Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  Madame Rose, part-time medium and dealer in antiquarian books and occult curios, was a big woman at the best of times. Perhaps because she had been born in the body of a man, perhaps because she was so much larger than life. Dressed in a coat and hat that must have single-handedly diminished the local mink population by a satisfying percentage, she looked enormous. Emma trying to wrap her in a hug was both comical and a little dispiriting, given that she had forsaken McLean’s embrace in the attempt.

  ‘Rose. It’s been months. Where have you been?’ Emma was like a little child all of a sudden, and McLean couldn’t help but remember the first time the two of them had met. Back then Emma had been very much like a child, recovering from the attack that had left her in a coma.

  ‘It’s not been that long, surely.’ Madame Rose wrapped a massive arm around Emma’s shoulders and steered her back to where McLean stood. ‘Although I have been out of town a lot over the autumn.’

  She raised her eyes heavenwards, and as if on cue a few soft flurries of snow fell out of the orange-painted darkness overhead.

  ‘Autumn’s long gone,’ McLean said. ‘And it wasn’t the best of times, as you know.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ Rose squeezed Emma’s shoulder before releasing her back to him. ‘But what brings you to the circus? I wouldn’t have pegged you as a clowns and acrobats man, Tony.’

  ‘Don’t blame me. It was Emma’s idea.’

  She thumped him gently on the chest. ‘You brought it up. I just thought it would be more fun than that dull charity do.’

  ‘Which was also your idea, I seem to recall.’ McLean smiled as he said it, worried that Emma might not see the joke. Her frown was cut short by Madame Rose.

  ‘Well, never mind. It’s good to see you anyway. And since you’re here, there’s an old friend of mine I’d really like you to meet.’

  Something about the way she said it made McLean suspect this was the real reason Rose was here in the first place. Either that or his natural cynicism had finally managed to overpower the feeling of peace and ease that filled the circus. He found that he didn’t much mind. Anything that prolonged the moment was good; he wasn’t so naive as to think that Emma’s change of mood would last for ever. Looking around, he could see the crowd beginning to thin, people finally drifting away to their homes and their beds. Directly behind where they were standing, a hand-painted sign above an ornate canvas tent that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a souk read ‘Madame Jasmina – Fortunes Told’. No guesses as to where they were going then.

  The inside of the tent lived up to the promise of its exterior and then some. McLean held open the flap for Emma and Madame Rose to enter first, then stepped into a dark, warm space like a womb. Scented candles filled the air with aromas of the east, and everywhere was draped with heavy rugs depicting weird scenes in red weave. In the middle of a surprisingly large room, a round table was arranged with four chairs, almost as if Madame Jasmina had been expecting all three of them to join her. If that was the case, then her own absence must have been for dramatic effect.

  ‘Please, Tony, Emma, have a seat.’ Madame Rose indicated the two closest to the exit. ‘I’m sure Jasmina will be along soon.’

  ‘I’m not sure I need my fortune told right now.’ McLean pulled a chair out for Emma to sit, but stayed on his feet.

  ‘Perhaps wise, given what the future holds for you.’

  Madame Jasmina appeared from the shadows at the back of the tent. McLean was only slightly surprised to find that she was the same old woman who had told Roy to let them into the big top show after it had already started. She was dressed for the part of fortune teller, even more so than Madame Rose, who at least brought a kind of Morningside chic to the bangles and voluminous robes.

  ‘I was expecting you earlier, Rose,’ she said, ignoring McLean and Emma now as if she had forgotten they ever existed.

  ‘And I wasn’t expecting you at all, Jasmina. But as ever it’s a pleasure. Even if it’s never good news that brings you back to the city.’

  ‘Shall we sit?’ Madame Jasmina waved a hand at the table, and this time McLean felt almost compelled to do as he was asked. Rose dropped into her own chair a little more heavily than was ladylike.

  ‘Perhaps some tea.’ Jasmina strode to the back of the tent, pulled the hangings aside and shouted something in a language McLean didn’t understand. There was a familiarity to the cadence of the words though, the patterns and rhythms reminding him of the little girl they’d found in the office of House the Refugees. He would have asked what language it was, but the fortune teller had already taken her own seat, reached out and grasped Emma’s hands before he could form the question.

  ‘Your troubled past is written clearly, my dear.’ She turned Emma’s hands over swiftly, then ran a finger across one palm. ‘Your future is more clouded, but less tragic. What you wish for is beyond anyone’s gift, but what you will have is more than most can hope for.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma pulled her hands away, wiping them on her coat. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Would you prefer the sugar-coated version I give to the paying customers? Your heart’s desire will be yours before the year is out, and all that rubbish?’ Jasmina’s English might have been heavily accented, but it was fluent and laden with very local sarcasm.

  ‘What does Rose mean, “it’s never good news that brings you back to the city”?’ McLean asked. Madame Jasmina turned her attention on him with all the swiftness of a snake striking.

  ‘You see to the heart of things. I have heard that about you, Anthony McLean.’

  ‘And you have heard my name too. All very impressive. I did enjoy the show, and I thank you for the tickets. But if you have something to say to me, or something to ask, just get on with it. Rose will tell you, if you don’t already know, that I’m not the most patient of men.’

  Madame Jasmina bowed her head in understanding. ‘Of course. Where I come from there are formalities. Ways of doing things that are perhaps unnecessary, but give us a certain sense of calm and order. As a man who deals with the chaos, I can understand, you might not appreciate the subtle approach. But at least take tea with us.’

  She waved towards the back of the tent, and the darkness shifted, shadows coalescing into the form of a young woman bearing a tray set with tea things. The delicate china cups, iron kettle and teapot were of only passing note. McLean’s attention was almost entirely on the one bearing them towards him. She was better dressed than the last time he had seen her, but there was no mistaking that flame-red hair.

  ‘Rahel?’

  31

  To her credit, the young woman didn’t run. Neither did she drop the tray in surprise. McLean could see it in her eyes though. She was as much set up for this as he had been. For a moment she simply stood and stared at him, like a wild creature caught in the hunter’s spotlight. Then Jasmina barked something at her in that oddly musical language and she hurried to put the tray down on the table.

  ‘Rahel has just joined us recently. I believe you have met her before, Anthony McLean.’

  ‘I prefer Tony, really. Or Detective Chief Inspector if we’re being formal.’ He waited for Madame Jasmina to open her mouth to speak in reply, then interrupted her. ‘Tell me. What is that language you use with her?’

  ‘You would know it as Aramaic, but the truth is more complicated than that. Why?’

  ‘I’ve heard it spoken before. Just recently. A young girl with hair the same colour as Rahel’s here. A girl calling herself Nala.’

  Now Rahel did drop the tray. Fortunately for her it was just an inch off the table top. Still, the rattling of cups and teapot brought a frown to Madame Jasmina’s face. She turned to Rahel and spoke more words in that ancient, flowing language. McLean could understand none of it, but he caught the name Nala spoken by both women, and Akka too.

  ‘Where is she?’ Rahel asked in he
r accented English. ‘Where is Nala?’

  ‘She is safe.’ McLean considered the last time he had seen the young girl, led to the care worker’s car by DC Harrison. ‘Social Services are looking after her until we decide what’s to become of her.’

  ‘What is to become of her? She should be with her mother.’ Rahel’s voice boiled with anger, and was it a trick of the lighting in this strange tent that made her green eyes appear to glow from within? She clenched her fists, and for a moment McLean thought she was going to pick up the tea tray and throw it at someone, but Madame Jasmina reached out and closed one bony hand around the young woman’s wrist. At her touch, the light in Rahel’s eyes dimmed, her shoulders slumped.

  ‘I quite agree. She should be with her mother.’ McLean stood up. It was too awkward talking up to the young woman. ‘We’ve been trying to find you, Rahel. I’ve been trying to find you exactly because of that. Have you spoken to Billy recently?’

  ‘Billy? Why would I speak to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe you two kept in touch.’

  The faintest of blushes reddened Rahel’s cheeks, confirming McLean suspicions. He could get annoyed with her for avoiding him even when she knew he needed to talk to her, or he could let it slide and make the most of this situation others had engineered for them.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and I’ve some bad news, possibly. About Akka.’

  The flush drained from Rahel’s face in an instant, and for a moment McLean thought she was going to faint. ‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’

  ‘We haven’t done anything to her.’ McLean struggled for a way to put his gut feelings and suppositions into words. Speaking the ideas only underlined how tenuous they all were. ‘A woman matching her description was found badly beaten on the outskirts of the city. She’s in the hospital, unconscious. We can’t identify her, but you might be able to.’

  Rahel stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open as she processed what he had said. Before she could reply, Madame Jasmina reached out and took her hand, spoke softly to her. Something like resolve spread across the young woman’s face, and she stood up straight.

  ‘I will come with you to hospital now.’

  McLean was somewhat taken aback. It was late in the evening and he’d not planned going anywhere other than home as soon as he’d assured himself Rahel wouldn’t run away. On the other hand, the Western General would be quiet right now, and it was unlikely DCI Dexter would complain if he managed to positively identify her victim.

  ‘OK.’ He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, ready to call a taxi. Madame Jasmina stopped him with a wave of her gnarled hand.

  ‘A moment, please, Anthony McLean.’ She turned to Madame Rose. ‘Perhaps you, Emma and Rahel could give us a moment. There are matters of great importance I must discuss with . . .’ She looked back at McLean, a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘. . . the detective chief inspector.’

  ‘You are a good man, Anthony McLean. Rose says so, and that is enough for me. But your actions here tonight confirm it for me. I am . . . happy it is so.’

  McLean pushed down the impatience that gnawed at him, even if he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back towards the exit where Emma, Madame Rose and Rahel had left. Searching for a distraction, he took up his cup and sipped at the tea.

  ‘People seem to be very free and easy with talking about me behind my back,’ he said after a couple of sips. ‘I much prefer it when they’re direct, and tell me exactly what it is they want of me.’

  Madame Jasmina dipped her head in understanding, but took a few moments to drink some of her own tea before speaking again.

  ‘Of course. There is a time and a place for niceties, and maybe this isn’t it. So tell me. What do you know of the djinn, Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The djinn. Some call them genies, but that name robs them of the fear and respect they deserve.’

  ‘Genies? As in magic lamps and three wishes?’ McLean put his cup back down on the table, ready to leave. A shame, as the tea had been very good. But there was only so much of his time he could waste, and he’d rather spend it at home than with this wizened old lady, especially given the improvement in Emma’s mood.

  ‘So quick to jump to conclusions. Rose told me that too.’ Madame Jasmina poured more tea into his cup, then topped up her own. ‘As to Emma. She is healing from a great many misfortunes. It is hard on one body to carry two souls. You must give her the space she needs.’

  McLean resisted the urge to scoff at the old woman’s words. He’d had enough experience of Madame Rose’s vague prognostications and seeming ability to read his mind to know better than to rise to that bait.

  ‘These djinn, then. I take it they don’t travel around on flying carpets.’

  Madame Jasmina allowed a small smirk to crease her old face at that, but it didn’t last long. ‘Indeed not. The djinn are an ancient race. They walked the earth long before mankind, and will no doubt still walk it long after we are gone. By and large they leave us be. They do not need anything from us, and we have little to gain from them.’

  ‘I’m going to have to stop you there,’ McLean interrupted. ‘I know Madame Rose believes in all this occult stuff, but if you’ve spoken to her about me at any length you’ll know that I don’t.’

  ‘And yet it exists all the same. And you might protest, Anthony McLean, but you have met it time and time again. Faced it down and defeated it. Only this evening you met with Atargatis. I can smell her on you like the odour of decay. But she has no power over you.’

  ‘Atar—?’ McLean shook his head. If there was some point to all this, then interrupting would only mean it took longer to get there.

  ‘She is older even than the djinn. And some of them worship her as a goddess, do her bidding. I cannot fathom why, but the reason is unimportant. The result is all too clear.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Look around you, Anthony McLean. Do you not see the signs? War is everywhere. Chaos and evil. It drives good people like Rahel from their homes, tears children like Nala from their mothers. It follows the desperate as they flee, and it finds fresh fields in this new land. New soil in which to sow its discord.’

  ‘I thought you were going to get to the point. What is it that you actually want from me? Why am I here?’

  ‘You are here because you wanted to see the show, are you not?’ Madame Jasmina raised an ancient eyebrow. ‘And as to what I want from you, well, I’d call it a favour.’

  The old lady put down her teacup, then reached forward with the same hand, palm down, and laid it directly in front of McLean. When she lifted it up again, a tiny brass casting lay on the table, although he could see no way how she could have been holding it before. That was the magician’s skill, though.

  ‘This is a talisman, a thing of great power if you believe in it, a lump of base metal if you don’t. You will find the one responsible for the dark deeds unfolding in the city this winter, and when you do, it will not be what you are expecting. All I ask is that you give it this.’

  McLean stared at the tiny object for a moment, then looked back up at Madame Jasmina. She wasn’t smiling now. This was no joke to her, and something of the setting, the tea, and even the relaxed atmosphere of the circus made him realise that she was completely serious.

  ‘And what happens when I do?’ he asked.

  Now the fortune teller smiled. ‘Would you believe me if I told you?’

  ‘Probably not. But you’ve found Rahel for me, so I owe you one.’ McLean leaned forward and picked up the tiny casting, surprised at both how warm it was and how heavy. The light in the tent was not good, and his eyes were tired from a day gone on far too long. Even so he could see clearly the intricate etching and scrollwork, the carefully formed handle and tiny spout for a wick. A patina of age coloured
the surface, shiny where it had been handled most, dull everywhere else. Solid, and too tiny to actually work, it was nevertheless quite clearly a model of an ancient brass lamp. The sort of thing he might expect to find in a Damascus edition of Monopoly, if such a thing existed.

  ‘If I polish it, will I get three wishes?’ He held it up on the palm of his hand, unsure whether he shouldn’t just hand it back. And yet doing so felt somehow rude.

  ‘Wishes always come at a cost, Anthony McLean. I think you already know that.’ Madame Jasmina stood up, and McLean reflexively did the same. It felt only natural to close his hand around the tiny trinket, then transfer it to the pocket of his tartan trews. He felt the warmth of it against his leg, soothing the dull ache in his hip that was his constant companion these days.

  ‘Come, let us see what Emma, Rose and Rahel have been up to.’ Madame Jasmina led McLean towards the exit.

  ‘I can’t remember the last time the circus came at all. Not this circus, at least. And not here. We get the funfair every summer, and there have been shows like this one during the Festival and Fringe, but—’

  ‘There are no shows like this one. I can assure you of that. And the last time we were here was twenty-five years ago. It was young girls the creature was after that time too, although it preys always on the vulnerable, the ones who won’t be missed. We managed to save one of its victims. I had thought we had killed it too, but in truth you can never kill something like that. Only send it back to where it came from.’

  McLean remembered then where he’d heard of someone running off to join the circus recently. The conversation with Dagwood, Grumpy Bob and Tom Callander in the Cold Case Unit, before they’d realised the young girl in the basement had died only recently.

  ‘You know about the two young girls we found? About Maurice Jennings?’

  Jasmina’s gaze dropped, her face stony. ‘The man . . . complicates things. He should not have been a victim.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, that is not the right way to say it. None of them should have been victims, but I do not know why he was one. The beast. It has never taken such a life before. Always it has preyed on the young, the innocent. Those who cannot protect themselves.’