‘Excuse me,’ said Siv Engstrom. ‘Would you mind awful y moving into 10A? I’m re-seating this elderly couple.’
‘Of course not,’ said Kitty, blinking.
She found the Marlboro in her hand and put it back in the packet; unbuckled her seat belt and shifted over. The man sitting down reminded her of her father, the Admiral—strong, fearless and determined.
She started at the sound of his voice, realizing she had nodded off again, and tugged the headphones off her head to listen.
‘Excuse me?’
‘My name is Darwin Shaw,’ the man’s deep American voice boomed. ‘So sorry to disturb your flight, young lady—we’ve
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travel ed from Germany. My wife has a heart condition and is not feeling wel , so we’ve been upgraded. Her name is Jeanne.’
As the stewardess installed Jeanne in the seat opposite, Kitty looked at Darwin’s wife—a woman with black curly hair and a made-up face.
For a split second, Kitty thought she was seeing things: there seemed to be the glow of angels’ wings around the woman. Kitty blinked, and it was gone.
‘Is that your daughter?’ asked Darwin, gesturing to the Polaroid.
Kitty nodded and looked away, swal owing down a lump in her throat, and quickly slipping the Polaroid inside her book.
Taking the hint, Darwin leaned across the aisle to his wife, and wrapped a flight blanket around her.
‘You have a sleep, my dear.’
‘I may knit,’ said Jeanne, in a softly-spoken New England accent, lifting a pale blue baby jumper from her bag. ‘Are you talking to the young lady?
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her name?’
Obediently, Darwin turned back to Kitty.
‘Kitty Maguire,’ said Kitty, smiling at Jeanne.
‘Oh…well now, you don’t say… Kitty Maguire…’ repeated Jeanne.
‘She’s reading a German book that was well liked by The Baba.’
‘How nice.’ Jeanne looked across Clipper class, and smiled at Kitty.
The German Book (as it was called, in later years, by everyone) was pretty far out, even for Kitty, so she decided not to comment on it. But she returned the smile to Jeanne.
She has a very kindly smile, thought Kitty.
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Jeanne looked hard into Kitty’s eyes, then took up the baby clothes and started knitting. Darwin took a German newspaper from his carry on bag. Kitty looked at him; something compel ing her to confess.
‘I don’t raise her though,’ she said.
Darwin looked up. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘A long story, I’m sure.’Kitty heard, in a dreamy far-away voice, Jeanne murmur—
almost to herself.
‘I have something very, very important to say.’
Kitty twisted round and looked at her in surprise.
Darwin didn’t seem at all perturbed by his wife’s interruption.
‘Please go ahead, Jeanne,’ his voice resonated quietly.
Jeanne leaned forward to get a better view of Kitty.
‘Dear Miss Maguire,’ Jeanne said, and paused.
‘Yes?’ said Kitty.
‘You were a runaway, weren’t you?’
Kitty was appalled. How did this strange woman know that?
‘I see your pain,’ Jeanne continued.
Kitty blinked hard.
‘You have a famous father, and a famous cousin—in the military. The American, and the Russian, military.’
Kitty was amazed, and disturbed, and gripped the German Book harder. The woman was surely delusional, and Kitty didn’t want to get sucked in.
‘You’re a very old soul, dear,’ Jeanne said.
Taking the cue, Darwin stood up in the aircraft cabin, and swapped seats with Kitty, so she could be closer to Jeanne. The curious, elderly woman reached out her bony hand across the aisle, and took Kitty’s hand in hers. Kitty got the impression—
again—of angel’s wings around her. At this point, Jeanne couldn’t keep from laughing to herself.
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‘Your daughter, wel , she’s like me, you’re so blessed.’
Kitty sucked in air, gulped, then said, ‘Please go on.’
‘A great prophesy is upon you, Kitty Maguire,’ said Jeanne. ‘It is written that over you, death shal have no dominion.
Kitty said nothing, but scooped up her cigarette from the tray table next to her.
‘In the world of men, six wil change your life. One is your current boyfriend, a good man. Three others work in Intel igence—spies who wil al betray you—two are cardinals in the Vatican –’
‘The Vatican?’ said Kitty and Darwin together.
‘The other is a British spy-master codenamed C.’
Kitty squeezed the cigarette so hard, it broke in half.
The fifth and sixth men… you have already met—when you were a teenager. But you wil meet them again.’
Kitty’s mouth dropped open. Her glorious destiny; and her daughter, she thought. She started to tremble.
‘You had your daughter when you were just 15. You bore the future Lord of Indraloke,’ Jeanne said. ‘Who reigns for a thousand centuries.’
‘Yeah, right,’ was on the tip of Kitty’s tongue, but she got out:
‘Excuse me?’
Darwin leaned around her, and said, ‘Jeanne, don’t frighten the young lady.’
Jeanne fel silent.
‘It’s okay,’ said Kitty, biting her lip. ‘I’m not frightened.’
Maybe you should be, thought Darwin. We have no idea where this is going.
‘Go on about my daughter,’ said Kitty. ‘Will I get to see her?
Nothing’s gonna happen to her is it?’
‘Yes, you’l see her.’ Jeanne stopped.
‘What?’ asked Kitty, grabbing Jeanne’s wrist. ‘If something’s gonna happen, you please tel me right now!’
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‘Nothing bad happens to her.’
‘Oh, it’s me, is it?’ said Kitty. And she roared with laughter.
‘No surprise there then.’
She flipped another Marlboro around between her fingers.
Jeanne blushed. ‘I didn’t mean – It’s not – It doesn’t –’
‘Live fast, die young,’ Kitty joked, turning to Darwin.
‘I always idealized James Dean.’
‘I believe,’ Darwin suggested, welcoming the distraction.
‘The young man said something like: “Dream as if you’ll live forever. Live as if you’l die today.”’
‘Yes,’ said Kitty. ‘I believe he did.’
Jeanne was speaking again, with renewed insistence. ‘I’m sorry. There’s more.’
‘More?’ Darwin’s voice boomed.
‘Have you heard of the miracles at Fatima in Portugal, and The Fatima Secret?’ asked Jeanne.
Kitty practiced making the cigarette appear and disappear in her hand. She spoke slowly.
‘Wel , yes, I have, as it happens.’
Jeanne looked up at the ceiling of the aircraft, as if to receive heavenly inspiration.
‘Six children and an angel wil bring the Secret to the world.’
‘I thought there were just three children,’ interrupted Kitty.
‘It’s seven including the angel—your angel, Kitty,’ said Jeanne. ‘ Seven for a secret, like the rhyme.’
Kitty shook her head. She looked at Darwin, but he had his eyes closed.
‘You and your son–’ said Jeanne.‘I don’t have a son,’ snapped Kitty.
‘–Your daughter,’ continued Jeanne, flustered. ‘Wil find and shelter a young girl who you protected thousands of years ago—
when everyone wanted to throw her to her enemies. It was at the end of the last Age.’
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Siv Engstrom came to their row and cou
rteously took their drinks order. As Darwin spoke to her, Kitty whispered to Jeanne.
‘What’s the girl’s name?’
‘Orange juice, Jeanne?’ said Darwin.
Jeanne nodded, and strained to answer Kitty.
‘Heaven? I don’t recal it clearly. Starts with “H”, or is it “L”?
She wil also be a teenager when she meets your daughter.’
‘May we buy you a drink, Ms Maguire?’ asked Darwin.
‘Thank you,’ said Kitty.
‘Bloody Mary, please,’ she said to the stewardess, pul ing her Amex card from her purse.
‘No, no,’ Darwin’s voice softly boomed, ‘We’l get this.’
He took a 20 dol ar bill from his jacket pocket and held it out. Inwardly, Siv Engstrom smiled: at these two ordinary folk battling to pay for their drinks.
So much like coach class passengers, she thought.
She herself was very much coach class; she spent her spare time helping children’s charities, secretly she hoped that kindness real y was rewarded in heaven.
‘No, Sir—and Ma’am,’ the doomed air hostess said, gently refusing their money. ‘You’re flying Pan Am Clipper class. The drinks are on us.’
After the stewardess left, Jeanne continued to explain what she could see.
‘The girl—oh, what is her name, what is her name?—is a person of color. The daughter of Fatima, from Africa. You see how it connects? Oh, I don’t believe she’s been born quite yet.
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Soon enough, in a concentration camp—reminiscent of The Holocaust—I’m afraid. Her name is… is… You know her so wel ,’ she laughed, ‘I mean you knew her so wel , when you were together. And like your daughter, she loves animals. Goats, horses…’
Kitty looked at Darwin, who did a big shoulder-to-face shrug gesture.
The stewardess came back, smilingly set down his coffee and the women’s drinks, and returned to the back.
Jeanne struggled to remember the rest of her vision. She suddenly brightened.
‘She wears an exquisite diamond, the rarest in the world,’ she said, holding up her own diamond ring. ‘I remember the name of that! It’s Le Violet Suprême!’
‘That’s a real diamond, Jeanne,’ said Darwin.
Jeanne shot him a look, and continued.
‘The prophesy is written on the girl’s heirloom— The Goldheart—in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York’
‘ What? ’ exclaimed Kitty.
‘ Pardon me? ’ boomed Darwin.
Jeanne nodded her head.
‘Oh - my - God,’ said Kitty.
Then thought: Maybe in that Linear G writing no one can decipher?
‘You know about The Goldheart?’ she said.
‘You must excuse Jeanne,’ said Darwin, chuckling. ‘Who doesn’t know about The Goldheart? The greatest archaeological relic of al time.’
‘I –.’
Kitty swal owed again, and lowered her voice to a whisper.
‘I own a third share of it.’
Darwin sputtered his tomato juice. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, quickly wiping his chin with a napkin. ‘The drinks should have
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been on you then!’
Jeanne ignored her husband.
‘In the prophecy, the girl is called, “the woman of many names…”
And she wil complete your work,’ she said calmly. ‘She wil be helped by your son.’
‘I told you, I don’t have a son,’ laughed Kitty, nervously.
‘But you wil ,’ smiled Jeanne. ‘Yes, you wil . A boy you have been related to, also for thousands of years.’
Jeanne leaned so far across the Clipper Class aisle that Kitty worried she would fal out of her seat.
‘Ah, yes, I have it! At last. My dear, the prophecy states, quite simply…’
It was suddenly so quiet on the upper deck of the 747 that Kitty felt she could hear the sound of air—brushing, like the slow beating of wings—around the figure of Jeanne Shaw. She shivered, and looked around the cabin, half expecting to feel the fal ing of snowflakes.
Jeanne waited until Kitty turned her attention back to her, then she finished her sentence:
‘…The prophecy states that you, Katya Starikova –’
Jeanne hesitated—she hadn’t meant to say that name—
anxiously studying the faces of Darwin and Kitty.
‘– Kitty Maguire, I mean. You wil bear a son from beyond the grave. That son, and your daughter, Blanka, will enable Helen of Troy to return—at the end of this Age—to reclaim her heirloom, recite the true Fatima Secret, and avert Armageddon.’
Jeanne looked pleased. She’d final y got it out.
C H A P T E R 8 ≥
The Girl
No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad girl
To be the sad girl
Behind blue eyes.
And no one knows what it’s like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies.
But my dreams they aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be…
PETE TOWNSHEND - THE WHO - BEHIND BLUE EYES
(WITHIN TEMPTATION COVER)
— THE PRESENT —
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Easter Sunday.
April 5, 2015.
Bosnia, Eastern Europe.
O n Easter morning, 27 years after Kitty’s flight, a very different kind of departure was taking place in Bosnia.
Imagine, if you wil , mountains. The Dinaric Alps of south No one knows what it’s like
eastern Europe, and a vil age graveyard lit by the cold light To be the bad girl
before the dawn.
To be the sad girl
A pair of brown-and-white goats watch wide-eyed as dirt Behind blue eyes.
flies through the thin air. Another shovelful is tossed from a spade, and the first rays of the rising sun light up the grief on the And no one knows what it’s like
face of a girl—a girl in her late teens.
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies.
Unknown, even to herself, the girl is the reincarnation of history’s greatest scapegoat; the woman whom history chooses But my dreams they aren’t as empty
to remember as the ultimate pretty face: the face that launched As my conscience seems to be…
a thousand ships.
PETE TOWNSHEND - THE WHO - BEHIND BLUE EYES
(WITHIN TEMPTATION COVER)
With the back of her hand the girl wipes a tear, smudging her cheek with mud. Final y her task is done and she sets down the spade and drops to her knees. Her skin and hair are dark brown, but the hairs on her arms stand out in their blondness, as do her piercing Slavic blue eyes.
She is a young, mixed-race woman entering the prime of her life. Slight and distinctive—if she were not so careworn, her face would be praised for its beauty. But today she kneels next to a grave she has just covered over with earth. The grave of just one corpse—just one drop—in the ocean of history.
The girl doesn’t know about the 18,000 pounds weight of
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human hair the Red Army found, 70 years earlier, when they liberated the first Holocaust concentration camp: Auschwitz.
But she’s a Bosnian—she knows that human beings cover over their genocides wel , and that politicians are experts in burying the truth.
The girl has one scene from her childhood that’s etched in her mind. Her paternal grandmother—who taught her English and music, and was a history and piano teacher before the Bosnian War—was pounding on a derelict piano in the basement of a café bombed out in 1994.
The sound, coming from her always-gentle grandmother terrified her; it was unbearably loud and harsh.
‘Listen,’ Grandmother shouted. ‘Listen to the cacoph
ony of history, the shouting match of lies! The Nazi’s Final Solution, their big idea, their grand symphonic butchery! went to Number One in 1942 with the iconic I Wannakill Conference,’ she yel ed, over the row she was making on the broken keys.
‘But trying to gas the 11 million Jews of Europe was not enough, they wanted another guaranteed hit. So they came up with Generalplan Ost. A catchy little number. Do you know what it was, darling my dear? It was to eliminate people like you and me, honey.’
The girl had started to cry but still Grandmother did not stop her dissonant thumping.
‘They had vast prairies planned for Eastern Europe and their kill list was three hundred million. The three hundred million Slavs who lived there. Here in our tiny Bosniak nation, they only managed to murder one hundred thousand: how
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disappointed they must have been!’
The girl was sobbing now. Grandmother stopped pounding the keys, played one last soulful chord, and took her in her arms.
‘But what of the Allies?’ she whispered. ‘Our heroes? The British and Commonwealth forces, the Americans, the Russians? What did they do?’
Her grandmother’s face was gentle again. She even smiled.
‘Do you know what they did? They composed a coda, a concluding piece . They called it: “The Cold War. A Final Solution for The Final Solution.”
It’s al over already,’ the politicians said. ‘Go on home now.’
The grave the girl has filled-in—upon which she now lays a handful of wild flowers— is her mother’s—
a 1980s refugee from Ethiopia, whose dream of a better life came to a bleak end when she washed up in Europe on the wrong side of the tracks.
Like her grandmother and father, the girl was raised a Bosniak, an indigenous European Muslim; she does not wear a headscarf.
The bel s of a distant church start ringing, longer and louder than usual today, and are joined by the bel s of a second, nearer church.
The bel s mean it is the day Christians call Easter Sunday: the day Jesus rose from the grave.
The Qur’an says that Jesus, Son of Mary, will return at the end of the world.
Maybe that’s when the meek wil inherit the earth, the girl thinks. Some hope.
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But today the world did not come to an end though it felt like it. Today is the day she buried her mother.
Girl Who Fell 1: Behind Blue Eyes. Offbeat Brit spy series-cum-lesbian love triangle. Killing Eve meets female James Bond meets Helen of Troy returns (HAIL THE QUEEN series) Page 12