The Curfew Circle

by Nina Dreyer

  ‘Please, John. Just take your lead from Eilis, she’s a decent, solid traditionalist, she’ll-’

  ‘No.’ John stood up. ‘You listen now. If you do this, if you give leadership of the Salon to that woman….’

  ‘Come now-’

  ‘I’ll set up my own.’

  ‘No, John…’

  ‘I’ll break your fine Salon, I’ll tear it in two, and I’ll take the best of them with me. Willie Kavanagh, Georgie Simard, Brigid Doran, Cy McDonagh. They’ll all come with me.’

  Sid rose slowly, heaving himself up on the backrest of the pew. A thin film of sweat spread over his forehead. ‘There’s no need for this, John. Just wait your time, that’s all. Your time will come. Just wait a few years. Get yourself sorted out.’

  ‘They’ll all come with me. Marion Hahn will come with me.’ Of course she would, he thought. He had seen what she could do. A talent like that, she would love to be let loose under his watch.

  Sid grasped his sleeve. ‘Don’t do this, John,’ he wheezed, ‘you’re a good lad. I know you mean well.’ He drew himself up, leaning on John’s arm. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, that’s all.’

  John gazed calmly at him, wondering if he was about to suffer some sort of seizure. He imagined Sid’s heart, wrinkly and chewy as days-old mutton, squirming in a thick case of fat. ‘I know very well what I’m saying. And it’s this. If you make Eilis the new director, then all you’ll have left is a little Shinner circle invoking dead druids, and she’ll use the position to carry on with her more-Irish-than-thou blather. Some goddamned legacy for you.’

  Sid drew in a breath, too sharply, almost like a sob. ‘I’ll disinherit you.’

  ‘You know you won’t.’ John dropped his cigarette and ground it under his heel. ‘You’ll see sense and give the directorship to me.’

  Chapter Ten

  It was the night of the ceremony, and in the great parlour of the Salon, all the lights had been put out. Amber light from the blazing fireplaces illuminated the herringbone floors and funereal velvet drapes. All the mediums were assembled, dressed in their stiffest fineries, huddled in tight little groups, some by the great fireplace, others in clusters around the trestle table heaving under bottles of stout and whiskey, and glasses of minerals and tonics for the ladies. They all had their backs to Marion, apart from an occasional cold shoulder.

  She stood in the shadows in the far corner, glancing around nervously for Eilis, but she was nowhere to be seen. The shutters had been tightly closed against the blistering night winds, and rain pattered the glass and thrummed the roofs, mingling with the muttered conversations. Somewhere in the darkness, a drainpipe gurgled. The watery November chill seeped in everywhere, over creaking old leather and through polished floorboards and buckling wallpaper.

  Marion fingered a small glass of ruby port. Drafts from the shuttered window shushed down her neck. She wore her finest dress, unpacked this afternoon from faded silk paper. Sequins and beads felt as cold as gun metal against her bare back. The last time she’d worn this dress, she’d been dancing under bright lights, her throat thick with laughter and love. Dancing with Erich, admiring the glow of crystal chandeliers in his short, sandy hair. Not so many years ago. How he’d hate to see her now, like this. Anxious and cowed.

  She looked down at her glass. An oily film from her bruised-plum lipstick covered the surface.

  She sidled up to the drinks table and took another glass. A group of mediums stood around it, glasses raised, all dressed in their Sunday best. Marion recognised Charlie Kavanagh and Georgie Simard, who stood nodding attentively at an older lady in a feathered hat. Marion recognised her, too. Mrs. Doran, one of the old grande dames of the Salon.

  ‘And as you know,’ said Mrs. Doran, nodding slowly at her own words, ‘I myself am particularly sensitive to these matters. Matters of impending disaster. Matters of national,’ she leaned a little closer, ‘importance.’

  Marion listened with half an ear and glanced around again for Eilis.

  ‘Yes,’ said George, ‘it was only the other day that I was reading your excellent piece on the tragedy of the Lusitania.’

  Charlie Kavanagh pursed his thin lips.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mrs. Doran, smoothing a hand over the clutch of pheasant feathers over her right ear, ‘that is my particular cross to bear. I tell you, young man, I slept not a wink all that week leading up to the sinking of that ship, every night, I lay awake in the most dreadful state of agitation, and I said,’ she wagged a finger, ‘I said, there’ll be trouble, mark my words. It’ll end in tears. And I was right. So I was.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charlie, ‘very evidential.’

  ‘I have a great affinity with the sea. Neptune is exalted and dignified in my astrological chart, you understand. Nautical disasters of this kind are most particularly painful for me.’ Mrs. Doran splayed a wrinkled hand to her chest and sighed.

  George proffered her another glass of port on a fussy little doily.

  ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I feel the same ominous pressure building in my waters, the same clutch,’ she grasped her collar, ‘of anxious anticipation.’

  ‘Why,’ said Charlie, cocking his head, ‘is anyone going sailing?’

  Mrs. Doran shot him a withering stare. ‘No, young man, this…’ Mrs. Doran’s features contorted when she saw Marion. ‘It’s her,’ said Mrs. Doran, ‘it has to do with her. I have seen her in my dreams. Scavenging in ashes and mud. The foreigner.’

  Marion stepped sideways, deeper into the shadows, pretending she hadn’t heard.

  The two men turned to her, George’s hand hovering half-way between his belly and his mouth, holding a shrivelled sausage on a toothpick. ‘Her? Your one there?’

  Marion avoided his eyes and glanced around for John, but he wasn’t there either. She hoped he would come. Come and talk to her. He might even smile at her, take her arm, speak to her as if she was welcome here. The thought made her wince. Of course he wouldn’t do any of that. Not now. He’d look down on her. He’d want to avoid her, after he’d seen her in that state the other night. Blood-stained and rambling.

  ‘Why is she even here,’ said Charlie. He was looking at Marion, but he was speaking to George.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ replied George, ‘I thought she’d been fired.’

  ‘Trouble,’ said the old lady, ‘like a plague crow.’

  George frowned. ‘What is a plague crow?’

  ‘Plague cow, more like,’ Charlie chuckled.

  ‘A dream symbol of my own devising.’ Mrs. Doran straightened herself and turned to glare at Marion. ‘In my dreams, she has plague crows knotted in her hair, flapping and shrieking and pecking away at her eyes with their black beaks. A portent of madness and disease.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie grinned. ‘Do you haff any diseases, Miss Horn? I could zink of a few zat you might haff.’ He smiled maliciously.

  George laughed, bits of sausage greasing his lip.

  Marion returned Mrs. Doran’s unblinking stare. The old lady trailed the sulphur scent of loss, empty cradles, grief as hard as a stab between the ribs, as painful as drowning.

  Mrs. Doran widened her eyes, then sharply looked away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marion quietly, ‘if I’ve upset you.’

  ‘Us? Upset us,’ grinned Charlie, ‘I see that you’ve made an attempt to brush yourself up, but believe me, dear Mizz Horn, nobody here is upset by the sight of a harmless scarecrow.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled,’ Mrs. Doran brandished an arm in the air, ‘she means us all harm. We’ll all come to grief because of her. You mark my words, I was right about the Lusitania and I’m right about-’

  Somewhere in the dark halls, a discordant tin bell rang, echoing hollowly under the high, cobwebbed ceilings.

  They all turned towards the sound.

  In the gaping doorway, a faint glow emerged, shining like starlight. It illuminated first the bulk of Mr. Sidney, his bristling jowls swaying as he strode slowly, ceremoni
ously, over the creaking floor, carrying an ornate golden candlestick and the tinny bell.

  Behind him came Eilis, carrying a battered wine decanter before her like a sacred relic. Her eyes shone brightly, and her gown gleamed in the low light. Midnight-blue silk embroidered with peacock feathers like staring eyes. Marion caught her eye, and Eilis winked, smiling with pleasurable secrets.

  Behind Eilis, John emerged from the deep shadows, holding a rustling wreath of funereal flowers in one hand and an ancient, leather-bound book in the other. He gazed straight ahead, with a look in his black eyes like a wolf straining for a bloody bone. He caught nobody’s eyes.

  Mr. Sidney stopped in front of an octagonal oak table and raised his hand. ‘Gather,’ he intoned, ‘gather one and all.’ He rang the bell one last time looked around.

  Marion half expected him to say dearly beloved. But of course he didn’t. She slid deeper into the shadows behind Mrs. Doran to avoid Mr. Sidney’s gaze.

  Mr. Sidney set the bell down on the table, next to the heavy candlestick. A gust of rain battered the windows. John stepped into the glow of the candle and placed the funeral wreath and the crumbling old book on the table.

  Eilis pressed the decanter to her chest and glanced around, sweeping her gaze across the crowd, her nostrils flaring very slightly, as if she was sniffing the winds of midnight.

  ‘Gather closer, now,’ said Mr. Sidney, waving a thick arm.

  Marion placed herself just out of sight as the other mediums crowded around the table.

  ‘Brothers and sisters in the Spirit,’ Mr. Sidney’s voice boomed as he took the old book and raised it high, ‘tonight we gather to commence the new Season.’

  A delighted murmur rose from the others as they rubbed shoulders to get closer to the circle of candlelight.

  Marion could just glimpse Sidney putting the book back on the table and opening it with such ceremony, as if it were an ancient record of the great deeds hill-kings of old. He lifted the faded red velvet bookmark. A blank page. But a very old blank page. He pulled out a pen from his chest pocket, shook it slightly and licked the nub. Then he bent down and scratched some words on the page with a hand as steady as a scalpel.

  ‘You will all sign your names here,’ he said, ‘the fellowship of the Dublin Season of 1920.’

  He handed the pen to Mrs. Doran, who flapped and flourished at the honour.

  ‘Sign your names,’ Mr. Sidney continued, ‘to attest that you join our fellowship for another Season, that you will uphold our values and keep our laws, and that you will strive tirelessly to reach the light of Spirit.’

  Marion did not step forward to ask for the pen.

  At that moment, she caught John’s eye. He was passing the pen to Eilis, and he leaned his head sideways slightly, his face half obscured in shadow. He looked at Marion quietly, intently, and seemed to nod very slowly at her.

  She turned and caught her own reflection in the ancient mirror over the fireplace. Her face looked hollow in the tarnished glass, pale as dust. She looked away quickly. Her throat felt dry. She crinkled her nose. A smell rose, faint, like the iron smell of snow on winter winds. She shook herself and glanced around. A crackle of embers cast strange shadows over the high ceilings.

  ‘… and that you swear,’ she heard Sidney continue, ‘to work tirelessly on behalf of all mankind to produce for them evidence of the continuance of memory and identity after the passing.’

  Or evidence of hell, Marion thought. She blinked. She couldn’t quite say where the thought had come from. She took a deep gulp from her glass of lukewarm port.

  The last of the mediums signed his name, and they began to move away from the little table.

  ‘Now,’ Sidney clapped his hands, ‘a toast to mark the beginning of your new Season!’ He flourished his arm, and Eilis poured dark wine from the ancient decanter into a silver cup, sipped from it, and passed it to John with a thin smile. He drank from it likewise and passed it around, like the blood of Christ at Mass.

  ‘I say your Season,’ continued Sidney. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned back on his heels, taking in the room. Waiting, Marion thought, to ensure that everyone was looking at him. ‘Your Season, because I’ll not be part of it. Now, now,’ he raised a hand for quiet, ‘I’ve had fine years here with you. Some of you,’ he nodded to a small cluster of old mediums, ‘will remember our glory days, ah, Eighty-nine.’

  Wheezy, appreciative laughter.

  ‘But us old veterans must retire to greener pastures eventually, and leave the fields open for the bright young things. Ah, we were bright young things once too.’ Sidney smiled, eyes glittering. He began to speak of his golden days, when they had been young together, and the ethers had swirled so gloriously around them, and the bright gleam of the gates of heaven had been just around the next corner. ‘And so,’ he continued, ‘let’s all find a glass, fill it with a nice draught of stout, and raise it now in honour of all of us auld ones and the glory years…’

  Marion bit her lip and peered sideways at Eilis and John. They stood, side by side, staring silently at Sidney. They didn’t even glance at one another.

  ‘And so I say,’ continued Sidney, ‘that the time has come for me to announce my choice of successor. Ah now, not easy shoes to fill, I hear you say.’ Nervous laughter from the assembled mediums. ‘Not easy shoes to fill indeed,’ Sidney patted his waistcoat with a broad hand, ‘the position at the head of this Salon requires immense dedication and fearlessness.’ The gathering hushed at this. ‘Fearlessness in times of peace, and fearlessness in times of war. The deceased never rest easy. Especially now. But I’ve no doubt that my choice is the right one for this bitter age, this age of belching machines and bloody chaos. So I give you…’

  He raised his hands.

  Everybody held their breaths.

  Marion glanced at Eilis, who stood, almost crouching, whiskey glass in hand, ready to leap into the light. A tight, expectant smile hovered on her face.

  ‘Your new director… John Kilcoyne.’

  The room fell dead silent.

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Charlie, ‘oh my God.’

  ‘That’s our man! Our friend!’ George began clapping his plump hands, and the applause spread slowly. The old mediums who stood clustered near the fireplace gazed at John with wary expressions.

  Marion bit her lip. Some of them looked downright frightened.

  John strode to the centre of the room. Sidney embraced him, slapping his back and taking him by the shoulders to appraise him, as if John were a prize horse. ‘My own nephew, Johnnie Kilcoyne,’ Sidney called out over the rising applause, ‘not a better man for the job!’

  Marion looked around for Eilis, but she had melted away. Marion caught a glimpse of her gleaming hair, the glittering peacock-feathers on her gown as she stormed from the room.

  Marion hurried after her, trying to push her way past the applauding ladies and gentlemen.

  ‘Eilis,’ she called in a desperate half-whisper, ‘Eilis, wait!’

  A door slammed.

  Someone caught her arm. Marion snapped up her head.

  ‘I’d say you’d want to stay for this,’ Charlie Kavanagh smiled down at her.

  Marion wrenched her arm free. ‘Step aside. I need to talk to-’

  ‘Oh, but the proceedings aren’t over yet,’ Charlie leaned closer and whispered in her ear. His breath smelled of whiskey and spite. ‘And we’re all so very curious to see what your fate will be.’ He nudged her back into the room. ‘Go back to the lights. And try not to look like such a damp little owl.’

  Marion gave up and allowed herself to be turned back. Eilis would be running down the rain-lashed streets now, all alone. Her heart sickened at the thought.

  ‘And now,’ Sidney said, ‘I yield the floor.’ He held out a hand to John.

  The applause died down.

  Marion started as Charlie pushed a greasy glass of whiskey into her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ John’s voice rose from the he
art of the room, ‘very generous. Applause and all.’

  Marion looked up and saw him smiling slightly, light from the candle glinting in his dark eyes. ‘I won’t pretend to think we’ve all gotten along over the years.’

  The silence in the room deepened.

  ‘Some of us have had disagreements, to be sure,’ John said, trailing a pale finger along his jaw, ‘some more serious than others. But that’s all in the past now.’ He widened his smile. ‘Isn’t it.’ He looked around slowly. Several older mediums looked at the floor, the ceiling, their fingers.

  ‘My God,’ whispered George, ‘he’s so commanding. Look at him! But where did Eilis-’

  ‘Ssshh,’ hissed Charlie.

  ‘I want you all to rest assured,’ John continued, rocking slightly on his heels and sighing contentedly. The velvet drapes behind him billowed in the cold draft. ‘We all share the same vision. We all want the same thing. Evidence of survival after death.’ He tapped out each syllable with a fingernail on the edge of the table. ‘Solace and enlightenment for the public. But you must all agree that the times are changing. Now,’ he raised a hand, ‘I share your concerns. We live in strange and dangerous times. And that’s why, under my leadership, we’ll all pull together in a common mission. No more ghouls and ghosts, no more table-thumping, no more levitating, no more exploding gas fixtures.’

  Marion glanced at Sidney. He had deflated into a sagging leather chair in the shadows behind the fireplace. His broad face looked sunken suddenly, tired beyond words.

  ‘No more old-fashioned tricks,’ John continued, ‘because such things accomplish nothing except to frighten the public and set the clergy against us.’

  A whisper rose from the back of the room, but John ignored it.

  Marion gazed at him over the tweed-clad shoulders of Charlie and George.

  ‘Clairvoyance and mediumship are no longer playthings of the idle and the wealthy,’ John raised his voice now, ‘no longer parlour games for the easily impressed. We have monumental work before us. We have before us the task of consoling a generation of bereaved by the greatest war mankind has ever seen. Under my leadership, all our efforts will be united and subsumed under our new common goal.’ He raised his hand. ‘No more card tricks. No more talk of frights and ghosts. No more folklorish fears, and no more mystifications and unsubstantiated visions. The Salon exists to serve, not to entertain.’ He surveyed the room slowly, taking in each member. ‘Now. If any of you take issue with this, then to you, I say… thank you. Sincerely. Thank you for your years of service. The door,’ he held out an arm, ‘is there.’