by Tim McGregor
The building in question turned out to be an old shoestore, shuttered for a very long time. A quaint sign rose vertically up the brick facade, all dead neon and art deco typography. The rust and rot so familiar in this city. Parking before the boarded up windows, she went around the building to the alleyway where a single bulb lit the archway over the back door. The hinges squealed as she yanked it open and stepped inside.
Dark. The only light was a thin yellow wash from a mechanic’s pendant light, dangling on a cord, that barely lit the quiet vault-like space of the deserted shoe store. The air felt heavy, thick with the smell of mold and rot. Two battered looking chairs were set into the middle of the cracked parquet floor, facing one another. Presumably one was meant for her. Whoever this informant was, they were clearly into theatrics. A bored drama teacher from the local high school, one with an unnatural interest in the occult.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed through the stillness. It felt damp in here.
One of the chairs moved. All on its own, scraping against the floor. Pulled back, like an invitation to sit.
Amanda Troy startled, then immediately brushed aside her fright. “Nice trick,” she said out loud.
More silence. She stepped closer to the centre of the floor. “I appreciate the theatrics, but I don’t have a lot of time. My camera crew is waiting for me just outside.”
That last detail was bluff, of course. Just a warning, in case this ‘informant’ had some nasty ideas in mind. Annoyed, she crossed the floor and sat down in the chair that had been pulled out for her.
“Okay. I’m here. You got thirty seconds to show yourself before I leave.”
Footfalls finally. Heels clipping the parquet floor and then a figure emerging from the darkness. Small-framed and dressed in black, difficult to make out any features in the weak lighting from the caged bulb.
The reporter didn’t recognize the woman until she was standing right in front of her. And a chill shot up Amanda Troy’s spine.
Chapter 25
BILLIE SPUN THE empty chair around and dropped into it, draping her arms across the top rail. The loathsome reporter looked startled for a moment but it passed quickly. Hardly satisfying. She wanted to scare the hell out of the nosy bitch.
“Well,” Amanda said. She was actually smiling now. “If it isn’t the mystery woman herself. Have you decided to tell your side of the story?”
Billie felt her stomach churn, equal parts trepidation and anger. She wasn’t good with conflict. The other woman, however, seemed to relish it.
“I like the trick with the chair.” Amanda had her phone in hand. She thumbed on the voice recorder, holding it out to capture the conversation like she was interviewing some twee celebrity. “That actually spooked me. How’d you do that?”
Billie remained still. “What’s your family like?”
“We’re not here to talk about me.”
“Just a rough sketch,” Billie said. “Mom and dad? Maybe a sister? Nice house up on the mountain, somewhere nice like Binbrook or Ancaster. Two dogs.”
Amanda looked bored. Had, in fact, perfected the art of conveying arch boredom to prod the conversation along. “I’m not the story here. I want to talk about you. In your words.”
She was good, Billie acknowledged. Luring her in with the tease of being heard. Flirting through empathy.
“What’s it like, being psychic?” the reporter went on. “Have you always had a sixth sense?”
“It’s a curse,” Billie answered. “Back to your family for a bit. Let me guess. Mom and dad divorced, you and sis caught in the middle and it got ugly. Boatloads of issues and therapy. You channel that anger into ambition. Become a reporter, with your eye on something bigger. Your sister goes in the opposite direction. Trouble. Booze and bad relationships.”
Outside the grimy windows, the wind blew. The dessicated branches of a rose bush scraped the glass, like skeleton fingers trying to claw inside.
“A brother, actually.” Amanda Troy eyed her quarry carefully. “He’s always been a mess. Why the interest in my family?”
Billie shrugged. “Every family’s cursed in its own way. Curious what yours is.”
“To prove a point? Turn the tables on me, show me how awful it is to have a stranger air your dirty laundry.” Amanda allowed herself a tiny smile as the other woman flinched. “The thing is, Sybil, I’m not passing myself off as something I’m not. Nor am I interfering with police investigations or fraudulently giving hope to grieving families.”
It was like a chess game now. And Billie never did get the hang of that game. Tread carefully. She turned the ring on her finger, a big gaudy piece of rhinestone that Jen had unearthed at a flea market. Flashy trashy Gypsy bling. “When I saw your exposé, my first thought was ‘what did I ever do to her?’ But this isn’t really about me, is it? Or it’s not just me. So what is it, Amanda? The occult thing? The psychic thing?”
The woman barely flinched, but it was there. A tightening at the mouth, a momentary pursing of the plump lips. What Mockler called the tell.
“Psychics, huh?” Billie said, narrowing the game. “So what happened? Some psychic rip you off so bad you declared war on them?”
The reporter seemed at a loss for words. That had to have been a rare thing.
Billie wasn’t in the mood for mercy. “You got your heart broken by some guy and you went to a psychic about it. Got fleeced. Am I close?”
Amanda Troy tapped the screen on her phone, killing the voice recorder. “It was my mom, if you must know. This was after dad split and my brother and I had both moved out. She kinda lost her mind for a while, seeing fortune-tellers. Not just one, a whole network of them. She blew serious coin on these dirtbags. For years, hiding it. By the time I found out, it was too late. She’d re-mortgaged the house.”
The anger in her gut was losing its heat. Billie didn’t want to let it go but it was dissipating all the same. “I’m sorry.”
“Sure,” Amanda replied, nodding her head very slowly. “That makes it okay, then. You saying sorry. You’re right, though. This is a little personal, but there’s more to it than that. It’s about people like you. The scam artists who prey on the vulnerable. Bottom feeders, all of you.”
“I don’t represent those people. Just me. And you made this personal with your shitty little exposé. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you can’t make yourself taller by stepping on other people?”
The reporter’s eyes hardened, the game resuming. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit, Sybil. We both know the whole thing is a scam. The recorder’s off, so just fess up. Tell the truth for once.”
A thud, sharp and out of place, sounded from the far corner. Where it was dark.
Amanda flinched but recovered quickly. Another trick, no doubt. Then another godawful scraping noise broke the stillness, a chair by the wall skidding across the floor right up to the woman.
Fighting hard to stay composed, Amanda Troy raised one skeptical eyebrow. “Is that hooked up to a wire or something?”
“No.”
“I see. So, you’re moving stuff with your psychic powers? What do they call that, telekinesis?”
“I’m not doing it.”
The reporter stiffened but kept up the snark. “So it’s a ghost?”
“He’s much more than just a ghost,” Billie said. “He’s a guardian angel. With me, anyway. Over-protective.”
Amanda shook her head in disappointment. “I really hoped we could cut the bullshit—”
The phone lifted from her hand, rising vertically into the air. It hung there before the reporter’s eyes and then dropped to the floor, face up. A gasp, Amanda Troy held her breath until everything went still. When she reached for it, the glass screen cracked, as if stomped by an invisible fist.
Amanda jerked back. This wasn’t funny.
Billie regarded the reporter. “Have you ever felt a ghost, Amanda? It’s not just cold, it’s unearthly cold. The kind that goes right into your bones.”
A
manda screamed when she felt a hand on her arm. Small, like a child’s hand. Then another on her neck. The chill of it sent her rearing up, kicking the chair over, scrambling away from the other woman. She was trying to say something, spitting out some obscenity when another cold wave cut right through her. She bolted for the door.
Everything went quiet again. The cracked phone, abandoned on the floor, let out one tiny ping before it went dark forever.
~
Slipping out of the cold of the street into the equally cold foyer of her building, Billie shivered as she fetched the mail from the box. Crisp business-sized envelopes that could only be bills, two junk flyers and one letter, the address hand-written. She smiled at the return address.
Cousin Earl. Yay.
Clomping up the stairs back to her flat, she was cold and needing hot tea and trashy TV. Something goofy and fun, like a rom-com with Hugh Grant. Then, settled under a blanket with a hot mug, she would open the letter. The unexpected handwritten correspondence felt like a present under the Christmas tree. A delightful surprise—
The television was already on, blasting a soccer game. The smell of cigarette smoke in the air.
“Hullo, Billie!”
Gantry, sprawled on her ratty sofa, feet up on the coffee table. He didn’t even get up, just raised a hand and gave a little wave.
“Please,” Billie said, slipping out of her boots and coat. “Just make yourself at home.”
“Ta! You need to do some shopping. The icebox is looking anemic.”
Stepping around the sofa, she dropped the mail onto the table. “When did you get back?”
“Few hours ago.” He nodded to the cans of lager on the table. “Want one?”
“I’m gonna make some tea.” She looked at him. “Nice to see you.”
“Ditto.”
That was it as far as a reunion went. She crossed into the kitchen to put the kettle on, surprised at how casual it all felt. She disliked him smoking in her flat but finding him unannounced in her home seemed normal somehow. Like a bad habit, settling in.
Gantry killed the television when she came back with her tea and folded herself into the wide armchair.
“You look well,” he said. “Anything happen while I was away?”
Billie blew on her tea. A lot had happened but she wasn’t in the mood to rehash it all now. “Nothing much.”
“No spooky business?” he questioned, eyes brimmed with suspicion. “No signs of Old Scratch or any other diabolical menace?”
“Nope. Tell me about your trip. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Do we ever?” He slugged on the can. “Mostly a wash, really.”
“Tell me about your family. Who’s this sister of yours?”
“You don’t want to be bored with all that.”
“I do, actually. Bore away.”
She was astonished to hear about Connie and Hannah. It seemed completely implausible that the mysterious and sometimes sinister John Gantry had such a normal family across the Atlantic. That he had a brother-in-law whom he considered a half-witted clod unworthy of his sister, but, he added, we each choose our own misery.
“Connie sounds lovely,” Billie said. She couldn’t stop smiling. “I always wished I had a sister.”
“She has her good points,” he mused. “But she can be a pill at times.”
“Who’d have guessed it,” she teased. “John Gantry, the softie.”
He finished the lager, crushed the can. “Piss off.”
“Your eyes light up when you talk about Hannah. The proud uncle.”
“She’s a good kid. Despite that walking toadstool of a father.” He sat up and reached down for something on the floor beside him. “Almost forgot. I got something for you.”
“You did?” Billie perked up, surprised. Then wary.
“No time to wrap it or anything.” A large white shopping bag lifted into view and he handed it across to her.
“What is it?”
“The finest in tacky souvenirs from the Empire.”
Reaching into the bag, Billie pulled out a courier bag emblazoned with the Union Jack. Very loud in its red and blue, almost garish.
Her eyes lit up. “I love it!”
“Not your colour, I know,” he said. “But they don’t make the Jack in shades of black.”
A second item weighted down the plastic shopping bag. She plucked out a massive tea mug that read Her Ladyship. Billie squee’d with delight. “Thank you!”
Gantry cracked open another lager and clinked the can against her mug in cheers. “Happy Birthday.”
“Here.” She handed him her phone and then slung the bag over one shoulder. Held up the huge mug and posed. A rare exception to her photographic allergy. “Take a picture.”
He fumbled with the stupid phone, aiming all wrong in a shot that elided most of her face. “What is it with you kids, needing to photograph every damn moment.”
She took the phone, looked at the screen. “You cut off my head.”
“Got the smile, though, didn’t I? That rare Culpepper smile.”
“Piss off,” she shot back. Then she clutched the bag and the mug. “I do love them, though. So tacky, they’re amazing. And the cup is perfect. Mine keep getting broken by a certain clumsy roommate.”
Gantry looked over his shoulder. “Where is the little shit anyway?”
“Near the window,” Billie said. “Restraining himself.”
He reached for his cigarettes. “Honestly, luv, you need to trade him in for a new pet. Like a cat. Felines are pure fucking evil but a cat would be a marked improvement over the legless wonder.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll sic him on you.”
Her phone chirped. Picking it up, she read the text message. Smiled.
Gantry mocked a convulsion of vomit. “Jesus, him too?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“When are you going to smarten up and realize you can do better than that useless copper? Girl like you, Jesus.”
She lowered the phone. “Sneer all you want, mister Gantry, but I see right through your bluff. You like him, too.”
“He’s coming over, isn’t he?” He was on his feet, shrugging on his coat. “I’m too jet-lagged to stomach that right now.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. Stay.”
He returned momentarily, but only to fetch up his beer and take it with him. “No thanks, luv.”
“Where are you going? Do you need somewhere to crash?” She couldn’t believe she was offering her place.
“Off to some sleazy bar, to do a little business. I’ll be in touch.”
Billie leaned against the couch cushions, watching him go. “Business? Is that why you came back?”
Gantry yanked the door open, propping it open with an elbow. “Little side project of mine. Something I think I need your help with.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
He stopped to look back at her. “Getting me wife out of Hell.”
The door clicked shut behind him. The room quiet, but the stink of smoke lingered. Billie shook her head at his comment. Sometimes, she just didn’t get British humour.
The phone chirped again. Another text from Mockler.
You were right about the colour. Furniture set up. Looks good.
Her thumbs flew, texting back: Told ya so!
The paint fumes are giving me a headache.
She tapped out her reply: Poor dear.
Very funny. Do you want some company? Yes or no?
Her thumbs flew again: Yes please!
Be there in 10
Dropping the phone, she felt her mouth contort into a grin at the prospect of seeing him. It had been a long day and she wanted to see her man. Wanted to nestle up against his warmth under the covers and drift off, safe and sound.
She folded her legs under her and picked up the enormous mug Gantry had given her, smiling at the logo again. Her Ladyship. It probably needed to be washed before using it but she didn’t care
and emptied her tea into the Ladyship mug and sipped at it. The earlier chill rattling her bones had finally dissipated.
She remembered the letter.
Retrieving it from the table, she tore it open. A short missive.
Dear Billie,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to thank you for lunch the other day, and for taking me to visit Mary Agnes. Seeing her headstone had more impact than I had anticipated and I hadn’t realized how much I missed her. But I am so glad you got in touch with me. I hope we can see more of each other in the future. Family, as difficult or strange as it can be, is ultimately all that we have and time passes too quickly to forget that.
All is well out here in the countryside. Thank you so much for the missing clue to our mysterious family history. I have already made some progress connecting the dots to the Cleary clan and am hoping to dig up more. In the meantime, I added a few more branches to the family tree and thought you might like to see. It’s enclosed here.
I’ll be in touch soon. All the best.
Sincerely,
Earl
What was it Gantry had said? The rare Culpepper smile. It was back, brightening as she read the letter. It made her happy to think of this man as family, a long lost relation now reunited. Earl was kind and sweet and without judgement. So what if every family was cursed? It also meant that each was blessed, in its own peculiar way. How else could it be? She looked at the enclosed diagram. A printed copy of the genealogical table, revised with the newly uncovered roots. The Culpepper-Cleary clan. Her smile beamed wider as she studied the newly expanded family tree.