by WR Armstrong
He headed out of the room, crossed the hall and reached the front door. As a parting shot, he said, “I would heavily advise you to buy a copy of the Chronicle next week. It’ll carry a little story about the recluse staying at High Bank Cottage who keeps mislaying his guests. Careless, don’t you think?” He grinned, apparently pleased with himself.
“Get out,” I said and pulled open the front door.
“My pleasure Mr O’Shea...I’ll be seeing you.”
He walked out onto the drive leaving me free to slam the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s like this: you’re a red blooded young male who has a burning desire to become a star, because everyone knows that being a star gives you access to fame and fortune, and an endless supply of nubile young women. Only not many of these red blooded young males are fortunate enough to see their dream fulfilled.
Well, I was one of the lucky ones. I had it all by age twenty five. Two hit records, a hit album that went platinum, money coming out of my ears, and a truckload of gorgeous nymphs prepared to pander to my slightest whim. It’s a tough life, is it not? By the time I reached the grand old age of twenty seven, I was a burnt out shell of my former self, drugged up to the eyeballs, barely capable of stringing two words together without the help of a fix of either coke—and I’m talking here about the powdered variety—or whisky. And if neither of those two commodities were available, I would gladly have settled for lighter fuel, or meths, well, not quite, but it got pretty bad.
In those dim and distant days my world was constantly filled with weird and wonderful imagery that the logical, sane part of my brain knew could not possibly be real, yet was forced to accept as such, due to the powerful effect of the hallucinatory substances I insisted pumping into my beleaguered body.
Inevitably, my climb to superstardom stalled, and I fell back to earth with an almighty bump. Having reached rock bottom, I finally came to my senses, and with a little help from my friends, managed to clean up my act, which allowed me to begin the onerous task of getting my career back on track. I was too late to save myself financially, however, hence the reason for the forced sale of the docklands apartment. Just prior to my arrival at High Bank I had, much to my dismay, been slowly but irrevocably slipping back into my bad old ways. Once that happened, as every druggie knows, the progression or should that be, regression, can be alarmingly quick. I was lucky to have people like my mother, Mike and Michelle to support me, but family and friends can only do so much: the rest is up to the individual with the problem.
I might’ve been okay, I mean really okay, as opposed to “forever emotionally scarred” okay, was it not for my experiences at High Bank. Of course, the problems really began long before my arrival at the cottage, only I didn’t know it then, and I mistakenly believed it all started with the spectral incident involving the child, and the tipper truck, and the disappearances of Mary and Terry. But hell, what do I know? Not a lot as it turns out. And even less with the passing of time, and the discovery that my new found friend, Irish, had dubious contacts, who could keep me supplied with enough Charlie to sink a battleship.
The ugly little beetles were yet another problem that was escalating for no apparent reason. It got so bad I was eventually forced to contact the letting agent, who employed the services of a pest control firm called in the previous summer to eliminate a wasp problem in the roof. They came and sprayed their chemicals around the place, and for a while the beetles disappeared off the scene.
PC Morgan made another much anticipated visit, this time accompanied by a senior colleague, a uniformed sergeant by the name of Williams, who was short and plump, listened intently, and said very little. They wanted more details regarding the two disappearances. I was unable to elaborate on what I’d already said. They asked if they might take a look around the cottage.
“Be my guest,” I said hoping my stash of dope, which had grown considerably since Morgan’s last visit, would be overlooked.
“Have you spoken to the others who were present when Mary Louise and Terry disappeared?” I asked, trying to distract them from their task.
They ignored the question, and wandered upstairs, leaving me to sweat it out in the lounge with Lennon. Twenty minutes later, and having found nothing incriminating, they thanked me for my cooperation, and then left. I got straight on the blower to David to inform him of their visit.
“They grilled me earlier,” he said. “Rick and H have been interviewed too. Rick sent me a text to say as much. Do you think they suspect foul play John?”
“It’s possible I guess. A local reporter’s been sniffing around too, trying to make connections where there aren’t any.”
“T’riffic. Mind you, it does seem suspicious, two people disappearing like they have. Jenny thinks High Bank has got bad vibes. She reckons it’s got a threatening atmosphere. She’s a bit sensitive to that kind of thing. She’s doesn’t claim to be a clairvoyant or anything, but she does believe in the existence of a spiritual world. Remember the fair that’s in the area presently?”
“I remember.”
“Well, we usually pay the clairvoyant a visit. Like I said before, Jenny rates her. We get her to read our palms. I’m not really into it myself but it keeps Jenny happy, and if she’s happy I lead a peaceful life.”
“Madam Lee,” I repeated, an image of her name on the fairground fly poster springing to mind.
“Jenny thinks she might be able to shed some light on the disappearances,” David ventured. “Why not pop along with us?”
“So now she’s Sherlock Holmes,” I said failing to contain my scepticism.
David brushed the objection aside. “Let me tell you a story John. When Jenny was little more than a kid, she went along to the fair with her parents. They paid Madam Lee a visit, and Madam Lee did a reading on the three of them. With Jenny and her mother, it was the usual thing you’d expect to hear. When it came to Jenny’s father’s turn, however, Madam Lee warned him to avoid taking any train journeys over the coming days. What she didn’t know, and couldn’t have known, was that he was supposed to attend a business conference in London next day, and had a return ticket booked on the morning train. It spooked Jenny to the point that she begged him not to go but he said he had to, that it was important. A compromise was reached, and he drove instead. Lucky for him he did. Due to signal failure the train he was supposed to travel on was involved in a head on collision with another train. Three people died as a result, and a lot more were badly injured.” David paused as if to let the ramifications sink in. “Personally I think it was probably nothing more than a big coincidence,” he concluded, “but Jenny’s adamant Madam Lee foretold the accident.”
I was unconvinced, but kept my opinions to myself.
“What about it then? Are you game?” David asked, brightening. “We can make an evening of it if you want. Visit the fair followed by dinner at our place. What do you say?”
Dinner sounded good, so I agreed. We made arrangements for the coming weekend, which arrived soon enough. I was to be at David and Jenny’s gaff for five, which would enable us to use one car for the short journey to the fair. Leaving Lennon at the cottage, I caught a taxi over. The house in which David and Jenny lived, along with Jenny’s huge Persian cat, Lucky, was a cute turn of the century Victorian terrace within walking distance of the village square. I recalled it only vaguely from my initial surprise visit. On this occasion sobriety allowed clear sited observation and subjectivity.
The house was a reasonably sized three bedroom affair, with a traditional galley kitchen, leading off from which was a functional ground floor bathroom. It retained traditional features in the form of decorative coving, cast iron fireplaces to both levels, exposed wooden floorboards and refurbished sash windows. It was tastefully decorated and immaculately presented, and unbeknown to any of us at the time, it would come up for sale within weeks of what was to be my second and final visit.
“We may extend if we decide to stay,” David
said proudly as he showed me around prior to setting off. “Go up into the roof; turn the area into a master bedroom. It’s a great way of gaining extra space without having to move. Pretty cost effective too. Everyone seems to be doing it nowadays.”
Joining us on the landing, Jenny was equally enthusiastic. “It’ll mean we can move the bathroom upstairs into what is now the third bedroom, and turn the second bedroom into a nursery.”
“The present bathroom will be converted into a hobby room,” David said, but Jenny had other ideas, maintaining it would become an extension of the kitchen. David looked gutted.
“A case of nice try but no cigar,” I said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the back.
Jenny glanced at her watch. “Better get our skates on if we’re going to catch the fair before it gets overrun.”
David nodded. “Yeah, right, mustn’t keep Madam Lee waiting. She might get upset and turn us into toads!”
Jenny rolled her eyes in mock dismay, and bundled him off towards the stairs.
The fair had made camp on the other side of the village, and comprised of the usual dodgem car rides, over which Irish allegedly presided, carousals, shooting galleries and cheap sideshows. A Penny Arcade stood next to a large marquee whose white canvas had seen better days. A poster near the marquee entrance advertised that a high-wire act would perform later. Beyond the marquee loomed the towering spectacle of the Big Wheel. The miserably cold weather failed to affect trade. The place was humming. We paused at the shooting gallery, where the prizes were cheap and cheerful, and the gallery attendant vied for business with brash enthusiasm.
“Get all six ducks and win the prize of yer dreams,” he boomed, rubbing his hands together like Fagin. A boy pushed in front of me to take up the challenge, dispatching four of the ducks in quick succession. He was rewarded with a cheap green water pistol which he bemoaned saying he already had one. He stared at it like it was a wet rag. His father intervened; demanding satisfaction, and the attendant grudgingly swapped it for a toy-racing car.
Further on, we witnessed a minor scuffle involving two youths, which was quickly broken up by a burly fairground worker, who I’d later get to know for all the wrong reasons, and who went by the name of Coogan.
“I’m thirsty,” Jenny said, spotting a heavily illuminated burger stand. So we stopped off to buy hot drinks and cigarettes.
Nearby rock n roll classics boomed from a set of old Marshall cabs standing on a makeshift platform. Buddy Holly’s “That’ll be the Day” was followed by Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman”. We approached the dodgem arena where children yelled excitedly, chaperoned in most instances by their parents. A small group of youths drinking from beer cans looked on with subdued interest. We joined them on the sidelines, where we sipped our recently purchased drinks from plastic beakers, while searching the crowd for Irish.
Jenny spotted him first and waved frantically in an attempt to gain his attention. When he saw us he sauntered over. Unshaven and dressed in faded old jeans, badly scuffed cowboy boots and a heavy black workman’s coat, he more resembled yesteryear’s version of a night club bouncer, than a fairground attendant.
“What’s the crack?” he asked, greeting us in his own inimitable way, managing at the same time to eye up a pretty blonde who rode solo in one of the dodgem cars.
“We’ve come to see Madam Lee,” Jenny volunteered, folding her arms against the cold.
“Have you now,” he said clearly unimpressed. “Each to their own, I suppose. Personally I think it’s foolish to dabble in such things.”
“What harm can it do?” I asked innocently.
That made him laugh aloud, a rare thing for Irish, but the laughter was laden with mockery. Clamping a large calloused hand on my shoulder, he said, “Let me tell you something gorgio. While it’s true that most fortune tellers are charlatans, some are kosher. Not many I’ll grant you, but there are a few out there who really do possess the ability to “see.” Madam Lee is one of ‘em, make no mistake, and she’s not to be taken lightly therefore. I don’t want to freak you out, but there’s always a chance she’ll show you things you don’t want to see.” He squeezed my shoulder, just a little bit too hard for my liking, “Best of luck with her matey. That’s all I’m saying. I’ll see you later.” He re-entered the dodgem arena, where he promptly jumped aboard the dodgem car driven by the pretty blonde. I watched him go, uncertain whether or not he was having a joke at my expense.
“Is he for real?” I asked, to which Jenny replied, “He never ever jokes where his family is concerned. He may be the black sheep who regularly goes off to do his own thing, but he is loyal as hell when it comes to the Romany fraternity.”
As we negotiated our way through the crowds, I mentioned the Press visit I’d received and the information obtained as a result.
“The suicide victim’s father still lives around here,” David said, presently.
“He’s someone to steer clear of,” Jenny advised. “He gets very touchy if anyone dares to mention the cottage in his presence.”
“Bill Willis is a bit of a local legend,” David elaborated. “He was a bare-knuckle fighter in his younger days, and is related to Irish’s crowd. Unlike the fair troop he and his family gave up life on the road a long time ago to settle here in Ashley.” We passed the Big Dipper upon which people screamed and shouted hysterically. “My father said that in the olden days, Bill Willis used to take on all comers, anyone who fancied their chances with him, including his Romany relatives. Apparently, he took no prisoners. His nickname was “ruileahfein”, which is Romany for madman. Legend has it he once fought the late, great, Charlie Buckland, who was known as “the king of the gypsies”. Buckland was a bare knuckle fighter, who retired undefeated.”
“Did Bill Willis ever try to avenge the loss,” I asked, reasoning that Buckland was victorious in their contest.
“Willis didn’t lose,” David said.
“So it was a draw.”
“No one knows. The two men fought away from public scrutiny over a private argument that was female related. They emerged from the scrap battered and bruised, but neither of them claimed victory out of respect for the other.”
“That’s quite a story,” I said.
We walked at a leisurely pace, passing redundant fairground machinery, enjoying the invigorating atmosphere. “When the fair came to town back then it was quite an event,” David went on. “It still is, but even more so then.”
“Does Willis still participate in bare knuckle fighting?” I asked, sidestepping a large muddy puddle.
David gave a shake of the head. “Bill gave up the fighting game when he became a house dweller, but he still shouldn’t be underestimated. He might be older and wiser nowadays but don’t let that fool you; he’ll still mix it with the best of them, and he is still referred to by those in the know as “ruileahfein”.”
We passed the Penny Arcade. The sudden clatter of cascading coins jangled through the bitter cold air, followed by a whoop of delight from the jackpot winner, and spontaneous cheering from his friends.
Jenny said, “You’ll find Madam Lee an interesting experience if nothing else.”
“Cross her palm with silver,” David said, “she’ll do her thing, predict your future, and you’ll be a wiser man for it.” Luckily for David, Jenny failed to pick up on the sarcastic edge to his voice.
We passed the horse carousal where children shrieked joyously, as the wooden horses carried them on an endless cyclical journey to nowhere. We stopped to watch the Wurlitzer, where faces flashed by, contorted by excitement and sheer terror.
Then I was being led over to three identical white tents standing next to one another, each with an individually designed placard advertising their wares. The first said Herbal Medicine, Step Inside, Cure your Ills, next door’s proclaimed Reflexology: Only two pounds per sitting. The placard hanging over the entrance to the final tent in the row announced simply, Madam Lee, Palmist and Fortune-Teller. David said, “Jenny and I will
go first. It’ll give you a chance to see what it’s all about. And don’t look so worried, Madam Lee doesn’t bite, you know.” He grinned mischievously. “Not unless there’s a full moon, that is.”
Jenny gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, and accused him of being disrespectful.
We stepped inside the tent. An elderly woman sat in one corner. I recognised her immediately, for she’d been out walking her dog on the first occasion I’d passed through the village of Ashley. She wore a shawl and headscarf, and was bent over a round table, studying playing cards lying face up on its smooth wooden surface. Her little terrier lay beneath the table, sleeping. I stayed by the tent flap while David and Jenny joined her at the table, taking seats opposite. The subdued lighting added atmosphere to the occasion. Madam Lee’s age was indeterminable. A pronounced curvature of the spine gave her an aged appearance, yet her bright alert eyes were in complete contradiction.
I stole a little closer, and saw that the cards on the table were tarot cards. The clairvoyant began David and Jenny’s reading by consulting an opaque crystal ball. But first she offered her hand palm up, into which David placed loose change, thereby keeping with Romany or Roma tradition, in crossing the palm of a clairvoyant’s hand with silver.
Madam Lee started confidently. In a low measured tone she informed Jenny that during the coming year she would do well in her teaching career, although she would leave her present post and move on to pastures new.
“How exciting,” Jenny enthused, glancing happily at David. Closing her eyes in concentration, Madam Lee added that the move Jenny was to make would follow a dramatic shift in her personal life. Jenny’s expectant smile faded, replaced by a fleeting look of concern. Appearing to choose her words carefully, the clairvoyant went on to say that Jenny would live a full and varied life, and would be happy in her chosen career.
“What about my personal life,” Jenny asked. “You mentioned a dramatic shift, what did you mean? Did you mean having children? Will I have a baby?”