Marion crept upstairs to look for John, but he was nowhere to be found. Knowing that both Mother and Mrs. Morrison refused to go down there for fear of rats and spiders, he was probably hiding in the cellar. Thirty minutes later Dad arrived home from the warehouse. Sucking on a boiled sweet she had found, still wrapped, beneath the dining room table, Marion listened to his conversation with Mrs. Morrison.
“Come on, Peg, you know what teenage lads are like. He’s got a healthy curiosity about things.”
“What I saw wasn’t healthy, Mr. Zetland,” declared Mrs. Morrison, her voice upper-class with indignation.
“Just let me deal with it.”
“Mrs. Zetland informed me that as of today my services would no longer be required.”
Dad’s sigh was long and low, like the air being let out of a bicycle tire.
“Come on, don’t be daft. You’re like one of the family. I’ll call Dr. Dunkerly, get him to bring her something. She’ll have forgotten it all by tomorrow.”
Then Dad plucked something out of his wallet, put it into Mrs. Morrison’s hand.
Marion folded the wrapper of the boiled sweet very tightly and squeezed it between the floorboards.
“When I am grown up with a husband and children, I will come back and find this and remember how things were when I was a child,” she vowed to herself, then scrambled out from beneath the table.
Through the dining room window Marion watched Dad place the box near the wall of ivy at the far end of the garden. She just caught the sound of him whistling something cheery as he went down the back steps to the cellar.
Marion slipped out through the kitchen door. It was a damp, heavy day and the pitter-patter of fat raindrops flattened her hair. Slowly she approached the box, each step feeling like a sin as her black patent “indoor shoes” pressed into the mud and specks of mire freckled her white socks.
The lid of the box was loosely folded, “Walkers Cheese & Onion Crisps” printed on the side in faded blue letters. She reached out cautiously, nervous its wicked contents might fly out and strike her in the face. With one hand, she gently moved a ragged flap of cardboard to one side. The shapes and colors inside screeched at her. Stark white thighs, a gash of red like raw minced beef, a dark nest of hair, a twisted mouth.
As she ran to her bedroom, maggoty thoughts hatched in Marion’s head. That woman—how could she breathe? Involuntarily she clawed at the collar of her polo-neck, imagining what it must feel like to have someone pulling a black leather strap around your throat. What kind of person would allow their photo to be taken with no knickers on? The most shocking thing of all was the picture being inside the heads of Mother, Dad, and Mrs. Morrison, their normal thoughts struggling to find space around it. And John. How on earth could anyone actually want to look at something like that?
From the way Mrs. Morrison carried the box, it looked heavy. There must be dozens of magazines in there. She gasped at the thought of hundreds and hundreds of women fixed in everlasting torment, a world of shame and terror contained in that old Walkers Crisps box.
Peering through the bedroom window, she saw Dad standing by the box with a plastic bottle in one hand. He poured liquid onto the soggy cardboard and then lit a match. White smoke plumed out of the opening, shrouding the sycamore and the rosebushes, until the whole garden was filled with mist. By the time it cleared, the box had transformed into a pile of silvery ash. The pictures in Marion’s head, however, remained unburnt, and when she closed her eyes, they were brighter and sharper than ever.
BRENDAN O’BRIAN
Marion felt a flush of excitement when she saw the poster sticking to the wall of Northport Library. Tuesday the eighteenth of July. The idea that she might go along entered her head, but she immediately shooed it away. Then she saw one wrapped around a lamppost and several more stuck to the walls of the little brick shelters along the seafront, next to posters advertising comedians and musical groups.
One morning as she was picking up the post, Marion noticed a blue flyer lying on the hall floor.
Brendan O’Brian World Famous Medium
8pm Tuesday 18th July
Northport Community Hall
The name Brendan O’Brian filled her with girlish yearning that she found impossible to repress. The very same Brendan O’Brian she had watched for so long on television. Was this a sign meant especially for her? No, it was silly to think that, they pushed them through everyone’s letter box. Yet she had a strange feeling that she was meant to go. After all, the spiritualist church meetings she had attended with Mother had always been so interesting. Perhaps this was what she needed to break out from her dull life: to meet people and begin to live.
Where else could I go? Surely not to a pub by myself, she thought. Judith had suggested French lessons, but that would bring back all the shameful humiliation of school. And it would be so nice to do something different for a change. She might make a friend, a respectable, middle-aged woman like herself or even a kindly old lady who was desperate for companionship. She knew the idea of meeting a man was ridiculously far-fetched. And even if she did, the type of male that frequented this sort of thing was unlikely to be suitable.
Then she heard Mother’s voice warning her that she would have to walk past Albert Park alone after dark. Something awful could happen to you, Marion, you could be robbed or worse. Don’t you remember that poor girl who got dragged into a van by two men while she was walking by the park late at night?
Marion’s mind flip-flopped constantly in the days leading up to the event. Eventually at 6:30 p.m. on the evening of the meeting she decided she would go and rushed upstairs to find a decent outfit. A state of panic gripped her when she realized there was almost nothing suitable in her wardrobe. Eventually she settled on the drab black suit she had worn for her parents’ funerals, with a gray wool jumper underneath. It was far too warm for July, but at least it looked respectable.
After spending so long deciding what to wear, Marion was left with only twenty minutes to get to the meeting. It was eight fifteen when she arrived at the community hall, all sweaty in her layers and blisters forming on her heels from running. How she hated to be late! The white pillars framing the entrance looked elegant from a distance, yet close up they were shabby off-white and scarred with badly spelled graffiti. JEZUS IS DEA was scribbled in a green marker pen that must have dried out before the writer got to the end.
There was no one to buy a ticket from in the lobby, so the meeting must have already begun. Feeling guilty for not paying, she crept into the darkened hall and sat near the back. There were about fifty people in the audience, most of them elderly or middle-aged women, one or two men.
Brendan O’Brian seemed older and plumper in real life than he did on television, and his dark hair had turned gray, but Marion supposed the series might have been filmed some time ago.
He wore soft black training shoes and a gray velvet tracksuit that made him look rather like an otter. When Marion arrived, he was in the middle of talking to a lady with a long silver-and-black ponytail sitting in the front row. Her head was bowed, so Marion couldn’t see her face. It seemed he had made contact with her daughter who had died of breast cancer. The woman’s shoulders began to rock backwards and forwards when he announced that her daughter was there every night when she read bedtime stories to her granddaughter, Casey.
“I’m leaving her love with you,” he said to the bereaved woman, then held out his hand as if presenting her with an invisible package. The same gesture he’d make on the television show.
He began to pace around the room, waiting for the next spirit visitor.
“Does anyone know a T?” he called out to the audience. “He liked to feed the birds.”
A thin blond girl shot up her hand, the bangles on her arm making a loud rattling noise.
“My great-uncle Terry, he sometimes fed the ducks in Albert Park.”
The spiritualist performed the familiar gesture as though he were throwing an invisible tennis
ball towards the girl.
“He’s saying that you won’t pass the first time, but don’t give up. Can you tell us what that means to you, my darling?”
She smiled elatedly as though she had won the grand prize in a raffle.
“That’s right, that’s right. I’m thinking of taking my driving test.”
“Well, you might need a few more lessons, love. And practice those three-point turns,” said the medium in his jolly Irish brogue.
Laughter rippled through the audience. Marion liked the little Irishman, and she could tell that the rest of the audience liked him too. Everyone was desperate to receive a message; it meant you had been singled out by some greater power, that you were special. Being out and amongst other people made her happy, yet the feeling was tinged with regret at having missed out on so much in life, staying in alone for so many countless evenings when other people were doing things like this, going to plays and musical concerts, eating in restaurants or just chatting to each other at parties.
The medium spoke to several more people. Some of the messages were tragic: “Alan said the pain was so great at the end that passing came as a relief.” Or sometimes funny: “Sheila wants you to stop planting hydrangeas in the front garden, she can’t stand them. They remind her of her mother-in-law.”
Then the medium went silent for several minutes. The atmosphere became tense with expectation as everyone waited for the next message. Finally he spoke: “The lady I have with me is singing a song that we all know. She’s got a good voice too, not quite Julie Andrews but not far off.” And then he began to sing, “The hills are alive . . .” Marion knew at once it was her aunt, but for some reason she was too afraid to put up her hand.
He scanned the room, like a store detective looking for a shoplifter, and then his eyes stopped on Marion. As he moved down the aisle, getting closer and closer to the row she was sitting in, her pulse began to throb. She lowered her head, hoping he would walk past, but the medium stopped right next to her seat.
“What’s the matter, Marion, don’t you want to say hello to your auntie?”
She looked up and stared into his kindly brown eyes.
“Agnes knows that it was you who did it,” said the medium.
“I—I d-don’t know what you mean,” stuttered Marion.
Then he said quite simply, as if he were stating her name: “You are evil.”
The hall fell silent—everyone was looking at Marion. Her mind swam with confusion. Why had he said this? Could he really see something inside her, a dark stain that was invisible to everyone else?
“I—I can’t be evil,” she said. “I am nothing. I am nobody.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. She felt as though all the life in her body were being drained through that hand and if he held on for long enough, she would die. Looking down at her, like a priest giving the last rites, he said softly:
“You are the kind of evil that comes from nothing, from neglect and loneliness. You are like mold that grows in damp dark places, black dirt gathered in corners, a fatal infection that begins with a speck of dirt in an unwashed wound.”
With all her strength, she pushed the little man out of her way and stumbled along her row of seats towards the exit. A man in a shabby gray suit sitting halfway down the row refused to move his knees out of the way to let her pass.
“Will you please move?” asked Marion, nudging his long legs with her bag.
A woman with cropped black hair and eyeliner that extended into devilish upwards flicks whispered to him, “Did you hear what he said? Evil—she is the one.”
The man stretched his legs out farther, as if to deliberately keep her prisoner.
“Please let me pass, will you! You must let me pass! I have to get out of this place!” The man’s mouth gaped in shock as Marion kicked at his skinny shanks, making the trouser bottoms flap. She forced her way through, knocking over the woman’s handbag so loose change and clumps of used tissue rolled onto the floor.
“Well, look at that, will you?” said the woman, groping for her things in the dark space beneath the seats. “Not an ounce of consideration for anyone.”
Other people turned to glare at Marion as she made her way out of the theater. She heard the word repeated around the hall like the tweeting of birds in an aviary. Evil—she’s evil—evil.
“I saw her sneak in,” hissed an elderly lady in a purple turban between applying a greasy coat of lip salve to her wrinkled mouth. “I don’t think she even had a ticket.”
• • •
ALL THE WAY home her heart was hammering as if she were being pursued by a rapist. What a horrible man, she thought, how dare he make those accusations when he doesn’t know anything about me? She crawled into bed without even taking off her clothes and lay shivering with shock beneath the blankets. Over and over again the scene played in her mind: Why had he said those things? Why had he chosen her? She felt raw and broken as if she had been publicly whipped.
The memory of all those people staring at her was the worst thing. Not a single one of them had come to her defense. Surely no one could have believed him? It was all a sham, she reassured herself. That girl was in on the act, she didn’t really have an uncle who liked to feed birds. Mediums had all sorts of tricks and ways of finding out information about people. Nearly everyone had an aunt, and the song was a lucky guess. Brendan O’Brian probably wasn’t his real name. He would be one of those Irish gypsies who went around the country deceiving decent, honest people. I should report him to the authorities for saying those things, thought Marion. I could sue him for slander.
The morning after the encounter with Brendan O’Brian, she awoke feeling drained and with aching muscles as she might after a bout of flu or some physical trauma, but her mind was calm. The incident had confirmed that in a world full of people who took pleasure from hurting others, she was better off staying at home. It had been a mistake to try and break free, this was where she belonged, where no one could touch her. As she wrapped the covers around her body, the bed seemed more comfortable than usual, and seeing it was only quarter past nine, she decided to spend a little longer sleeping.
@coppelia
Sept 15th
Hi Adrian it is good for me to hear from you again so soon
To write you it is good practice for me in English. It is of course my dream to visit your wonderful country one day! At present I am working in city many miles from home, because there is no work in my village, except chemica factory and even then you must know some people to get job.
I am work as waitress in a place called the Kitty Kat Klub. Guys from the local mine come in to get drunk and have fun with the girls. They are mostly not so bad, sometimes I feel sorry for them. I want to say: Don’t spend all your money here you should send to wives, but then if I did my boss Ivan would get so mad!! Last week he threw one girl out into snow wearing just her g-string and high heels. For what reason? She was supposed to be on diet and he caught her eating potato pancakes!
My friend is Katya one of the dancing girls (in the bar she has to go by the name of Roxanne because there is already one Katya). All day she dances until some guy picks her, then they go into back room. I do not do this work, I am decent girl, I only serve drinks! Sometimes Ivan he asks me to be dancing girl but I refuse.
xxx
Sept 29th
How are you Adrian, what is the news from England?
My heart is sore from missing mama and my beautiful baby back in village. Baby is so cute, her name is Varvara. Already I think she can be ballerina and mama is playing Tchaikovsky music to her while she dances. When I was young girl I dreamt of becoming ballerina but then papa got sick and there was no more money for classes.
I am determined to work hard and save so that Varvara can do whatever she wants. Maybe she will be doctor rather than ballerina or even just ordinary person, I do not care so long as she is happy.
Love and kisses Alla xxx
Oct 11th
Dear Adrian
It is so cold here today. I wish I had money to buy new coat but I must send everything back to mama. The same guys come in Kitty Kat Klub all the times. Maybe they are beginning to get bored with me as they do not give so many tips. Maybe I am getting old, even though I am only twenty-two, that is quite old compared to some of the girls, Natasha is only sixteen and she is giving private dances in the back room.
I hate to ask you this and hope you do not think I am taking advantage of our friendship but PLEASE PLEASE if you hear of any job opportunities in your wonderful country you let me know. I feel you are my very good friend.
Love Alla
xxxx
Nov 1st
Dear Adrian
Something very bad happened to Katya. She was kidnapped by one of the guys from the Klub Kabana. This is also club for dancing girls, many of the girls leave Klub Kabana to work here at Kitty Kat because the guy who runs it is very bad man who beats the girls.
The boss got mad with Ivan for stealing his girls and as revenge he takes Katya. They keep her blindfolded and tied up for three days. When she is let go they had cut her face and now she cannot work anymore. It is horrible and the police will do nothing because they say she is prostitute. Ivan says I must take Katya’s job or he will fire me. I am very scared. I do not know what to do. Please can you help me Adrian?
Alla
xxx
Marion had been picking daffodils from beneath the sycamore tree at the end of the garden when she heard the child crying. It was only months after Mother’s funeral, and she had thought of taking some to the grave, but when she looked closely, she saw the petals were tinged with brown and little black bugs were crawling around inside the bell-shaped flower. For goodness’ sake, Marion, you could at least go to the trouble of buying something from a decent florist, rather than giving me those rotten old things. After casting the tainted blooms away, she peered over the garden wall and saw a little red-haired girl. Though not very good at guessing the ages of children, Marion thought the girl must be about four.
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