Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  “Sometimes, people say hello, how are you?” I observed mildly. I broke my own rules and reached out, unsurprised to slide off the smooth grey walls in Glory’s head, same in Ed’s, although in his, there always played a soothing background distraction, today it was something Sinatra. The staff were blinking, I wasn’t sure whether at the vividness of Glory’s outfit, or at just how much office space Ed took up. I briefly introduced them without further explanation, then nodded towards the inner office. Glory walked ahead of me, her sureness of movement because she was using Ed’s sight, and I shut the door on the open mouths of Kitty and Brenda.

  Moving behind my desk, which I felt gave at least some illusion of authority, I indicated the couple of visitor chairs. Glory sat swiftly, Ed less so, he was always cautious about the security of furniture he didn’t know. She predictably didn’t waste time.

  “We need your help Stella.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t heard what it’s about yet.”

  “Trust me,” I said, “The answer’s no, whatever it is.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Glory, you can’t swan in again, after all this time, demanding my help. I’ve got other things going on. Anyway, after we got Sam out, you couldn’t get shot of me fast enough, remember?”

  “You wanted out.”

  “That’s not the point. Anyway, I’ve moved on, things have happened.”

  “Yes, I know.” And into my mind she shot, for just a second, a multi-coloured lollipop, “You helped get him, didn’t you?” She said softly. I didn’t answer. “And I know how much you didn’t want to do it.” She added. I hated it, that no matter how strong my shielding, she always found her way in.

  “You’ll know then,” I said sharply, “Why I’ve absolutely no intention of getting involved in anything else like that, ever again.”

  “This is different.”

  “Not interested.” I said. She continued as if I hadn’t spoken,

  “Look, I understand how you feel and why.” I snorted disbelief,

  “You clearly don’t, or you’d have left by now.”

  “Stella, hear her out.” Ed spoke so rarely, that when he did, people tended to listen, I raised an eyebrow at him and he looked back impassively.

  “We really do need you.” She repeated.

  “You’ve said that. Why?” They exchanged a thought, faster than I could catch, and Ed nodded, which I took to mean, cards on the table.

  “Look, this isn’t anything dangerous,” said Glory, “Nothing like last time. It’s really more of a…”

  “… situation,” supplied Ed unexpectedly. He’d turned positively gabby, I chuckled and he shrugged,

  “Isn’t it?” He said to Glory, who nodded and added,

  “It’s a question of putting right a few things that aren’t.” She said.

  “So who am I, Batman?” I said, although even as I spoke, I winced. Someone else had said that to me a long time ago, with the same biting sarcasm and I suddenly felt ashamed.

  “Coffee?” I said, “Then you can tell me. I’ll listen, but don’t expect anything more.”

  In the intervening years, since I’d waved goodbye to them in Oxford, the Peacock sisters had, Glory told me, expanded their practice with considerable success. They offered their combination of educational therapy and counselling, to a wide age range, working as often with colleges and universities as they did with schools, as well as taking GP and Social Services referrals. Their reputation, as skilled and intuitive problem-solvers and solution-providers, for a whole range of learning difficulties and behavioural issues, had grown apace. So much so, that Glory now worked full time with them, getting involved on many of the cases, and restraining, as much as possible, the tendency of Ruth and Rachael never to say no to anyone. Ed provided all the practical assistance and back-up needed. With their assorted skill sets and abilities, the four of them made an unsurprisingly formidable, effective and sought-after team, and Ruth or Rachael were called upon with increasing frequency to appear as expert witnesses in custody and other cases.

  “Sounds,” I said, “As if you’ve got it all fairly sussed.” Glory nodded,

  “We have, more or less. It’s frustrating at times and obviously we have to be careful, but we can, and do, make a difference.”

  “And you’re still finding them?”

  “Them?”

  “Don’t play daft. Others, like us,”

  “Occasionally; as you know, we’re few and far between.”

  “And when you do?”

  “When we do, we help or not, as appropriate. There are still, always will be, government backed projects on the lookout and we warn, where necessary, and when we think we’ll be listened to. As I said, we’re careful.” I nodded, what we were was always going to be problematic.

  “And you’re here now, why?”

  “Let me show you, it’s quicker.” I hesitated, this was a path I hadn’t been down for some time, not in fact since I was last with Glory and the Peacocks, and I really didn’t want the intimacy of it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake Stella.” Glory tutted – she had the patience levels of Vlad the Impaler – and she stretched across the desk for my reluctant hand. She didn’t need to do that, she was perfectly capable of getting into my head, without any contact whatsoever, it just made what she was giving me, even more high definition.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Glory was seated, a few rows back from the front, in a room crowded with people, there were very few empty chairs. I knew Ed must be near, because she was using his sight. We were in a modern, hotel conference room. Garishly patterned orange carpet, tall, lavishly curtained windows running down the left side of the room, crimson upholstered, gilt chairs, divided by an aisle, facing a small raised platform with an as yet blank-paged flip-chart on an easel. The crowd surrounding us, were a mixed bag, not instantly categorisable, all ages and types, no obvious correlation. There was a tight, low-level hum of expectation, people talking softly and that distinct, before-the-curtain-goes-up, type of tension.

  Then suddenly, the double doors at the rear of the room were thrown open, and a woman, unsmiling, stood framed there for a moment, before striding purposefully down the centre aisle. As she advanced, people craned to look and someone started to clap, so as she reached and stepped smoothly up on to the platform and swung on her heel to face us, it was to a rising round of enthusiastic applause. She wasn’t tall, but her presence was such that she took control of the room instantly, raising a manicured hand for silence and looking around slowly, making eye contact with individuals, one after the other.

  It was an overlong, albeit extremely effective pause – you could’ve heard a pin drop. Late thirties or early forties, high back-combed, blonde chignoned hair sprayed fiercely into place above professionally applied make up. She was in spike-thin stilettos and a wasp-waisted, black business suit, with a brief revere of crisp white shirt beneath. She looked like a rule-with-an-iron-rod executive. But when she finally smiled and said how much it meant to her, to be here with everyone today, it was in an unexpectedly high, sweet and breathy voice, with just the faintest trace of a lisp and an American twang. The crowd sighed, in recognition and welcome. I pulled my hand from Glory’s,

  “Come on,” I said, “We haven’t got all day, what exactly is this all about?”

  “Don’t be so impatient.” she said, and whilst I was still formulating pot and kettle responses, she regained my hand. I sighed and let her.

  The woman gestured to a young assistant, ready and waiting at the side of the platform. Dressed, like her, in black and white – trousers and a crisp shirt, he carried a large, square silver tray and flushed bright red, as he suddenly became centre of attention for a room-full of people. He began to pace slowly up the centre aisle between the chairs, turning at the top,
to come back down again. As he passed them, people were reaching out, stretching anxiously over each other, as well as handing items along the line, so in a short space of time, the tray surface was more than full of a variety of small objects. At this point, he turned his back on those still with hands desperately out or up and carried the laden tray back to the front of the room, settling it carefully on a table next to the flip chart.

  The woman nodded her thanks, waited till he’d stepped down again, then moved decisively to the flip chart. Taking up a felt-tip, like a teacher introducing herself to the class, she printed in firm capitals MARTHA VEVOVSKY, which elicited another excited burst of applause and she raised her hand for quiet again.

  “Now,” she said to laughter, “That’s for any of you good folk who might not know my proper name.” She seated herself on the chair next to the table, crossing shapely legs at the ankle and tucking them neatly to one side.

  “My dear friends, shall we take one small, silent moment before we begin?” She bowed her head, as did the majority of the audience.

  I knew who she was, she’d filled a whole host of column inches over the last couple of years and I’d also seen her doing the rounds of the talk shows, moving smoothly from Russell Harty to David Frost to Michael Parkinson, always distinctive, immediately recognisable, in her trademark black and white. Early on, a journalist, who’d done an in-depth interview for the Sunday Times Magazine, had coined the name Martha Vee. It had stuck, was certainly the name most people knew her by and was even used, I now saw, on the cardboard stand loaded with glossy-jacketed books at the side of the platform. Glory squeezed my hand, re-focusing my attention.

  Martha Vee raised her head slowly, looking out again over the crowd and, eyes still on them, reached to her right, moving a plump-fingered hand slowly back and forth over the silver tray. Because I was seeing and hearing Glory’s memory, I had no real senses of my own, but even just looking at those faces closest to us, knew the atmosphere was palpably tense, as crimson-tipped fingers hovered. She was a showman, I’d give her that. I pulled my hand from Glory’s again.

  “OK, I know who she is,” I said impatiently, “No need for all the dramatics. I know what she does, don’t need to see the whole performance. What’s all this got to do with me, or you for that matter?” Glory took a sip of, what was now probably lukewarm, coffee.

  “She’s bad.”

  “On the contrary,” I said, “I think she’s very good.”

  “No,” said Glory, “I mean she’s doing damage, a lot of damage. And she’s enjoying it.”

  “And again, what’s that to do with me. Is she like us?” Glory shook her head,

  “No, not really, she’s what we call a Tipper.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She can push.”

  “For goodness sake, Glory,” I said, “Hate it when you talk in riddles, just explain in plain English, can’t you?”

  “She can’t read very much and she can’t put thoughts into people’s head that don’t already exist. But she can catch something that’s already there and embed it, endorse it, make it infinitely stronger and more powerful.” I considered what she’d said, and came back with the logical question.

  “Well, can’t any of us do that?” Glory nodded,

  “Of course we can, but when was the last time you did?”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever… ” I said, then stopped as a memory came from nowhere – years ago, on holiday, in Bournemouth, walking along the front. My sister and I each had an ice-cream cornet with a flake in, I finished mine first and I wanted another one. “My father said no.” I said aloud, then I paused, Glory raised an eyebrow, “And then I changed his mind and he said yes.” I finished.

  “Precisely.” She said. “It’s about power. I suspect we all do it, from time to time, without even realising it and if it’s as harmless as an extra ice-cream, it’s probably not so very dreadful and anyway, we don’t have time to bat moral issues back and forth, right now. Just stop asking questions and let me finish telling you what we know.” I sat back and nodded. Glory continued,

  “She’s British but spent time in America, in the late fifties, early sixties, hence the accent, which she plays up. In those days she was plain Mary Barns. She originally took herself to LA, to try and break into films, but spent far more time waitressing than auditioning. She was quick enough to realise she wasn’t likely to make a fortune, let alone a living. She cut her losses, signed up as a dancer, with one of the last of the vaudeville shows, touring provincial theatres and state fairs. After a few months, she married a chap in the company. He was a moderately successful memory man, so she ditched the dancing shoes and joined him in the act.

  Her married name was Vevovsky – bit more exotic than Barnes, and she persuaded the husband to change the act from memory stuff to mind reading. You know the sort of thing, the assistant collects objects from the audience and her blindfolded partner on stage correctly identifies even the most outlandish and unlikely items. They use codes of course, but when it’s done well, it can be pretty impressive.

  Then they started to re-shape things again, left the touring company and set up on their own. Only this time round, not as mind readers, but mediums – it was, they found, far more lucrative. And they swopped roles, Mary, who you can see, knows how to hold a stage, took the lead and Hank took over the assistant role.

  They were pretty successful, even did a couple of TV appearances and were getting a fair bit of publicity. But then there was a scandal. Hank got himself involved with another medium on the circuit, and was planning to leave Mary. The whole thing was, of course, a godsend for the local media, two psychics in a head to head over a man – it was just crying out for Who Saw That Coming? headlines. Things didn’t end well.”

  “What happened?” Against my will, I was drawn in. Glory always did spin a good tale.

  “The other woman shot and killed Hank, then she killed herself.”

  “Ah.”

  “Indeed.” Glory said. “And knowing what we now know, we suspect there was probably more to that than met the eye at the time! Anyway, for a while Mary played betrayed and devastated, and did pretty well, in publicity terms, on the back of it. Then she took the decision that there might well be richer pickings back home. Once here, she kept the Vevovsky, but changed Mary to Martha and began doing the rounds of Psychic Fairs.” Glory’s opinion of these, was evident in her sniff, “Healing crystals, numerology, tarot cards, pendulums, you know the sort of thing, all used to gull the gullible.”

  “Oh come on, isn’t that a gross generalisation?” I protested. She laughed,

  “You know I’ve never been afraid of a gross generalisation, and cynical’s my middle name.”

  “You can’t dismiss it out of hand.”

  “I don’t,” she said, “I’ve seen too much in my time to do that, but I do know what I’m seeing when I look at Martha Vee.”

  “And I still have no idea where all this is leading.” I said.

  “Well you would, if you’d just pipe down and listen. Mary, now Martha, has as I said, a small amount of psi ability – although not anywhere near as much as she likes to think she has – but she’s built on that, enough to be able to do away with an assistant feeding her codes, because she’s also an instinctive and astute interpreter of body language and responses. She’s a born, bright, manipulator and over the last few years, she’s gathered a sizeable fan base, many of whom follow her faithfully from venue to venue. She’s built herself quite a reputation, she’s earning a substantial living and she’s discovered she can pull a whole lot of strings. She likes pulling strings.”

  “So do a lot of people,” I pointed out, nastily. Glory let this sail over her head and continued,

  “For whatever reason, she attracts an inordinate number of younger people, not the usual type who’re drawn to this sort of thing
, but she’s become a bit of a cult figure. You know what it’s like, one person gets involved and takes along a friend or two, and then a whole peer group gets drawn in. Since Martha’s been on the scene though, we’ve started seeing some unpleasant patterns – spikes in suicide rates amongst young people – which is how Rachael and Ruth got involved. In many of the instances we’ve followed up, the original victim attended one or more of Martha’s ‘meetings’.

  “Original victim?”

  “Do you know anything about cluster suicides?” She asked, seemingly at a tangent. I shook my head. “Suicides, are notoriously difficult to chart and track, especially as some attempts, even the more serious ones, never get into any of the statistics, might not even get reported in the first place. Nevertheless, it’s a fact, that multiple suicide occurrences – clusters – follow a disconcertingly similar pattern with the majority of victims under age 25.” She paused, sipped coffee and resumed. “This age group’s particularly vulnerable for any number of reasons; exam stress and expectation; bullying; mass hysteria; depression; low self-esteem; guilt for not spotting warning signs in a friend, you name it they’re likely to be feeling it.” She sighed, “There are any number of reasons and often a combination of several, none of which may have any kind of solid foundation.”

  “Still don’t see.” I said,

  “We’re certain, over the last few years, Martha Vee’s been involved indirectly in more than one suicide, and something she does to these kids means they’re more than ordinarily ‘infectious’ when it comes to others following suit. Anyway, we can theorise till the cows come home, theories don’t save lives.” She looked at me. “But you might be able to.”

  “No. Why won’t you listen? I do not want to get involved.”

  “Hear me out, Stella. This is serious. She needs a spoke put well and truly in her wheel.” As my tone had risen, hers had lowered to even more reasonable, “There’s no real risk, not for you. All we want you to do is go along to a meeting.”