by JL Merrow
I grabbed a cupcake and headed round the back of the tent to do my homework.
Come half past two, I’d crammed in enough info about dowsing to bore the pants off anyone daft enough to turn up to my so-called psychic demonstration. I was certainly falling asleep, although the pint that’d turned up courtesy of someone I’d never seen before (Phil showing his talent for delegation, I reckoned) and the warm sun were probably at least partly responsible.
And I know what you’re thinking, all right?
You’re thinking, how come I didn’t know all this stuff already? How come I hadn’t already tried to find out all I could about my so-called gift?
Thing is . . . Thing is, I did, all right? Once. It was just after I’d got back on my feet after my little disagreement with a four-by-four when I was seventeen . . . Actually, it must have been a fair bit later than that, seeing as I’d already started my City and Guilds at the local college. S’pose I was in the studying mode. Thought it’d help me in my chosen career, whatever. Can’t honestly remember now. What I do remember is finding out about a local group of dowsers and deciding on the spur of the moment to go along on a Saturday afternoon and give ’em a try.
It was a total, cringe-making nightmare. For a start, they were all at least three decades older than I was. Most of ’em had beards. Some of the women, even. And this was back in the early 2000s, so beards? Not cool.
But I reckoned, seeing as I was there, I might as well give it a go. See if I could learn something from them. I mean, they were all so much older than me. Surely they had to know something I didn’t?
Did they bollocks. It turned out their brains were as woolly as their chins. They all just kept rambling on about mystical crap, and it didn’t sound anything like the way my spidey-senses worked.
The killer, though, was at the end, when everyone got in a line to walk a local field and see what we could pick up. Some of ’em had forked sticks; some of ’em had divining rods. In fact, one lady insisted I borrow hers as I’d come without. So I got in that line and marched up and down that field with the rest of ’em, while they wittered on about tingles in places where, trust me, there was nothing to get tingly about, and to a man missed an underground stream three feet wide. I felt like a right tit.
And that was before I heard someone call my name, and looked up from those fucking useless rods to see three of the lads from college laughing their arses off at the whole sad lot of us. Took me years to live that one down.
So yeah. After that, I pretty much decided anything anyone else said about dowsing wasn’t worth listening to. How was I supposed to know I was going to be facing an exam on it all a dozen years later?
Anyone tempted, at this point, to say something along the lines of Because you’re psychic can leave now. I’m serious. Please do let the door hit you on your way out.
I still hadn’t had lunch, but somehow my appetite seemed to have done a runner. Right then, as I headed back up to the arena like a condemned man trudging to the scaffold, I seriously considered following its example.
Halfway there, I spotted Vi Majors—squeezed into a short, strappy, bright-red sundress, she was pretty hard to miss—and I ducked out of sight behind a woman with a hat. The last thing I needed was for her to come and have another go at me for sneaking around in her bedroom. I was a bit surprised to see her, to be honest. I’d have thought she’d be the last person to come along and support anything her stepmum had organised.
Shit. I hoped she hadn’t just come along to heckle.
There was another familiar figure up by the hay bales, so seeing as I was well early, I thought I might as well join him. Maybe he’d have some words of spiritual comfort for me—God knew I could do with them. Greg, dressed in crumpled linen and dog collar like a vicar from an Agatha Christie show on the telly, was watching the birds of prey with a worrying glint in his amateur taxidermist’s eye. “Tom! Good to see you. Cherry was a little concerned you might not turn up, but I told her we could count on you.”
“Yeah, course,” I muttered, feeling guilty for having thought about bailing on them.
“A truly magnificent specimen, don’t you think?” He beamed up at the Harris hawk currently soaring above the field, blissfully unaware it was being sized up for a wire frame and a couple of glass eyes.
“You want to watch what you say,” I warned him. “If any of those birds turn up dead in suspicious circs, you’re gonna be first on the list of suspects.”
Greg guffawed and clapped me on the shoulder so hard it bloody well hurt. “Rest assured, I should never dream of harming one of God’s creatures merely for my own amusement. Are you all set for your own demonstration?”
“No, and I never bloody will be,” I muttered, feeling a bit like the day-old chick currently being chomped up by our magnificent specimen, now returned to earth.
“I’m sure it will be splendid. You’re a person of some note these days, as I’m sure you’re aware. People are agog to see you demonstrate your talents.”
Great. No pressure, then.
The birds of prey mangled their last baby chick and went off, which I took as my cue to nip around to the gazebo smartish. Dear old Amelia had disappeared, and there was just a grey-haired old bloke fiddling with the speakers, and what had to be the bishop.
He didn’t look much like a bishop to me. Well, yeah, he had on the purple shirt and the dog collar, and a nice bit of ecclesiastical bling in the form of a huge gold cross hanging on a heavy chain around his neck. And there was a hint of Friar Tuck about that well-padded belly. But from the neck up, he looked more like an Italian gangster, with jet-black hair—what was left of it; if he had been a friar, he wouldn’t have had to bother with any head-shaving—and matching goatee.
Sort of like a Tony Stark who’d got religion and gone to seed, or a jollier, churchier version of the old-style Master from Doctor Who. There was a gap between his two front teeth that, once I’d noticed it, I couldn’t stop staring at. I tried to pull myself together and look him straight in his twinkly dark eyes. Did I say twinkly? I’d have called them that at first, but now I thought about it some more, I wasn’t sure the laughter lines around them weren’t just camouflage.
Course, current circs might’ve shaped my impressions of him a bit.
He gave me a questioning look as I stepped into the shade of the gazebo. “Uh, I’m Tom. Paretski. The, um, psychic.” I couldn’t help a wince as I said it.
The bishop smiled, in a manner scarily similar to his dear chum Amelia. “Ah, yes. You know, I’m not at all sure I should approve.” He chuckled. “It’s perhaps just as well that the church tends to frown on witch-burning these days.”
Only perhaps? Nope, nothing twinkly about those eyes. He didn’t invite me to call him Toby either.
“I hear you’re Gregory’s future brother-in-law,” he went on. “It was really quite a surprise to all of us to see him choosing to marry so late in life.”
“Uh, really?”
“Of course, celibacy isn’t for everyone. Even St. Paul recognised that. A viewpoint I understand you agree with.”
“Yeah?” I was rapidly getting lost here.
“Cherry tells me you and your, ah, partner, I believe the common term is, are planning a civil ceremony?” The way he said it got my hackles right up. Like he reckoned gay people were another species or something, and registry office weddings didn’t count.
“We’re getting married, yeah,” I said shortly. One thing was for certain, the bish wouldn’t be getting an invite. I s’pose I should’ve expected the attitude, after what Cherry had said about him getting on Greg’s case about speaking up for gay rights, but well. It could have been all about not rocking the boat, rather than actually being bigoted.
Here’s a word puzzle for you: change the word bishop to bigot in three easy steps.
Or, you know, don’t bother.
Suddenly I felt a lot more invested in Greg’s career taking off if it meant he might get to topple blokes like this
from their bloody high horses.
Rather than look at his smug face any longer, I sneaked a peek out the front of the gazebo. The birds of prey had gathered a pretty big crowd, nearly all of whom seemed to have decided either through boredom or sheer bloody inertia they might as well stick around and see what the psychic could do.
They were going to be well disappointed.
The bishop stepped up to the mike stand in front of the gazebo. “Now, in the absence of our dear Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors, who has gone to prepare a vital part of our next entertainment, I’d like to invite you all to give a last big round of applause, please, for Swan Bottom Birds of Prey!” He paused, beaming paternally while everyone clapped. “And now, my dear friends, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please welcome—” he stopped and looked down at a scrap of paper “—our very own local celebrity and hero, Tom Paretski, who is going to give a demonstration of his amazing psychic powers!”
Yeah, right. I was well amazing, me. Clearly the bish thought so too, as he managed to make it sound like he couldn’t quite believe what he was reading.
He handed me the mike, and I cleared my throat. Amplified by the sound system, it echoed around the field, probably drawing even more attention. Great. “Thanks, um, Bishop.” Shit. Should that have been your lordship? “So, um. Yeah. Dowsing. Water divining. It’s, well, it’s been done for centuries. Longer, even.” I desperately tried to remember that Wikipedia article, which five minutes ago I would have sworn I could have recited backwards while standing on my head.
Someone yelled, “Are you going to get your rod out, then?”
I looked. It was bloody Darren, standing on a hay bale and surrounded by Morris men. “Uh, good point,” I said, wishing his bloody bells would drop off. “See, some people use tools like rods, or . . . or pendulums to tap into the, um, the vibes. I mean, I don’t, but there’s a, uh, theory they just sort of amplify movements made by your subconscious. I mean, um, your subconscious is, like, sensitive to the vibes and it makes your hands twitch, so if you’re holding a rod, you twitch more?”
Oh God. This was terrible. People were starting to drift away at the edges of the crowd. Lucky bastards. I was stuck here in the metaphorical spotlight, sweating bloody bricks. My palms were so slippery, I was going to drop the mike any minute now.
“So what you’re saying is,” Darren piped up again, “if I held your rod, it wouldn’t twitch?”
There was laughter from the more beer-infused of the crowd. Some kiddies joined in despite not having a clue what they were laughing at.
At least, I hoped they didn’t have a clue. Then again, you never know with kids these days.
Christ, my face must be redder than the baby chick innards still strewn over the grass where one of the birds of prey had been a messy eater. “Uh, yeah. You’ve got to be, um, sensitive.”
I cast a desperate glance behind me for Mrs. F-M., for the bishop, for anyone with the sense to realise this was all going tits-up and come and put us all out of my misery. No such luck. The gazebo was completely free of floral frocks and dog collars, and even the old bloke tinkering with the speakers had buggered off somewhere. I was on my own.
“Right, well. Think we’ll move on to the finding-stuff bit of the demo, yeah?” I hoped Mrs. F-M. had got a shift on with hiding whatever it was I was supposed to be finding. Too late, it occurred to me I’d have a better chance of (a) finding it and (b) convincing the punters I knew what I was doing if I actually had the first bloody clue what the hell I was looking for. What if it was just, I dunno, a hat or something? Everyone would reckon someone had just lost it and I’d taken advantage. Still, no use crying over spilt milk. All that liquid would play merry hell with the vibes.
“Okay, I want everyone to be quiet for this bit,” I said into the mike. “Something’s been hidden somewhere in the grounds here, and I’m going to find it. But I need to concentrate.” There was no noticeable effect on the general noise level, but at least I didn’t get catcalled by Darren.
I shut my eyes and listened.
Then I shivered, despite the warm sun.
There was something very weird about the vibes. Yeah, I was getting hidden and Mrs. F-M. and all kinds of other stuff, but it just didn’t seem right for a half-arsed dowsing demo. It was way too strong, for one thing—either dear old Amelia was really into hiding stuff for me to find, or I was picking up on some other trail. A sickly bright trail, with undertones of savage anger, satisfaction, guilt—and oh shit. Malice, of the deadly variety.
Oh, bloody hell. Had some sick bastard decided it was a lovely day for a bit of gratuitous violence and stashed the victim somewhere on the fields? The weird—scary—thing was, I was almost certain this was all the same trail. Not two mashed up together. Which meant . . .
Which meant I’d better get a bloody shift on and follow it, for Mrs. F-M.’s sake if nothing else. I opened my eyes, blinked in the bright sunshine, and immediately started to doubt myself. Maybe it was, I don’t know, nerves or something? I’d never liked finding stuff for an audience, even when it was people I knew. Maybe I was just picking up on emotions, or the crowd’s excitement, or something?
’Cept, to be honest, most of the crowd looked only mildly entertained, if that.
I was starting to get a really bad feeling about all this. Suddenly, standing up in front of a crowd and looking like a right tit didn’t seem all that bad a fate. “Right, coming through,” I said and, in the absence of anyone to hand it to, stuck the mike back on its stand.
People moved out of the way as I followed the trail out of the arena, even getting up off their hay bales to traipse after me like I was the bloody Pied Piper of St. Leonards.
I wished they’d bugger off.
The trail led through curious crowds and around stalls to a tent just off to one side that had apparently had reptile . . . stuff . . . going on earlier. I hoped they hadn’t left any behind. I pulled up the flap and stared into the darkness, pitch-black after the bright sun outside.
It was shouting at me now, and I had a horrible feeling I knew what I was going to find.
I swallowed.
Some bloke behind me was saying loudly, “Well, of course it’s in the reptile tent. It’s the only logical place to hide something.” It was mixed in with the chorus of younger voices with variations on What is it? and Move over, I can’t see.
I turned. “Look, nobody’s to come in, all right?” Ignoring the moans, I let the tent flap fall closed behind me and waited until my night vision had started to kick in and I didn’t feel so blind.
Then I stepped forward and literally fell over the body.
I scrambled onto my knees next to what was left of Amelia Fenchurch-Majors and had my little mini meltdown over whether she was still alive and how the hell I could keep her that way.
Great, Paretski. Way to contaminate the crime scene.
Course, it didn’t have to be a crime, did it? Maybe they had been a bit careless with the reptiles and left something poisonous behind that’d fancied a bite out of dear old Amelia for its dinner. Maybe she’d tripped and knocked her head on a tent peg. Maybe she’d just keeled over from all the excitement. I mean, it did happen, right? Even young people had heart attacks sometimes.
Trouble was, I clearly remembered how she’d looked earlier. I knew damn well she hadn’t been wearing a scarf—and in any case, my night vision was getting better all the time. I could see now that what was wrapped around Mrs. F-M.’s slender neck wasn’t something she’d ever have willingly put there. Whoever had done for her had used a length of bunting, so Mrs. F-M.’s attacker was either opportunistic or had a nice sense of irony. Or both.
I tried to get it loose, just in case there was still some hope, but no dice. The swollen ridges of her skin hugged it tight, and all I got for my pains was the certainty that if I didn’t stop I was gonna hurl, which would really make a mess of the crime scene.
Shit. She needed someone who had the first bloody clue what they were doing. I lu
rched to my feet and made for the exit, almost tripping over Mrs. F-M. again en route. Blobs of colour from the blinding sunshine danced over a sea of expectant faces when I poked my head outside. I blinked frantically. “Somebody get a doctor. Quick.”
Nobody moved.
“For fu—flip’s sake, get a doctor!” It was probably my voice breaking on the last word that convinced ’em it wasn’t all part of the act. After that, it all got taken out of my hands, thank God. St. John’s Ambulance, who’d been having a nice natter by the beer tent, were scrambled, and a team of green-shirted volunteers swarmed over to start doing CPR on Mrs. F-M. and hand out shock blankets to anyone who stood still long enough.
“Bloody hell, I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”
I’d never been more glad to hear Phil’s voice in my ear. Or to feel the warmth of his arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I reckon Mrs. F-M. went all out for this demo, didn’t she?” I gave a shaky laugh, which shows you the state of my nerves right then as it really, really wasn’t funny.
They’d looped up the side of the tent to let the St. John’s lot in, and I’d got a good look at what I’d stumbled over. It wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t pretty, not anymore, which is more or less what you’d expect when someone’s been strangled—or do you call it garrotted when it’s not just bare hands? Not sure.
You never get used to it. Death, I mean. At least, I haven’t, and I sincerely hope I never bloody well will. It wasn’t just the way she looked, her face all swollen and dark. She’d have been well upset if she could see herself. It was the fact that this person, only minutes ago, was alive and doing stuff and talking to people, and now she wasn’t and never would be again, and how the hell was that even possible? It just didn’t seem right.
I mean, I hadn’t even liked the lady, but seeing her now—it was just wrong.
A tall, thin, grey-haired bloke I vaguely recognised as the one who’d been tinkering with the speakers earlier barged in, even pulling one of the green-shirts aside, which didn’t go down too well. “Amelia,” he kept saying in a tone I found myself thinking of as strangled and then really wished my subconscious hadn’t gone there.