advice. ‘I get it – before doctors muscled in, it was wise women who took care of everything, including childbirth.’
She nodded. ‘Glad to enlighten you.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll be telling me you read fortunes next.’
‘I do a passable attempt.’
‘Really?’ Jon glanced down at his hands.
‘Though I warn you, I’m no expert.’ Without waiting to be asked, she took his hand in hers. The touch of her fingers sent a warm sensation through his wrist. It carried in waves up his arm as she lifted the back of his hand and examined it. ‘So much damage to your skin.’ A fingertip traced the scar that ran over his thumb.
Jon wanted to sit, her caresses made him feel so weak. ‘Rugby studs. Sometimes they had sharp burrs on – before they brought in the kite marks. A kind of safety . . .’ His words trailed off. She wasn’t listening to his babble. Christ, the way she was probing at his palm felt good.
Slowly she flipped his hand over then beckoned for him to hold out his other. Just as he was about to extend it, his mobile rang. ‘Sorry.’ He stepped back, breaking contact to take out his phone. Rick’s name was on the screen. ‘What’s up, mate?’
‘Buchanon’s just announced there’s a DNA match on the body in the church. Where are you, by the way?’
He glanced at Skye whose chin was now propped on the heel of her hand. Her brown eyes didn’t break from his. He swallowed. ‘Just following up some enquiries on Oldham Street.’
‘You’re questioning the witch?’
Jon quickly turned away, afraid she’d have heard the comment in the silence of the shop. ‘That’s correct.’
‘Don’t tell me. She’s next to you, isn’t she?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘OK. Well, you’d better get back here. Ten o’clock meeting, remember?’
Jon glanced at his watch. It had just gone a quarter to. ‘Will do,’ he replied, cutting the call and looking back at Skye. ‘I have to go.’ He stepped toward the door, then paused. ‘Listen, here’s my number. I may need to speak to you again – about the Psychic Academy.’
&nb
sp; She took the card by its corner. ‘OK. We could finish your palm reading too.’
Jon nodded, and hurried outside. He crossed the road and cut down a side street to where his car was parked. As he approached the vehicle he flexed his fingers back and forth. Jesus, there was something electric in her touch, his skin was tingling even now. He shook his head. Think clearly, man. She’s getting your little sister to join in some dodgy fertility rite just a few nights from now. Consider that, rather than what she’d be like in the sack.
He drove towards Piccadilly Station, aiming for the main road that would lead him back to Longsight. On his left were the mock castle battlements marking the exterior of the Piccadilly basin car park. As he passed the entrance, flashing blue lights caught his eye. A couple of police cars and an ambulance. They were all standing at the edge of the canal, looking down at something in the water. Another homeless person, Jon thought. Poor bastard probably rolled in there while off his head on meths.
Chapter 14
He made it back to the incident room just as Buchanon was calling for silence. Once again, there were no seats at the central table, so he skirted round to his desk and perched on its edge.
Rick was watching him from his chair just down from Buchanon. Their eyes met and his colleague tapped a forefinger on his wristwatch. Jon acknowledged the gesture by wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow.
‘OK everyone,’ Buchanon announced. ‘A DNA sample from the body in the church was run earlier this morning, resulting in a match on the National Database.’
He held up a sheet of paper, swivelling it from left to right like a magician setting up a trick. ‘Luke Stevens, aged nineteen. Date of birth, second of January, .’
Well, thought Jon. Henry Robson’s theory just went up in smoke. He stood up and stepped towards the table for a closer look at the victim’s mug shot. Thin ratty face, eyes like piss holes in the snow, lanky strands of black hair hanging down to his shoulders. Another one of the undead.